Mitch called down the hall, reminding her that the pizza was there. “I’m getting a head start on the beer,” he added.
“I need another minute or so.”
“Okay,” he yelled back.
Inside her room, she made a cursory check. Nothing seemed out of place—except for a sock, which lay in the center of the floor. Where had it come from? She took her time dressing, all the while trying to decide whether or not she’d say anything about his intrusion. He must not have been much of a cop. He’d left a trail an idiot could follow.
“Find what you were looking for in my bedroom?” she blurted out the minute she entered the living room.
Mitch sat on the couch with one of the motorcycle magazines spread on his lap. Glancing up, he crushed an empty beer can and automatically opened another. “Yes,” he said mildly after indulging in a long drink. “Trooper sneaked in there and went under your bed. He came out with a stray sock. I didn’t check to see if the mate’s still under there.”
“Oh.” She fought an uncomfortable wave of heat that climbed up her neck.
“Is it me you don’t trust, Gilly? Or men in general?” Mitch put down his beer.
The timer on the oven buzzed, saving Gillian from answering.
“I put the pizza in the oven to keep it warm.”
“I’ll get it.” Turning, Gillian tripped over Trooper. He barked sharply, and Mitch gave a command in Dutch to quiet him. The dog sank to his haunches at once, his ears pointed and twitching.
“I’m impressed. Maybe I ought to get a dog.” She didn’t say for protection as well as companionship.
“You have your food,” Mitch scolded Trooper when he put a paw on the box Gillian was sliding the sizzling pizza back into.
“What’s in the sack?” she asked, pointing to a bag on the kitchen counter.
“I conned the tavern out of plates and napkins. No sense dirtying your dishes for a meal like this.”
“You think of everything. Um, maybe I should keep you around.” She felt bad for accusing him of snooping. This was her attempt to lighten the mood.
Mitch carried the hot pizza box to the couch, and left Gilly to bring the plates and napkins. Making room for her on the middle cushion, he pulled the tab on a beer for her. He served her a slice first, ordering Trooper in English to sit. A sad-looking dog flopped on his belly at Gillian’s feet. Dropping his nose on his paws, he gazed at her from soulful eyes.
“Can he have a bite?”
“No. He’s been trained not to beg, according to Ethan. I’d hate to mess up his training.”
“Ethan trains dogs?”
“No, Ethan bought him from the kennel that trained his dog, Taz.”
“I met Taz, remember?”
“Right. Not for long, though. Ethan acted like a total jackass that night.”
“He looks after your welfare. I think that’s commendable.”
Mitch shut the box lid and took a pull from his beer as he slid closer to Gillian. “That’s what Regan said. We could all four be friends, if Ethan would shape up.”
Gillian ate her piece of pizza except for a bite of crust, which she left on her plate even though she was tempted to sneak it to Trooper. Satisfied, she settled back to nurse her beer.
“One skinny slice and you’re done?” Ethan stared in amazement at the woman seated beside him. He couldn’t explain why he felt nervous around her tonight. Generally he knew what to say to women. Gilly was different, he acknowledged.
“Don’t stop eating just because I’m full.” As if to prove it, she broke off a piece of pizza and fed Mitch little bits.
“This has distinct appeal,” he mumbled. Especially since she paused to pick off the mushrooms as he’d done with his first wedge.
Swallowing the last bite, Mitch grabbed her wrist, then leaned over and took his time kissing her thoroughly and wholeheartedly.
Gillian told herself she was playing with fire. Kissing Mitch Valetti led to more, and that was a bad idea. As she tried to hold on to that thought, her hand went limp. Her toes curled into the carpet. On his lips, she savored the taste of cheese, marinara sauce and malt from the beer. A feast, she decided.
Trooper filched the pizza crust on her plate. Scrambling to his feet, he loped off to his bowl in the kitchen. Mitch sensed what the pup had done, and after flailing with one hand, made sure the box was firmly shut.
Mitch found he was no longer hungry. At least not for pizza. Lifting Gillian, he brought her onto his lap. At once he felt the visceral hardening behind his jeans zipper.
Gillian felt it, too. This was the time to call a halt, to make excuses.
Then Mitch slid both hands under the fleece top that matched the sweatpants she’d hurriedly donned after her bath, and the moment to make excuses passed.
He’d guessed correctly that she didn’t have anything on under the zippered sweat top. His pleasurable growl said plainly how he felt about being right.
Thought of any kind failed her once he’d snaked the zipper down and skimmed his palms over the aching tips of her breasts. Loud warnings sounded inside her head. Don’t do this! And yet…
Their arms and legs tangled pleasurably. But as Mitch shifted her again, Gillian attempted to pull away. The narrow, lumpy couch was exceedingly uncomfortable. Twice Mitch inhaled on a sharp moan and finally released Gilly to massage his badly aching side. When he yelped, swore, ending with an “Ouch!” Gillian sat up.
“This isn’t working, Mitch.” She pulled down her fleece top.
“You’re right. Why are we going through these contortions when you have a perfectly good bed down the hall?” Grinning, he stood up and held out a hand.
“I mean…it’s not working. You’re in pain and I’m…out of the mood.”
“Oh. That kind of not working.” He studied her. “I should go then.”
But he swayed and grabbed for the arm of the couch to keep from pitching headlong into the pizza box. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, straightening a little at a time. “Must be more tired than I realized. And after a couple of beers… I guess I’m done for.”
“You have a ways to drive, too. Uh…I have an extra blanket,” she said, watching him stifle a yawn and move unsteadily toward the door.
Sleepy-eyed, he turned to watch her test the couch cushions with one hand. They both heard a spring pop. “Thanks, Gilly, but my side’s already giving me fits. I’ll be okay. It’s not that far from home.” He fumbled his pickup keys out of his pocket as he called to Trooper, hoping Gilly would invite him to stay. If not, maybe he’d phone and ask Ethan to come get him.
Gillian plucked the keys out of Mitch’s hand and dropped them on the coffee table. “I guess my bed’s big enough for two. If you really are as sleepy as you seem,” she said, eying him cautiously.
“I really am. Not something a guy likes to admit to a gorgeous woman.”
“I’m not gorgeous. And all flattery will get you tonight is half a soft bed and a pillow to yourself.”
“You’re on,” he said, struggling to maintain some dignity. “Don’t take this wrong, Gilly, but I won’t be sleeping in these jeans. They’re killing my bad side and my hip.”
She wondered, when she agreed to his terms, if she ought to have her head examined.
Mitch managed to shut off the lamp before trailing her down the hall. True to her word, the bed was feather-soft. He let her douse the bedroom light before he tugged off his jeans and rolled into one side of the bed. He’d thought it would be hard to share a bed and not touch her. He was wrong. The strenuous horseback ride, the lovemaking on the mountain and the subsequent worry over her fainting—added to the beers he’d downed too fast—had taken a toll. Soothed by her scent on the sheets and her warm body by his side, Mitch fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
Gillian lay awake much longer. She didn’t drift off until Trooper had crawled onto the foot of the bed and settled at her feet. And she still wore her sweats.
Some time later, slamming car doors on the stree
t below, accompanied by Trooper’s low growl, awakened her from a twilight sleep.
She sat up and strained to see the clock sitting on the table near Mitch. Almost four o’clock. Muffled voices rose up from the street below through her open window. Gillian would have lain down again, but the pup’s constant whining under the window prompted her to get up and see what was going on outside.
What she saw started her trembling. Two men, one chubby and one thin, stood next to a blue car arguing. Arguing and gesturing at her building. It was them!
Gillian’s first instinct was to wake Mitch. And say what? Her story was so wild that even if he was trustworthy, those men would show up before she could make Mitch understand. If she could make him understand. They might well shoot him first and ask questions later. No, they wouldn’t. They were thick as thieves, all three of them. She didn’t want to believe it but she had to.
She stood looking down on his sleeping form, loving the boyish way he curled around his pillow. A yearning for everything that might have been billowed around her. Deliberately, she turned away, steeling herself against what she felt for the man she doubted she could trust. Who was she kidding? Of course she couldn’t trust him! He had her suitcase. And she’d seen the blue car exit his ranch.
Her blood running cold with fear, Gillian took a jacket from the closet and collected her boots. Quietly she made her way to the living room, where she stopped and stepped into them. If she left now, she’d have a decent head start.
Oh, no! Her car. Mitch had driven her home. She threw up her hands and paced. Those goons wouldn’t argue forever. And since Trooper had begun to whine louder, Gillian reacted without taking time to think matters through. She snatched Mitch’s keys off the coffee table, hissed at Trooper to stay and let herself out of the apartment.
The men would probably come in the main entrance and take the clunky old elevator to her floor. She tugged silently at the fire door and ran headlong down three flights of stairs. Not until she reached Mitch’s pickup and sorted through his keys to find the one that fit the ignition did she realize she also had the key to his house. Nothing stood between her and retrieving Katie’s urn except the time it’d take to detour past Mitch’s ranch.
Whispering a shaky prayer that her plan would work, she started his vehicle and drove out into the black of night, leaving Mitch to explain her absence to his pals.
CHAPTER NINE
MITCH JERKED AWAKE to a noise that sounded like someone kicking a wall. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching simultaneously for his pants and the lock box that held his service revolver. Coming up empty on both counts, he grasped his head in both hands, attempting to rid himself of disorientation.
The sounds grew louder. Brusque male voices now accompanied the pounding. Beyond, in the blackness, Trooper growled menacingly. A warning, low and insistent, in the back of his throat.
Fighting free of the last covering, a tangled sheet wrapped around his waist, he inhaled the faint scent of an appealing perfume. Gillian. He was in her apartment. In her bed. Smiling, he patted the spot where he’d last seen her. Pillow and sheet were stone-cold.
More confused than ever, he finally located a lamp. In the subsequent flood of light, he saw a heap of denim, which luckily turned out to be his jeans. He pulled them on, yelling, “Pipe down!”
“Boy, apartments suck,” he grumbled, hoping Gillian wasn’t getting mixed up in some drunken neighbor’s brawl. Whoever was making the racket was outside in the hall. Zipping his pants one-handed, Mitch jammed sockless feet into cold, stiff boots.
“Gilly?” Hobbling down the hall, listening to doors slamming and people grumbling, he called for her. The bathroom was empty. Likewise the living room and kitchen. By now, he’d determined the pounding was someone trying to cave in her front door. Snapping on the one pathetic pole lamp, Mitch cursed the fact that her door didn’t have a peephole.
He’d left his watch on the bedroom night stand so he hadn’t a clue as to the time. Where the hell was Gillian? But before he solved the mystery of her disappearance, he needed to stop the fools outside from doing serious damage to her door. He didn’t know how early or late it was; perhaps she’d already gone to work. He knew Flo’s breakfast shift started at an indecent hour.
Bringing Trooper to heel with a word, Mitch released the first lock. He left the chain on when he opened the door. “Whaddya want?” he growled. To his shock, a well-placed foot splintered the casing that held the chain. Two men in wrinkled suits, both holding automatic weapons, burst through the opening, forcing Mitch to leap back. Only his quick thinking let him stop Trooper from doing what he’d been trained for—saving his master.
“Who are you?” demanded one of the men. “We’re looking for Noelle McGrath.”
Although Mitch clutched the dog’s collar, Trooper barked ferociously and strained toward the strangers.
“Shut the pooch up,” the tallest of the two ordered.
Mitch again told Trooper to cease and desist. “You’ve obviously got the wrong apartment.” He tried to keep his voice calm and his tone even. Not easy, since he kept seeing the fiery bullets that had belched from Tony DeSalvo’s gun—a weapon similar to those aimed at him now.
“Search the place,” the tall man commanded his stockier pal.
“Hey!” Mitch barely let his eyes move as he watched the heavier man waddle down the hall. A few minutes later, he came back, carrying the suitcase Mitch had seen in Gilly’s closet. The skinny dude opened the case, then swore and tossed it to the floor. The silky lining of the bag appeared to have been hacked to pieces with a carving knife. Mitch grimaced, wondering if that was fatso’s work.
“She’s been here all right. Little Noelle has found the key and flown the coop. If you know what’s good for you, pretty boy, you’ll tell us where she went.”
“I don’t know any Noelle,” Mitch said carefully. By now they could all hear the wail of sirens moving closer to the building.
The fat guy gave an ugly laugh. “Trying to tell us those are your panty hose hanging over the shower stall?”
“No, they belong to Gillian. This is her apartment.”
“Gillian?” The tall man glanced nervously toward the window. He clearly wanted to flee the approaching sirens. “Maybe that’s why she’s been so tough to find. After she doubled back at the border, I told the boss she was smarter than he gave her credit for.”
“This Gillian, is she a blue-eyed blonde looker?” asked fatso, jamming his gun barrel in Mitch’s midriff.
“Redhead,” Mitch grunted, still unable to piece together what the hell was going on. “She’s a waitress I met recently. So, what’s this Noelle woman done, anyway? And who are you guys? Feds?” he asked, knowing full well they weren’t part of any law enforcement. Mitch hoped they’d fall for his dumb boyfriend routine and provide some information as well as breathing space.
“None of your beeswax who we are,” snarled the obvious leader. At the same time his partner sneered in Mitch’s face, “Whatever she calls herself now, bud, or however she’s changed her looks, I wouldn’t get too chummy with the little lady. Cops in New Orleans have a warrant out for her—for murdering her husband.”
“Shut up!” The man who’d been giving the orders motioned to the door. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Lenny. And you—” he stabbed the gun at Mitch “—had better conveniently forget you saw us. We’ve got long memories, and we’ll come looking for you.”
They melted into the hall shadows. Mitch heard them clattering down the back fire stairs as two cop cars squealed to a stop in front of the building. He knew there were two because one of them was slower in turning off the high-pitched scream of his siren.
He also knew it’d be a while before the teams made their way upstairs. He used the interlude to grab his watch, slip into his shirt and decide whether or not, like the toads with the guns, he was going to take a powder. About the time he’d decided to leave, he discovered his car keys were missing.
“Dammit!” he shouted, doubling a fist to strike the coffee table where he distinctly remembered Gillian putting them. “Gilly stole my pickup.”
He stalked into the kitchen and yanked open the drawer to see if she had, in her haste, remembered to take the cell phone.
It was still there. He quickly punched in Ethan’s home number. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered, pacing the small kitchen along with his pup. “I’m really gonna hate swallowing all of Ethan’s I-told-you-sos.”
Regan’s sleepy voice whispered a groggy hello. “Regan, Mitch here. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I need to talk to Ethan fast.” He listened a moment, thanked her, then hung up and punched in another string of numbers. Maybe luck was in his corner after all. Ethan had gone out on a call. He’d checked in with Regan ten minutes ago, promising he’d be home as soon as he’d tied up a couple of loose ends.
Mitch connected with his former partner fully five minutes before the uniforms finished taking statements from residents on the floors below and finally made it up to his level.
“Well, well, Valetti. If you’re involved in this nuisance call, you’d better have damned good cause.” The not-so-rookie cop of the two glared at Mitch from eyes that had seen a long night.
Mitch invited them inside and fed them the trumped-up story he and Ethan had quickly concocted. “Look, Mike. This is what happened. Trooper and I dropped by here last night to have pizza with a friend. We talked late into the night. I had a couple of beers. She offered her couch so I wouldn’t have to drive home.” He pointed to a blanket he’d had time to rip off the bed. It and a pillow lay crumpled on the couch. “My friend works an early shift. She must’ve tiptoed out and left me sleeping. Hey, you know how it is…” Mitch offered a lopsided, sheepish grin.
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