Lost but not Forgotten. Roz Fox Denny

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.”

      Mitch grinned around a bite of hamburger. After he’d chewed and swallowed, he changed the subject. “Flo calls you Gilly. I like that. It fits you. Can anyone call you that?”

      It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she went by her middle name of Noelle. She hadn’t realized how hard it would be to watch her words in personal conversations. Shrugging, she focused her attention on opening a packet of crackers. “Suit yourself. I answer to a broad range of names.” She gave him a brief smile.

      His brows drew together quizzically. “Oh. I guess you mean customers yell, hey you, miss or waitress—things like that. Before I became a detective, when I still wore a uniform every day, I got called a lot of other things, too,” he said wryly.

      “You mention your old job a lot. Maybe you shouldn’t have quit.”

      Unconsciously, he rubbed his thigh. “Cats may have nine lives. People don’t. I woke up in the hospital positive that if I made it through surgery, I’d leave there living on borrowed time. So I quit the force.”

      Gillian considered the damage bullets did. Daryl, killed on his doorstep. Mitch had probably hung on by a thread. She didn’t realize she was crumbling her crackers until Mitch reached across the table and took her hand.

      “I made Ethan promise no cop-speak if I managed to talk you into going to his house for dinner with me on Saturday night. And here I’m guilty of doing the same thing. Really, that part of my life is behind me. The most dangerous thing I’ll be doing in the future is breaking a green horse or two. Not for a while, either.” He smoothed his thumb over the soft skin on the back of her hand. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Gilly. I’m a normal, everyday Joe now.”

      She pulled her hand loose, unable to decide if he was trying too hard to convince her. Was he attempting to lure her into his web of deceit? No matter. At the moment he represented the only tie she had to the men in the blue car. The men who most likely had her small suitcase. Gillian shoved the mangled packet of crackers under the edge of her plate and picked up her spoon again. “Sorry. I may not be keen on eating while talking about bullet wounds, but there are aspects of detective work I find fascinating.”

      “Such as?”

      “Oh, I don’t know.” She rolled one shoulder. “Methods used to find stuff that’s lost or stolen.” Realizing she might be sticking her neck out too far, Gillian ignored the escalated pounding of her heart and plunged on. “I’m reading a mystery that opens with hidden documents,” she improvised. “The character who hid them dies suddenly, but not before sending a garbled note to a friend saying his, uh, girlfriend had the key to wherever he’d hidden the papers. No one can find the key. So, ex-detective