Mitch rubbed his neck. Christy Peck-Jones was a good cop. She was also separated, not divorced, from a bad-tempered husband. Tangling with Royce Jones was the last thing Mitch needed or wanted. While Christy had indicated her interest in him more than once, she didn’t ring any bells for Mitch. Even if he was attracted to her, he’d never act on it unless she was free. Some guys on the force didn’t have much integrity when it came to honoring their wedding vows or those of women cops they worked with. They found it easy to blame their betrayals on an excess of adrenaline from being thrown together in life-and-death situations. Mitch had met death face-to-face, twice. Both experiences had only served to solidify his values. This last time, he really thought he’d bought the farm.

Which could be why he felt an uncustomary urgency to meet the right woman. He’d been given a new lease on life. Now he’d like kids and even grandkids. The next time he met his maker, he wanted to look back and see that he’d accomplished something worthwhile. Men ought to have a legacy to leave behind.

“My lunch break is over. I’m going to the kitchen to box this to take home. Please, don’t let me keep you from exploring a potential job offer.” Sliding off the stool, Gillian whisked away her plate and utensils.

She flat-out disappeared before Mitch could press harder for a first date. Not altogether surprising. She’d made her reservations clear. And with all the crime against women he’d seen while working the streets, he couldn’t really blame her. What did she know about him? Nothing. But if she stuck around town, he’d have a chance to ask her out again. If she moved on— Oh, well, she wasn’t what he was looking for anyway.

Exactly what is that, Valetti? And when did you start picking up strangers? Confused by the questions, Mitch attempted to push her out of his mind.

He crossed slowly to Christy’s table. As he settled in the chair farthest from her, Mitch recalled Ethan experiencing a similar bewilderment the day he met Regan, whom he later married. Mitch couldn’t say why, but when he exchanged banter with Gillian Stevens, he felt a lot like his former partner had looked back then—like an alley-cat standing hip-deep in fresh cream.

Gillian walked back into the room. From the erratic way Mitch’s heart flip-flopped, he knew he’d definitely be making a second trip to town. Possibly even a third and fourth…

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 caf'e. 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.