“Don’t lean down like that. You’ll get dizzy again. Those papers are expendable—evidence from a case I’m attempting to solve. Nothing official, even. I thought I’d mentioned it to you.”
“No. What kind of case?”
He stared at her for a minute. “Intriguing to me. No one else agrees. It’s nothing, really. I won’t bore you with it.”
“Fine. I’ll finish the drink and leave. I feel silly, fainting like that.” Gillian picked up the glass. The sweet tea did seem to calm her galloping nerves.
Although…she would’ve expected Mitch to hide the evidence while she was out cold. Why hadn’t he? Was he telling the truth? Could it be possible that he wasn’t aware of her connection with the suitcase?
She felt better knowing it was intact and here for the taking. Stealing, warned that nagging voice.
Gillian shivered. Was it stealing to take something that was yours?
“You’re far from being steady enough to drive, Gilly. I’ll run you home. Your car will be okay left here. Give me your keys. In the morning, I’ll drive your car to the café and have Ethan or one of the other guys in the department give me a lift home.”
Gillian opened her mouth to object. Then she realized that picking up her car provided a perfect excuse to come back here for the suitcase. “You said you’ve let chores go around the ranch too long as it is. If you’re kind enough to take me home, the least I can do is come get my car without imposing on you further.”
Mitch curled her hand over his and kissed her knuckles. “What kind of talk is that? I’ll do anything I can for you. You scared the life out of me just now.”
She offered a wan smile, all the while sneaking a peek at her baby’s urn. Anything. He said he’d do anything. Wouldn’t it be great if she could dump the whole lousy mess her life had become into Mitch Valetti’s lap? But of course she couldn’t.
Aware of her slight, restless move, Mitch caught the shift of her eyes to his mantel. “Oh, hey, I didn’t stop to think you might wonder…” His breath stalled a minute. “Is that what happened? You walked to the fireplace and read the information on…” He waved a hand toward the mantel. “Baby Katie isn’t mine,” he said, squeezing Gillian’s fingers too tightly. “She belongs to somebody,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m trying to find out who. I’m not making much headway, though.”
Mitch’s attention seemed to drift.
“I don’t understand. Wh-why is the urn on your mantel?” It took a huge effort, but Gillian managed to get the words out.
Mitch stood and dug a ring of keys out of his jeans pocket. Trooper, who’d dropped down beside the couch, sat up and barked loudly.
“Come on, Gilly. I’ll explain on the way to your place. Believe me,” he muttered, “it’s probably going to sound screwy to an outsider.”
“Outsider?” Gillian passed so close to her baby’s ashes, she could have touched the vessel. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her midriff and let Mitch lead her out, followed by the dog.
Her heart sank as he locked his front door. Why wasn’t he one of those rancher types who didn’t see any need for locks?
“I don’t mean outsider the way you obviously took it, Gilly. I probably should’ve said lay person. Cops get jaded. Nothing surprises us, uh, them. Like, only a cop or ex-cop would make a federal case out of finding a suitcase of baby things.”
“F-fed…eral c-case?” Gillian stumbled and almost fell, even though Mitch had a firm grip on her waist as he was set to help her into the cab.
“Another figure of speech. Look…you’re way too shook up for me to go into detail. I shouldn’t anyhow. Wouldn’t, if I was still with the force. Can you manage that step into the truck? My Vette’s in the shop being tuned.”
Trooper bounded inside, nosing Gilly aside. The pup sat in the center of the seat, which suited Gillian, who clung to the door.
Mitch rounded the hood and climbed in on his side. “Where to? I know you live near the café. What street number and which block?”
Gillian rattled off her address, all the while trying to decide if Mitch was playing her for a sucker. She wondered if he was laughing silently at reeling her in and out like some dumb trout on a line. It hurt to think he would, after everything they’d shared on the mountain. But to some men, sex meant nothing more than personal gratification. It shamed her to think that the only man she’d given herself to, outside of the one she’d married, might be so callow.
Daryl’s brother, Conrad, said she was gullible. Actually, he’d called her an airhead. He’d never liked her, and she’d hate for him to be right about anything. He’d done his level best to talk Daryl out of marrying her. She realized now that she hadn’t called Conrad before fleeing Louisiana. He was probably stewing—no doubt even blaming her for his brother’s death. And considering the way she’d disappeared, he probably had every right. Maybe she should call and ask his advice.
“I’m glad to see you’re getting some color back.” Mitch cast a quick glance in her direction before returning his attention to the Sunday-evening traffic. “I shouldn’t have raced downhill so fast. Why didn’t you yell at me to slow up?”
“I thought of it. I had visions of a black-and-blue bottom in the morning. The pinto mare does not have a rocking-chair gait.”
“She’s the least feisty of my saddle horses.”
“It’s okay, Mitch. I’ll live. Wait, you missed the turn. My building’s on that one-way street.”
“I know. But the next street over allows access into your parking garage. I’m walking you to the door, Gilly. So don’t try talking me out of it.”
Strangely enough, Gillian wouldn’t have. She’d been nervous ever since Bert’s warning about two strange men hanging out near the café. Not only had she kept a sharp lookout, she’d been fighting a strong feeling that they knew exactly where she lived but were biding their time. They’d probably lost her trail during the week or so she’d laid low. They must have figured out she’d dug in somewhere around here. It wasn’t as if towns in Southern Arizona were plentiful.
Mitch suddenly jammed on his brakes as a car shot out of a driveway that led to a tavern. He reached out a hand to keep Gillian from flying forward. “Jerk,” he snarled. “They wouldn’t get away with that if I still had my badge.”
Gillian, anticipating a collision, grabbed Trooper. As the car and truck barely missed scraping sides, her panicked gaze flew to the offending vehicle. At once her stomach did cartwheels. It was them. The two from Louisiana. She slid down in her seat, feeling awfully close to throwing up.
Trooper whined and stuck his cold nose in her ear, shooting her upright again.
Mitch slowed to a crawl, straining to see in his side-view mirror. “Damn, I can’t read their plate. That car could benefit from a good washing. The passenger had on a business suit, otherwise I’d guess they were cowboys gathering for next week’s rodeo,” he muttered. “That car looks like they’ve been out in the desert. Hey, are you okay?” He gave a guilty laugh. “Once a cop always a cop, unfortunately. Okay, I admit, once in a while I miss having a badge.”
“My parking space is number fifteen,” Gillian said. He seemed to be taking his time turning into her below-ground parking garage. Seeing the blue car so close to her residence rattled Gillian more than she cared to admit. Darn, she liked working for Flo and Bert. Had even grown complacent, always a dangerous thing. She sensed her world crumbling again.
As Mitch found the right spot, stopped, hopped out and rushed to help her from the truck’s cab, she sneaked a look at her watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Is that a hint for me to take off?”
“Actually, I thought about inviting you up for a bite to eat.” Even sharing a table with a known enemy was preferable to sitting alone waiting for the unknown to strike.
Mitch eyed Trooper, who’d responded eagerly to the rattle of his leash. “Okay, but if you feel up to eating, we could walk down to Flo’s. Bert will give me a big soup
bone for Trooper to gnaw on.”
Her heart sank. “Uh, I’d prefer to go upstairs. You don’t have to stay if you’d rather eat at Flo’s. Pets are allowed in my building, though. Trooper can have the leftover hash Bert sent home with me yesterday. But don’t let me twist your arm.”
“Twist away.” Mitch kissed the tip of her nose. “Trooper will love the hash. I’ll order pizza for us. While we’re waiting for delivery, you can soak in a hot tub. That ought to stave off the sore muscles you were worried about.”
“Sounds great. Except I don’t have a TV. How else can you occupy yourself while I soak?”
“Um.” Mitch wagged his eyebrows. “Scrub your back?”
She’d started up the stairs. At his announcement, she stopped. “Mitch, I—maybe this isn’t such a hot idea, after all.”
“You do have regrets about our time on the mountain,” he accused.
“No.” She shook her head. “Not regrets, exactly. It’s more that…well, there hasn’t been anyone but my husband—until us.”
Mitch gently scraped the back of one knuckle along the hollow of her cheek. “I had that figured out, Gilly.”
She felt his hand leave her face and settle on her hip as he reached over her head and opened the heavy door. His touch set new wildfires racing across her skin. Wildfires she had to keep in check. “I’m not placing blame, Mitch. I was a willing partner.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, yanking open the same kind of door on the third landing. He waited for Trooper, who’d stopped to sniff the wooden floor. “I care about you, Gilly. We’ll take whatever’s going on as fast or as slow as you’d like.”
“How can you care when you know nothing about me?”
He tugged the dog into the hall by his leash and let the fire door slam shut. “Ethan asked the same thing. I didn’t have an answer for him, either. Look, let’s just work through this hour by hour if need be. I’ll make coffee while you shower, okay?”
She led the way down the hall to the last apartment. Mitch helped himself to the key she dug out of her jeans pocket. He jabbed twice before hitting the keyhole.
“Gilly, did you know there’s a light out at the head of your stairs? Have you called maintenance?” Mitch glanced up and down the hall. “Muggers love shadowy corners like the one over there.” He pointed to the blackness at the end of her hall.
“Thanks,” she drawled, her years in the South more noticeable than usual. “I chose this building for its proximity to the police station. Wouldn’t a mugger be too smart to strike this close to a bunch of cops?”
“Gilly, Gilly. People who break the law usually aren’t rational.”
She stepped inside and turned on a lamp, barely able to suppress a convulsive shudder. Mitch could well be describing the men who believed she had information she didn’t have. Those two possessed the tenacity of killer sharks. And she felt their razor-sharp teeth inches from her throat. Quite possibly, he was in cahoots with them.
Mitch came in after her, shut and locked the door. He rammed his hands in his front pockets and stood blinking in the brighter light. The room had stark white walls and a nondescript beige carpet. A single pole lamp stood between a horrid orange plaid couch and a lime-green chair. The coffee and single end table, both bare, looked like early Salvation Army rejects.
“It’s not much.” Gillian shrugged.
The understatement of the world. Mitch bent to unsnap Trooper’s leash, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Gilly crossed to a window overlooking the street that ran past her parking garage. Her bedroom window looked out on the opposite street—the one at the building’s entrance. Standing to one side, she depressed a slat on the miniblinds and scanned the street below before closing the blind tight.
Mitch considered her behavior rather odd, but he wasn’t a woman living alone. She’d probably developed a nightly routine. He wandered into her kitchen, which had even less character. Enameled white walls looked bleak against dark wood cabinets. The only color in the room came from straw mats on a table tucked into an alcove.
“The place was already furnished,” she offered after handing him a small canister of coffee and two clean cottage cheese cartons.
“That’s a relief. I’d hate to think our tastes were that different. What am I doing with these?” He waggled the empty cartons.
“They’re for Trooper’s food and water. Are you sure it’s okay for him to eat hash?”
“I won’t give him much.” Filling one bowl with water and setting it on the floor, Mitch made an offhand remark. “So Desert City really is a stopgap for you?”
Gillian heard the question mark at the end of his statement. She wasn’t sure, after their near-collision with the men who were tailing her, if she wanted to embark on this conversation. But she had to say something. “I told Flo—and you—that this is where I ran out of money.”
“I know. You’ve lived here—what? Almost a month already?”
“Yes. So?” She raised her head, her blue eyes wary.
He took the coffeepot out of her rigid fingers and filled it with tap water. “So, it’s none of my business, but most of the women I know can’t be in an empty room ten seconds without plotting where to hang pictures and set knickknacks.”
Even when I had a place, I didn’t keep my baby’s ashes on my mantel. Lacing her fingers, Gillian clamped her teeth together to keep from lashing out.
For a minute Mitch thought he’d pushed her too far. She looked fragile enough to splinter into a million pieces. That hadn’t been his aim. He only wanted some idea of where he stood. Where they stood. “Go shower,” he said, his voice only slightly gruff. “Point me toward the phone and I’ll order our pizza. Unless you’d rather eat something else. There’s a Thai place not far from here. We used to call them and order in at the station if we had to work after Bert and Flo closed.”
Opening a drawer, Gillian took out a phone book and a cell phone. “Suit yourself, since you’re paying. Oh, don’t give them my name, please. Only the apartment number.”
“Sure, but why?” Her eyes reminded Mitch of baby owl’s he’d seen at the ranch. And suddenly her lips looked so kissable, he forgot his question.
“Are you vouching for the character of all pizza delivery drivers?”
“What are you afraid of, Gillian?”
She was oh, so tempted to tell him. Tempted to tell him everything that had happened to send her running away from all she knew and loved.
Her laugh sounded brittle. “That’s a question cops shouldn’t have to ask a woman living alone. But you aren’t a cop anymore, are you, Mitch? All the same, if more women worried about the strange men they let into their lives, wouldn’t there be fewer Jane Does in the morgue?”
In the silence that ensued, all that could be heard was the gurgle of brewing coffee and Trooper lapping vigorously at his water.
Mitch riffled through the phone book. “Ethan would tell you I’m better behind the scenes than with interrogation. Sorry if I sounded skeptical. Before you head for the bath, tell me what pizza toppings you like.”
“I’m not wild about anchovies. Anything else is fine. Chicago-style, if that’s an option. And extra cheese.” She looked guilty. “And don’t nag at me about clogging my arteries. I eat pizza once in a blue moon. When I do, I want the full gastronomical effect.”
The strain that had developed between them dissolved at last. Mitch threw back his head and laughed. “You’re talking cop-style pizza. Gut-busters we call ’em. Best washed down with beer.”
She left the kitchen, but stopped after reaching the hall on the other side of the living room. “If you need something to pass the time while you wait, there are magazines in the drawer of the end table. You can probably figure out which ones I bought. Biker and Tattoo were here when I moved in. They’re kind of interesting—if you like bulging muscles and tattoos. And,” she said drolly, “…those are the women.”
The pup padded after her as she disappeared. “Lucky do
g,” Mitch mumbled to himself. Those rare glimpses of Gillian’s humor were one thing that kept him intrigued. That and the air of mystery about her, he supposed. A definite air of mystery.
After he phoned for the pizza, he ambled down the hall looking for Trooper, and paused outside a door where he heard water running. Tapping lightly, Mitch glanced into a room across the hall that must be Gillian’s bedroom. “Hot pizza will be here in fifteen minutes,” he called when the water stopped. “I think I’ll go to the bar at the corner and pick up a six-pack of beer.”
“All right. I’ll be quick, but feel free to start without me.”
Mitch hadn’t intended to snoop in her room. Except, he told himself, he should make sure Trooper wasn’t chewing her shoes. Again he was struck by the austerity. Four off-white walls. A double bed, covered with a cotton spread. Sort of a rosy-pink shade. Again, the only color. Peering into the open closet, he whistled softly for Trooper. What stunned Mitch was the scarcity of clothing. He’d been in a few women’s bedrooms. Their closets overflowed with dresses, blouses and shoes.
A pair of sneakers and a pair of sandals sat beside Gillian’s work shoes and the boots she’d worn riding. Above, on the closet shelf, stood an open suitcase and an unzipped duffel bag. She certainly wasn’t attempting to hide anything—like a million bucks in stolen cash.
His wry smile turned into a frown as Trooper crawled out from under the bed, his nose stuck in a white sock. He looked so funny, Mitch had to chuckle. He dragged the errant pup out of the room and pulled the door closed, at once forgetting the frugality of Gillian’s closet.
Gilly heard her bedroom door whisper shut. Was Mitch checking to see if she had knickknacks in there—or had he been searching for Daryl’s key? Maybe he’d hoped to find it for his buddies. Well, she wished him luck. She’d even ripped the lining out of her suitcase trying to find any sign of that key.
Knowing he’d probably urged her into the bath in order to go through her things dampened Gillian’s enthusiasm for the evening ahead. She lingered until the water got cold. Sometime after that, she heard Mitch return with the beer, then heard the pizza arrive. Finally, she got out and dried off. Wrapped in a towel, she eased open the door, glancing right and left before she dashed across the hall. Sure enough, the bedroom door she’d left ajar was now closed.
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