Three at the table wore police uniforms; a fourth had on street clothing but was undoubtedly a cop. He indicated that they were waiting for someone who’d just entered. Gillian had already noticed that man the minute he walked in. Sauntered was more like it, in spite of a pronounced limp. Gosh, she hoped he wasn’t offended by her lengthy stare. It wasn’t his limp that drew her attention but his attire. He wore dusty cowboy boots, worn blue jeans, a body-hugging denim shirt and a Stetson set rakishly on his head.

Gillian had never seen a real cowboy in her life, and he was an eyeful. He seemed to be friendly with all the cops in the room. It took him a long time to reach his table because he stopped to talk with occupants at practically every booth along the way. So many people piped up to yell, “Hey there, Mitch, how you doing?” Gillian couldn’t help but learn his first name. Especially as she waited impatiently to add his order to those of his pals.

The name suited him. Mitch was a strong moniker. He certainly appeared commanding in spite of his limp. What had caused it? she wondered. Probably a fall from a horse.

Gillian felt herself blush as he turned, caught her still staring and tipped his hat. Hastily averting her gaze, she sorted menus to pass around at an adjacent table full of men wearing business suits. “I’ll be right back,” she told the group awaiting the cowboy, and dashed off to draw glasses of water for the businessmen.

The cowboy needed a haircut, Gillian decided after he finally removed his hat and reached for a chair. A haircut was pretty much all he lacked, though. He had dark-lashed coffee-colored eyes and a ready grin that creased lean, tanned cheeks. In her estimation, he possessed more sex appeal than all the other men at his table put together. Except, perhaps for the other man not wearing a uniform. Mitch greeted him effusively, calling him Ethan, as he spun a chair around across from the plainclothes cop and straddled it. So did that mean the cowboy was a cop, too?

At first Gillian thought they were brothers who hadn’t seen each other for a while. She nixed that idea based on snatches of conversation overheard on various trips past their table. Ethan, she saw, sported a shiny gold wedding band. Brand-new, she’d bet, mostly because he mumbled thanks but didn’t so much as lift his eyes whenever she brought something to the table. By contrast, his cowboy pal tracked her every move—to the point that Gillian found herself fumbling dishes. It occurred to her with a sudden start that maybe he’d seen her picture on a handbill. The fear galloping through her nearly made her drop a full tray.

“Ma’am,” said a gravelly voice at her elbow. “You’re obviously new to Flo’s. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want you to be totin’ more than you can carry.”

How he—Mitch—managed to check out her every curve while he steadied her tray, Gillian didn’t know. She just knew there wasn’t a wrinkle in her uniform he missed with those lancing brown eyes.

“This is my first day here,” she said quietly. “While I appreciate your concern, if you don’t let go and sit down, you’ll make it look like I’m incapable of managing the job I was hired for.”

Cops seated around the room watched the byplay openly. Few tried to mask their amused expressions. Finally, one round-faced rookie, whose wire-rimmed glasses constantly slipped down his nose, chortled. “Wouldn’t you know it, Flo gets a pretty new waitress to replace Tracy, and it just happens to be the first day Valetti shows up in town. I swear, he has radar when it comes to sniffing out gorgeous, single babes.”

Gillian jerked away quickly and finished unloading the tray. She smacked one of the noon-time specials down in front of the loudmouthed kid. “Married or single, I’m not on the menu here.”

Turning to reclaim her tray, she realized Mitch’s interested gaze had slipped to her ring finger.

“Order up,” yelled Flo, pausing to slide several plates under the warming light. “Jeez, fellas, meet Gillian Stevens, okay? She’s new in town as well as on the job. Show a few manners. You’re Desert City’s finest. I’ll be in a very bad mood if you macho lamebrains scare her off.”

The young cop immediately bent to his food. Mitch rolled his eyes, but he immediately released her tray and backed off—although not so far that Gillian didn’t have to brush against him as she squeezed between the tables.

Mitch felt the waitress’s annoyance. Smiling to himself, he sat across from Ethan again.

Ethan Knight leaned back in his chair. His narrowed gaze rose to the exact level of Gillian’s swishing hips. “Down, boy,” he muttered.

“Wha-a-at?” Mitch drawled, pretending interest in blowing on his hot coffee. “So what if I have a weakness for sassy redheads?”

The uniformed cop seated opposite Mitch broke into the conversation. “Redheads. Blondes. Brunettes and every shade in between. Isn’t that why Amy threw you over for the D.A.? I heard she didn’t like the odds.”

Mitch bunched his napkin, his expression shutting down.

Leaning close, Ethan murmured, “Regan said you took my sister’s elopement hard. I’m sorry. Guess I missed how you really felt. So, if you’re ready to be fixed up with somebody nice, I’ll tell Regan. No reason to take chances on a perfect stranger.”

“Listen, Buttinski, I can still rustle up my own dates. And I believe I’ll have my second cup of java at the counter.” Mitch stood up. Carrying his cup, he limped to the counter, where he reached for the pot and helped himself to a refill.

Ethan made it a point from then on to study the new waitress. Until his contingent of friends came over and one of them nudged him out of his stupor. Trailing after his pals, Ethan paused behind Mitch’s stool. “Regan’s planning to make sour cream enchiladas Friday night. Why not come on over? We’ll invite a fourth, and after we eat and get the kids to bed, we’ll play a few hands of poker.”

“You’re being a little obvious, Ethan. Thanks, but no. You and your bride saw too much of my ugly face over the past three months.” Mitch realized both he and Ethan had zeroed in on Gillian Stevens as she lifted three hot plates off the warming counter. “Two bits says, with that long lean body, she’s a jogger,” Mitch said thoughtfully. “You know, the doc recommended I stretch the muscles in my injured leg.”

Ethan scowled. “So make an appointment with Gil Peterson, the precinct’s physical therapist.”

Mitch flashed Ethan a wicked grin. “Gil puts me in mind of a sumo wrestler. Besides, my man, if I remember right, you hauled your ass out of bed at the crack of dawn to chase Regan around a few tracks. And you don’t even like exercise.”

Mitch had him there. Ethan said something indistinct and undoubtedly rude. Before stomping off, he announced that there were plenty of single women in town who were dying to go out with Mitch. Wearing a thunderous expression, Ethan joined the men waiting for him outside the café.

Gillian watched the drama with half an eye. She wished the plainclothes cop, Ethan, had succeeded in talking his pal at the counter into leaving. Her heart did a funny jig once it became evident that Mitch Valetti wasn’t going to budge. She told herself it was first-day job jitters. She wasn’t attractive enough to draw more than a passing glance from a man like Mitch Valetti. She was too tall. Too thin. Her chin was too pointy and her mouth too wide. Her eyes weren’t even an exciting color. Blue was blue was blue. So what gave her the idea he’d stuck around because of her?

Gillian managed to stay convinced that he hadn’t until the lunch traffic waned enough to slow her hectic pace. He was still there. And he snagged her arm as she darted past.

“Hey, Flo,” Mitch called, hunching to peer into the kitchen via the pass-through. “Isn’t there a state rule requiring employees to take regular breaks? Appears to me that Gillian, here, is overdue.”