PREPARED TO RESUME her duties, Gillian noticed that Flo had delivered the last plates of french fries to the kids, and stopped on her way back to take the order from Mitch’s lady friend. Uncertain why she didn’t want to wait on them, Gillian nevertheless recognized her reaction as one of profound relief.

Late lunch-goers from the police station and other area businesses converged on the café. The flurry of activity served to take Gillian’s mind off the couple in the corner, whose pale and dark heads drew closer together as time wore on. The fact that she kept an eye on them at all annoyed her. The very last complication she needed, considering her own plight, would be to develop a thing for a cop.

“Ex-cop,” she muttered under her breath as she tore three order sheets off her pad and tucked them under clips that she spun toward Bert. He glanced up and grinned.

“Your first day and already you’re talking to yourself? Bad sign, Gillian.”

“Sorry. Talking to myself is an old habit. I’m enjoying the job. Truly.”

“Hey, I believe you.” Still smiling, he handed her two steaming platters.

Her need to define Mitch as an ex-cop irritated Gillian even more than being caught talking to herself. Why couldn’t she forget him altogether?

Apparently putting him out of her mind wasn’t going to be simple, she realized, all the while deriving immense satisfaction from watching him walk out some twenty minutes later, leaving the lady cop to finish her lunch alone.

It fell to Gillian to collect Christy Jones’s plate, though, and ask if she wanted anything else.

“I want Mitch Valetti,” the blonde stated boldly, drilling Gillian with arctic-blue eyes.

Maybe blue wasn’t blue wasn’t blue, Gillian thought, recoiling from the hostility aimed her way. In marked contrast, she tried for a guileless expression. “Sorry, ma’am, he’s not on our menu.” She made a joke of the same phrase she’d used earlier, that time referring to herself. When it became apparent that her joke had only irritated the other woman, she fervently wished she’d kept her comment to herself.

“Don’t play naive,” the cop snapped, pausing to count out exact change for her meal. “I know every officer on this beat. Any one of them could make it tough on you in a million small ways. For instance, someone whispers a word in the ear of a restaurant inspector. Maybe you don’t wash your hands after trips to the john. There are dozens of possible infractions—even leaving plates under the warming light too long. A few reprimands, and Bert and Flo can’t afford to keep you on.”

Climbing nimbly to her feet, the speaker shifted her heavy leather belt in a manner calculated to draw Gillian’s attention to the tools of her trade. She obviously thought they gave her stature above a mere waitress, even though Gillian stood head and shoulders above her.

A chill not caused by the lazily churning overhead fan marched rows of goose bumps up Gillian’s bare arms. She reined in her temper and said nothing at all in response to the policewoman’s veiled threats. After all, the woman had no idea how much trouble she could cause Gillian. Because if Christy Jones had the slightest inkling, Gillian didn’t doubt for one minute that she’d be hauled in for questioning wearing those impressive silver handcuffs.

Using more force than necessary, Gillian scrubbed the table clean. Twice she fumbled and dropped the coins she tried to sweep off the table onto a tray.

Flo motioned her to the pass-through. “Was Christy complaining about her sandwich?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Gillian wrinkled her nose as she turned to dump the money in the till. “Actually, she issued a personal warning for me to stay away from Mitch Valetti. I take it they are or were an item?” Gillian hadn’t meant that to come out as a question; it did of its own accord.

The older woman laughed, then said in a more subdued voice, “See the brawniest of the three motorcycle cops walking in right now? That’s Christy’s husband, Royce Jones.”

Gillian whirled. “Her husband? She’s married?”

“Well,” Flo muttered, “a few months ago I heard she’d moved in with her sister again. It’s happened before. The other times she’s gone back to Royce. I dunno, maybe this time she won’t.” Raising her voice, Flo greeted the trio who stood inside the door surveying the dining area. “There’s space at the counter. Or if you wait a minute, Gilly’s about ready to reset a table that was just vacated.”

“Has Christy been here for lunch?” the man in the middle asked. He stripped off his goggles and gloves and tossed them into a helmet he held hooked under one arm.

Shivering at the mere size of him, Gillian ducked past the trio. She wouldn’t want to meet any of them in a back alley, or out in broad daylight for that matter. Let Flo field the man’s query. Better she avoid any personal contact with cops.

“Just missed her, Royce,” Flo noted cheerfully. “Christy left here no more than five…ten minutes ago.”

“Damn.” The big man, who’d followed Gillian to the table, threw his helmet down on one of the chairs. She jumped a foot straight up at the noise.

“Easy does it.” The shorter of the two men with Royce threw an apologetic glance at Gillian. He elaborated for her benefit. “I called the dispatcher myself to see when Royce’s wife was scheduled to go to lunch. If he’s testy, it’s because Christy’s department thinks it’s clever to play mind games with us. Next time she comes in, tell her he only wants to talk. A man has a right to see his own wife, doesn’t he?”

“I guess that depends.” Gillian pulled her order pad out of her pocket. “Coffee or sodas?” Her voice squeaked. Clearing her throat, she asked if the men knew what they wanted to eat, or if they needed a minute to decide. No one responded. She handed them menus and walked away.

“Hey, Royce,” hollered a uniformed cop getting up from a back booth. “Christy and Valetti sat at that same table while she ate. Cozy as two peas in a pod.”

“Mitch Valetti? Come on, Billings, quit lying. You think I don’t know Valetti got his balls shot off and left the force a couple months ago?”

“No kidding? His balls? Well, he was stove up some. But I’m not lying. If you don’t believe me, ask Red there. She was chatting with him when Christy walked in. Valetti dropped Red like a hot potato and made a beeline for Christy.”

Royce pinned Gillian with angry eyes. “Tell me. Is Don having me on or not?”

Gillian slopped coffee onto the clean table from a pot she’d gone to fetch while the men talked. “I believe, ah, they were discussing business. Are you three ready to order yet?” she asked, nervously sponging away the spill.

“Like hell they were discussing business,” Royce roared, slamming a hamlike fist down on the table. “If Valetti didn’t lose his balls in that shoot-out, he will when I finish with him. Come on, Jeff. Chico. Let’s ride out to Valetti’s place and show him what’s what. I always said he was too free with his pretty-boy smiles.”

The other two men each grabbed one of Royce’s massive arms. “Mitch lives in the county, dude. We don’t have jurisdiction there. You want his balls, you’ll have to wait till the next time he comes to town. Settle down, Royce. Tell the lady what you want to eat.”

Gillian noticed Bert had left the kitchen to stand at the end of the counter. As she scribbled the men’s orders on her pad, she saw him replace the telephone receiver. The notion that he’d been about to call the cops struck her as funny, since at least a dozen from the nearby station sat in the café. Or were they off duty during lunch? She didn’t know that much about how police operated.

A new thought replaced the previous one. Perhaps Bert had intended to notify Valetti. For no reason at all, Gillian felt a stab of sympathy for the injured ex-cop. She hoped he had enough sense to stay put on his ranch. Though whatever happened wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Sheesh. She had troubles of her own. Perhaps that was why she empathized. It was a frightening experience to have brutish men wanting to hurt you.