Lost but not Forgotten

“Now you’ve gone too far, Valetti. I never dated a woman who slavered.”

Mitch thumped Ethan’s chest with one finger. “Nor have I. Remember that, please.” Leaving his former partner, he ambled toward the cafе. At the curb he stopped and glanced back. “I’ll call tonight and let you know if she agrees. If she does, I want another concession. No shop talk. I’m not an officer anymore, and sometimes women bail when they’re forced to dwell on the bad stuff that can happen to a cop.”

“Okay. Sure. You have my permission to kick me under the table if I start talking about a case. But I have a feeling that old habits die hard….”

“I understand. It’s just…cop talk can get intense. And Ethan—talk about gut feelings. I can’t put it into words, but this lady…uh, darn.”

Ethan said nothing for a heartbeat. Then he feigned interest in what his dog was doing. “It’s no mystery to me, Valetti. You always had a weakness for a nice ass.”

Fighting a smile, Mitch returned to the cafе. That was point two he and Ethan agreed on concerning Gillian Stevens.

Embarrassed by the direction of his thoughts and afraid Gillian might read his mind, Mitch turned instead to plotting what he’d say to her when she came to take his order.

Good, the back booth was available. Easier to make a play without an audience.

Even if he no longer worked at the precinct, he had friends there and the place was a hotbed of gossip. If Gillian rejected him again, he could do without Amy getting wind of it. Why didn’t Gillian come and take his order? Maybe he was all wrong in thinking they felt a mutual attraction.

The crowd had thinned. But a full house wouldn’t have stopped Gillian from being aware of Mitch’s return. She found it odd that he’d passed several clean booths to hide in the corner. Or was someone joining him? She hated to think it might be Christy Jones. That would explain why he’d plant his back to the wall near a ready escape if Royce happened to stop by.

Heavens, she could be guessing all wrong. Maybe Ethan Knight went to collect materials on the case they’d disappeared outside to discuss. Again her heart did a flip. What if a handbill with her picture on it had come across his desk? What if they wanted to compare an old picture of Noelle McGrath with the waitress they knew as Gillian Stevens?

Pacing nervously, she tried to figure out if there was any likelihood of New Orleans or Flagstaff police finding out that Noelle McGrath’s birth name was really Gillian Noelle? It could all depend on what Daryl’s neighbor, the one who’d relayed his dying request, had told Daryl’s brother, Conrad. Conrad was his only sibling—his only living relative. He’d never liked her much. No telling how he’d react once he discovered Daryl had kept her on as joint owner of McGrath CPA.

“Hey, what does it take to get service around here?” Mitch’s voice held a teasing quality. If not for that, Gillian might have been tempted to ask Flo to wait on him. No, she wasn’t a coward. Besides, Flo would demand an explanation if she tried too obviously to avoid Mitch.

Gillian plopped a glass of water and a menu down in front of him. “Sorry. I wasn’t ignoring you. You made such a point of wanting privacy, I assumed you were waiting for someone to join you.”

“I am.” He turned up the wattage of his smile. “This is about when you took a lunch break the other day. Truth is, I’m sick of my own company, and was hoping you’d consent to join me.”

“Oh, I…think there’s a rule about not fraternizing with customers.” Gillian hoped she sounded normal, even though she was dealing with a rising panic. She fumbled the napkin-wrapped silverware before dropping a set near his right hand.

Mitch steadied her elbow in time to keep the whole pack from spilling onto the floor. “Give me one good reason anyone would make such a stupid rule. You’re entitled to lunch. In fact, it comes with the job.”

Suddenly pulling back, Mitch inspected his hands. “I forgot I petted Taz. I probably smell like dog. Excuse me while I go wash. When I pass the kitchen, I’ll stick my head in and tell Bert I want a burger. Tell me what you want, and I’ll pass it on.”

Her sigh was probably more exasperation than capitulation. Mitch chose to misunderstand. Keeping his smile in place, he slid out of the booth and brushed against her, murmuring, “My mother would tell you I’ve always known all the angles to get my own way.”

Gillian smiled in spite of herself. “Does your mother live in Desert City?”

He wasn’t fast enough to cover his guarded expression. “My parents winter in Palm Springs and summer in Vermont. Right now they’re somewhere in the Mediterranean finishing a world cruise. At least, that’s what their housekeeper told Ethan when he tried to notify them I’d been shot.” She was aware that he watched her closely as he spoke, as if to garner a reaction.

Gillian couldn’t hide her shock at his parents’ absence. “They didn’t come to see you?”

“No big deal.” His shrug matched his proclamation. Gillian noted a deeper pain in his eyes. Clearly he was hurt by his parents’ indifference—a revelation at odds with his tough-guy image.

She’d rather not think about the inner man. Her purpose in furthering their acquaintance had only one reason—to find out whether Mitch Valetti was connected to the criminals she’d seen him rendezvous with a few nights ago. Keep all contact superficial.

Gillian McGrath had changed into a person no decent man would ask to lunch if he knew all the things she’d done these past few weeks.

That’s different, insisted a little voice. And yet, long-ingrained values continued to increase her guilt.

“I’ve lost you again,” Mitch observed. “Oh, if you’re worried some fruitcake will walk in off the street and open fire on me, rest easy. I’m a simple rancher now, remember? My days of dealing with the bad guys are over.”

Gillian hoped she didn’t look as skeptical as she felt. His statement was pretty ironic; if the men from the blue car walked in, she’d be the one shot at. “You go wash your hands. I’ll order your burger. You want coffee or a soft drink to go with it?”

“A pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. Even if you won’t sit down and eat with me, take time for a cool drink.”

“That sounds good. I’m not really hungry.”

Mitch took stock of the entire package that was Gillian Stevens. She was slender for her height. Too slender. From her remarks, she didn’t strike him as the type to be on a perpetual diet. “Bert fixes great homemade soup. A bowl of that would see you through the rest of your shift.”

“Soup. Did Flo put you up to this? She’s been talking about Bert’s potato-cheese soup as if it were some magic potion.”

Mitch clapped a hand across his heart. “I thought this up all on my lonesome. And lonesome is the operative word. Take pity on me, woman. I’ve spent the last three days and nights in the company of horses and a lop-eared pup. I’m wondering if I’m cut out for the solitary life of ranching.”

Gillian rolled her eyes. “Time to cowboy up. That’s a new term I learned the other day. It means—”

“I know. It means suck it up and quit whining. Join me for lunch and I’ll be on my best behavior. I promise.” A smile brought deep, appealing creases to his cheeks.

“You never give up, do you?”

“Nope. That’s a trait needed by every good cop.”

“Hmm.” The bell over the door sounded, saving Gillian from getting embroiled in a discussion about what traits made good cops. Was he still one, and lying to her about having quit?

“We’ve talked so long I have customers,” she murmured, pulling the order pad from her apron pocket.

“We’ve talked five minutes. You get a lunch hour. Let Flo take their order.”

As if she heard her name, Flo appeared in the kitchen doorway, menus under her arm and three glasses of water in her hand. “I’ll catch that table, Gilly. Bert’s already dished you up a nice bowl of soup. He’s putting the finishing touches on Mitch’s burger. All you have to do is pour whatever you want to drink, sit and take a load off your feet.”

“Tell me again this isn’t a conspiracy,” Gillian muttered, half to herself and half to Mitch.

“She must be psychic. Honestly,” he said, “I didn’t prearrange anything.”

“Bert just happened to know you wanted a burger?”

“I hate admitting how predictable I am about food. Ask him. He’ll tell you I ate here an average of three days a week for six or so years. Rain or shine, I ordered a burger.”

“I don’t know why I believe you, but I do. It’s too bizarre to be a lie. You win. Go wash. I’ll join you for lunch.”

Mitch felt like clicking his heels together. He was careful not to act too triumphant. On the way to the men’s room and back, he tried to figure out arguments that might convince her to go with him to Ethan’s on Saturday night.

“You’re right about this soup,” she said, flashing a smile as he returned and slid into the booth. “It’s delicious.”

“Now that you know I’m so wise, we’ll save time if you trust everything I say.”

She paused, her spoon halfway to her lips. “Do I have gullible stamped on my forehead? I don’t think so.”