Читать книгу Too Close For Comfort - Sharon Mignerey - Страница 8

Inside the kitchen Ian found the same cheery feeling as outside, which somehow fit Rosie. Not that she was cheerful, exactly. At least, not with him.

The room was bright, both from the overhead light and a riot of color. Yellow walls and bright print curtains were stark contrast to the misty, gray dawn outside. Down a hallway he could see a stairwell that led to the second story and doorways to a couple of other rooms. No other lights were on, nor were there any other sounds, suggesting no one else was in the house.

Rosie had shed her jacket, revealing a bright-pink, long-sleeved T-shirt carelessly tucked into her jeans. She stood at the sink, washing her hands.

His first impression that she wasn’t very big was reinforced. In fact, her build was on the fragile side, making him wonder how she had carried both Annmarie and the pack. Glad her back was to him, he studied her, noting the similarities and differences to her sister, Lily. Rosie’s blond hair was shades lighter, more like Annmarie’s, and was cut in a short touchable-looking style.

Annmarie sat on the counter next to the sink, her legs dangling over the edge. Ian winked at her, and she winked back, squinting shut both her eyes.

‘‘I’m having hot chocolate, Mr. Ian,’’ she announced with a smile. ‘‘Would you like Aunt Rosie to make you some, too?’’

He held up his cup. ‘‘She already gave me coffee.’’ His glance slid to the woman. ‘‘Thank you.’’

She shut off the water and turned to face him as she dried her hands. He forced his gaze to stay on her face, though the curves revealed by the knit fabric of her shirt drew his interest. Like Annmarie and Lily, Rosie’s eyes were brown, an inheritance from a Tlingit shaman, Lily once told him. Rosie’s eyes were wary, and Ian knew he had given her plenty of cause to be leery of him. Nothing new there—with rare exceptions, he had that effect on people.

‘‘There’s a washroom through there,’’ she said, nodding toward a closed door.

Much as he wanted to clean up and needed to see how much damage had been done when he was shot, he recognized her tactic for what it was—dismissal. Her lack of response to his thanks grated. Her voice was civil enough, but she still made him feel as though she’d rather have a Kodiak bear in her kitchen than him. It was the sort of ‘‘get out of my face’’ attitude he’d been dealing with all his life. Just now, it bothered him as it hadn’t in years. Fifteen to be exact. The old memory flooded his mind—of the night he’d gotten one of his brothers killed. The night he discovered he could be either a punk or a man worthy of the name. The night he had vowed he would never again be the cause of pain and destruction.

Aware his thoughts were no longer centered, he reclaimed his focus from years of discipline. He needed to make sure Rosie didn’t report that she had found Annmarie.

‘‘We need to talk,’’ he said. ‘‘Before you call the sheriff.’’

Her back to him, her shoulders stiffened. An instant passed before she nodded.

A bell pinged—the microwave oven he realized, when she took out a steaming cup of hot water and added the hot chocolate mix to it.

‘‘Yum.’’ Annmarie clapped her hands together. ‘‘That’s just how my mommy makes it.’’

‘‘Then I must be doing it right,’’ Rosie said cheerfully.

Her voice took on a husky quality with the child, an inflection Ian found alluring. That he’d give a great deal to hear that tone directed toward him irritated him. Again aware of his lack of focus, he watched as she concentrated on her task.

Rosie gave the mixture an extra stir as an expression of total vulnerability chased across her face. She glanced up and met Ian’s gaze, her features instantly controlled in a smooth mask. ‘‘Did you need something?’’

As in, Did he need written instructions to wash his hands? Ian thought. A woman who looked so wholesome and pretty and sexy and drew him the way she did shouldn’t have the ability to irritate him. Except she did.

He set down the mug on the counter. ‘‘I’m going.’’

The sink and toilet in the bathroom shared space with a washer and dryer and the dog’s water dish—an observation he made as utter weariness caught up with him. Irritated that he was more concerned with what a prickly woman thought of him than whether this place was safe, he closed the door.

He needed to scout the perimeter of Rosie’s property, figure out if there was an escape route and where a defense could be mounted, if required. He was creeping up on the end of thirty-six hours without sleep, so that was fast becoming a priority. He knew better than to hope Marco and his goons had left. They had made it all too clear they wouldn’t stop until they had what they wanted—a way to keep Lily from testifying against their boss. In a word, Annmarie.

Ian slid his jacket off his shoulders, wincing as he pulled. He tugged a little harder, then swore when he jarred the wound, remembering the instant Rosie had put the heel of her foot against him and pushed. What had been an annoying ache had become piercing pain under the pressure of her foot.

Damn, but getting shot was even worse than he remembered. He laid the jacket on the washing machine, then gently tried to draw his shirt away from the wound where congealing blood made it stick. Gentle didn’t get the job done, and he felt as though he was pulling off his own skin. He swore again, knowing he was going to have to yank hard, and the damn thing would probably start bleeding again. Not to mention, sting like fire.

A no-nonsense rap against the door made him jump, and his hand jerked at the fabric, which pulled even harder on his skin.

‘‘What now?’’ he asked, gritting his teeth. He pulled the .38 out of the waistband of his jeans and laid it on the back of the toilet. Then, he unbuttoned the shirt, pulling one arm out of the sleeve, hoping he could peel the shirt away.

‘‘I want to take a look at your shoulder,’’ she said through the door.

‘‘Like hell.’’

Rosie rattled the doorknob as if expecting to find it locked. When it unlatched the door, she pushed it open.

‘‘Come right in.’’ He spared her a glance before returning his attention to getting the shirt off without further irritating the wound. If blood or half-naked men in her bathroom bothered her, she didn’t show it.

‘‘Let me help,’’ she said.

‘‘If I had wanted your help, I would have asked.’’

‘‘Well, now you don’t have to,’’ she said with the patient condescension old maids reserved for rowdy little boys. ‘‘Sit down. You’re too tall for me to see what needs to be done here.’’

‘‘Are you always this bossy?’’ He sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, draping his hands between his legs.

‘‘I’m not bossy at all.’’ Gently she began lifting the fabric away from his skin, then discovered what he had. The shirt was stuck to him like dried glue.

She put an old-fashioned rubber plug in the bottom of the sink, then turned on the water. From a cupboard above the washing machine she took out a towel and washcloth, then tested the temperature of the water. She pushed up her sleeves, revealing a tattoo that curled up her left arm from her wrist to a couple of inches below her elbow.

Ian stared, fascinated. A delicate vine wound around her wrist, and peeking from within it was the tight bud of a pale, pink rose. Aware of her sensitivity to her name, he didn’t allow so much as a glimmer of a smile as he contemplated a rosebud on Rosebud Jensen. Farther up her arm was another blossom, this one slightly more open, slightly more flushed, revealing delicate curling petals. The art was so sensual yet somehow innocent, giving him a sensation of peeking into her bedroom and catching her unaware in a state of undress.

Abruptly he was reminded of a girl from school who had flaunted her bad-girl tattoo of a snake coiled around her thigh. That life was a thousand years ago. It felt like yesterday. Fifteen years and a hell of a lot of water under the bridge…and he still wasn’t welcome in his mother’s house.

His gaze refocused on Rosie’s tattoo. What was it about this particular woman who brought so many old memories to the surface in the span of a few minutes?

Rosie plunged the washcloth into the warm water, wrung it out and applied it next to his skin, softening the dried blood and gently pulling away his shirt.

‘‘You should have passed out from all the blood you lost.’’ Her voice was still brisk.

‘‘It takes more than a flesh wound to put me out.’’ Tension radiated from her, and he doubted his loss of blood was the cause. If she did many searches and rescues, she had dealt with injuries far more serious than his. ‘‘One of my good qualities.’’

‘‘You have more than one?’’ She raised an eyebrow. Ian wondered if she knew just how revealing and off-putting that particular expression was, then decided, of course she knew. That was why she did it.

‘‘Sure.’’ He grinned, enjoying that he could bait her. ‘‘I’m dependable.’’ The truth, so far as it went. ‘‘And I’m lucky.’’ Never mind that he was always convinced it had just run out.

‘‘You forgot to mention you’re a gun-carrying…’’ She paused, evidently searching for the right word.

‘‘Thug?’’ he supplied.

‘‘Who assaulted me,’’ she finished. ‘‘What are you doing here with Annmarie?’’ Rosie eased the last of the fabric away from his skin. She pulled the sleeve down his arm, then threw the shirt on the washer with his jacket.

He peered around Rosie and the half-opened door into the kitchen. Annmarie was sitting on the floor, scratching the dog behind his long floppy ears.

Rosie dipped the washcloth in the sink. ‘‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just assume you kidnapped Annmarie—’’

‘‘And brought her to a relative? And to think Lily told me you were smart.’’ His gaze locked with Rosie’s. ‘‘She anticipated you wouldn’t believe me or trust me, so she gave me your secret code…Rachel.’’

Rosie’s gentle dabbing against the dried blood stilled.

‘‘Linda, Rachel and Diane, for the sisters who hated being named after flowers.’’

‘‘Nobody knew,’’ she whispered, ‘‘but the three of us.’’ Her brown eyes were wide when she met his. ‘‘Lily really sent you.’’

‘‘She really did.’’

‘‘Why didn’t Lily just call me?’’

‘‘She couldn’t.’’ Ian felt the washcloth settle against his neck, the water cool and soothing against the wound. ‘‘Your sister is in protective custody.’’

The light touch of the cloth against his skin abruptly ceased once again, and he glanced up to find Rosie’s dark eyes wide with apprehension.

‘‘She witnessed a murder.’’

Rosie shook her head in denial. The washcloth slid off his shoulder and plopped to the floor. Ian reached out to touch her, and very deliberately she stepped beyond his reach.

‘‘How…when? Is she okay?’’

‘‘She’s fine,’’ he assured her, picking up the washcloth and tossing it back in the sink. ‘‘Or at least, as okay as she can be, under the circumstances.’’

Rosie swirled the cloth through the water, then rung it out again. Ian waited for her to look back at him before continuing.

‘‘A year ago, give or take, she was on her way home from work and had the bad luck to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.’’

‘‘Lily witnessed a murder a year ago, and none of us knew about it?’’ Rosie asked, her voice sharp.

‘‘Nobody knew,’’ he answered, his irritation about that instantly at the surface. He’d grown up on mean streets where murder was common—one should never have happened in Lily’s world. ‘‘Hell, I didn’t even know. Her identity had been kept secret to ensure her safety. She didn’t tell anybody.’’

A spasm of pain crossed over Rosie’s features, and she pressed her lips together, her brows knit. ‘‘So why bring Annmarie here?’’

‘‘Lily didn’t want her to feel confined. She thought Annmarie would be safe here.’’

‘‘But she’s not, is she?’’

With that single question, Rosie showed that she understood the gravity of their situation in a way that Lily hadn’t been able to. She might look like her sister, but unlike Lily, Rosie saw the shadow world where danger lurked.

Rosie added, ‘‘And the man who called, reporting her missing—’’

‘‘Probably a guy named Marco—’’

‘‘If he got hold of Annmarie—’’

‘‘He would use your niece to ensure that Lily won’t testify.’’

Rosie dabbed at the crusted blood on his shoulder again.

‘‘You were lucky,’’ she said. ‘‘Just grazed the top of your shoulder.’’ She dipped the washcloth in the sink again, then touched it to his neck, gently wiping away the blood without disturbing the wound at all.

Ian didn’t know what he had been expecting, but her comment about his shoulder wasn’t it. Her hands trembled slightly, and he had the urge to take them within his and tell her everything would be okay. Only, things were seldom okay and she had made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t to touch her. He couldn’t really blame her. He had manhandled her, threatened her and brought her the worst kind of news.

‘‘Another inch and you wouldn’t be walking around at all,’’ she said.

‘‘Damn,’’ he muttered. He could have done a lot to reassure her, and he hadn’t. Not a single, blessed thing. Not then and not now. ‘‘So you understand why you can’t report that you’ve found Annmarie.’’

She didn’t answer, and he raised his eyes to look at her. She patted at his shoulder without meeting his gaze, then rinsed the washcloth.

He lifted a hand to touch her, and as she had last time, she deliberately stepped beyond his reach.

‘‘Finished,’’ she said, opening the medicine cabinet door and pressing a bottle of aspirin into his hand.

He stood and examined the wound in the medicine cabinet mirror. All in all it wasn’t nearly as bad as he had expected.

‘‘Rosie.’’

She paused at the door, her hand on the crystal doorknob.

‘‘I have her number. Lily’s, that is. You can call her.’’

She nodded before returning to the kitchen.

Ian shook a couple of tablets into his hand and swallowed them without water. She talked to him as though he was something foul the dog had dragged in. But her touch…that was a whole different matter.

He could hear her in the other room, talking…on the phone.

He rushed from the bathroom, heard her concisely describe his injury. He snatched the telephone from her and yanked the cord from the wall.

‘‘Damn, don’t you get it?’’ He shook the end of the phone line in her face. ‘‘This isn’t a game.’’

‘‘I didn’t think it was.’’ Calmly she replaced the receiver in the cradle, took the cord from him and plugged it back into the socket. In the next instant the phone rang.

Not taking her eyes from him, Rosie picked up the receiver. ‘‘Sorry about that, Hilda,’’ she said. ‘‘Now, like I was saying, I found that hiker you called me about earlier, and he needs a little first aid. If you’d like to bring the kids out for a visit that would be good, too…. I knew you’d understand…. Yeah, that’sright. See you in a bit.’’ She replaced the receiver, then said, ‘‘Do you want eggs with your pancakes?’’

‘‘You’re nuts,’’ he responded. ‘‘You can’t just—’’

‘‘The eggs, Mr. Ian,’’ she interrupted, the steel in her voice matching her posture. ‘‘How do you want them?’’

‘‘Over easy,’’ he snapped. ‘‘Three, if you have enough.’’

‘‘No problem.’’ She made a point of looking at his bare chest, then added, ‘‘I’ve got a sweatshirt that will probably fit you if you don’t want to put that bloody shirt back on.’’

‘‘I don’t,’’ he said.

She half turned, then caught his glance once again. ‘‘What happened to your luggage?’’

‘‘We had to leave it on the ferry,’’ he answered.

She gave him another thorough glance, then moved to the refrigerator, where she took out a carton of eggs. Ian watched her move around the kitchen, her expression softening when she looked at her niece.

He hoped the aspirin would kick in soon. His head pounded worse than a hangover from a three-day drinking binge. His groin was killing him, and his shoulder hurt like fire. Worse, he had completely lost control of the situation. To regain it, he needed to start thinking like the men chasing them—that was the key to a good, flexible plan that would put them a step or two ahead of the criminals that Lily was testifying against.

Rosie, though, seemed to have her own plan. But then, why wouldn’t she? She’d had the upper hand all morning. And now, someone named Hilda was on the way—a nurse, if his hunch was right. Why in hell would Rosie have told her to bring kids for a visit? None of it made a bit of sense.

He returned to the bathroom where he drained the water out of the sink and rinsed the washcloth as best he could. By the time he was finished, the aroma of pancakes and eggs wafted from the kitchen, making his stomach rumble. He could hear Rosie and Annmarie talking, becoming acquainted with each other.

When Lily’s husband died, Ian had met her parents and her sister Dahlia. Rosie hadn’t come, but if that bothered Lily, she’d never said. In fact, she always spoke highly of Rosie, and Ian remembered that she had visited Rosie shortly after John’s death. Still, he wondered why Rosie had never come to California in the almost three years he had lived next door to Lily. He cocked his head to the side, listening to their conversation.

He finished drying his hands, then folded the towel and hung it up. Without conscious thought, he picked up the .38, checked its ammunition and slipped the gun back into the waistband holster at the small of his back and left the bathroom.

One thing was sure. This woman might not have visited Annmarie, but there was no mistaking her affection. Rosie knew the child’s preferences, touched her affectionately, listened in a way few adults did with children. The dog lay in the middle of the floor, where she had to step over him as she moved around the kitchen.

Seeing a gray sweatshirt hung over the back of one of the chairs, Ian moved into the room. Rosie spared him a passing glance when he grunted as he pulled the shirt over his head.

Then he made a quick exploration of Rosie’s house, finding it laid out the way he’d expected. Upstairs there were a couple of bedrooms and a bath. Downstairs there was another bedroom, clearly Rosie’s, a cozy living room and a den.

When he came back to the kitchen, Annmarie was still sitting on the counter, her face and voice animated as she told Rosie how they had played hide-and-seek with some scary men. Rosie smiled, encouraging her niece to continue, but there was no mistaking the rigid set to her shoulders. The lady was not amused.

At the time he hadn’t been pleased, either. Ice had replaced the blood in his veins when he discovered they were being followed, especially after using all the precautions he could think of. Traveling under an assumed name. Taking a circuitous route, which hadn’t been hard to do. There was no other way to reach remote communities in Alaska, including Lynx Point. He had paid close attention when they boarded the ferry in Seattle, and he was 99 percent certain they hadn’t been followed. Which meant somehow Marco knew where they were headed and had probably been on the ferry ahead of them.

‘‘Are you going to scowl those eggs into submission or eat them?’’ Rosie asked.

Ian focused on her, then on the table, discovering a steaming plate of eggs and blueberry pancakes in front of him. He managed a smile. ‘‘Could I talk you out of some more coffee?’’

That eyebrow of Rosie’s raised again. ‘‘In front of you. Next to the orange juice.’’

He glanced back at the table. Sure enough, coffee and juice. He sat down.

Rosie picked at her food as she watched Ian and Annmarie consume their breakfast as though they hadn’t eaten in days. Annmarie’s chatter and Ian’s gentle and affectionate teasing with her were rooted in deep familiarity. Aware as she was of Annmarie, Rosie found it impossible to ignore Ian.

His easy smile did nothing to hide his watchfulness. She would bet he heard every sound from the furnace when it kicked on to the birds chirping outside. His quick exploration of her house had made her think of a warrior checking his defenses. Everything about him reminded her that he was a man who could attack with chilling efficiency. That frightened her far more than she cared to admit.

She longed to give voice to her questions, but the things she wanted to ask were hardly appropriate to voice in front of Annmarie. Who was this man who had been entrusted with Annmarie’s care? How could Lily have witnessed a murder?

Rosie had no one but herself to blame for the fact that her sister didn’t call. Inwardly Rosie cringed, thinking of their last conversation. Lily had wanted her to come visit, and Rosie had flatly refused to return to California. It was a refusal that had cut Lily to the quick, and Rosie found herself wishing she could have given a different answer.

Before she’d finished eating, Annmarie began to look drowsy, her head nodding, then jerking upright. Each time she snapped awake, she gave Rosie or Ian a sweet smile and put another piece of pancake in her mouth.

‘‘She looks like I feel,’’ Ian said.

‘‘She’s beautiful,’’ Rosie murmured.

‘‘Thanks,’’ he murmured. ‘‘It’s all this beauty sleep I’ve been missing lately.’’

Rosie looked up in time to see him stroke a lean hand down his cheek in an exaggerated gesture of a preening male. In spite of herself, her lips twitched.

It was on the tip of her tongue that she could tuck him in for a nap, too. Like every other man she knew, he’d take that suggestion as an invitation. All she said was, ‘‘Not to mention getting hit with an ugly stick.’’ Nothing could have been further from the truth.

‘‘Always knew I was a good-looking guy.’’

‘‘Conceited, too.’’ She stood up and rounded the table to where Annmarie was sitting. ‘‘How about a nap, sweetie?’’

Annmarie nodded and held her arms up. Around a giant yawn, she said to Ian, ‘‘We’re safe now, huh?’’

‘‘As safe as we can be, petunia,’’ he returned.

She smiled sleepily and focused on Rosie. ‘‘Mommy said we would be.’’

Rosie picked up the child. Looking over Annmarie’s head, she met Ian’s gaze. ‘‘You stay put.’’

He lifted his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. ‘‘Hey. I’m not going anywhere.’’

Rosie carried Annmarie toward the bedroom, hearing the soft jangle of Sly’s tags on his collar as he followed her. In the bedroom Rosie lay the child on the bed, still rumpled from her interrupted night’s sleep. She slipped off Annmarie’s shoes and tucked the covers around her.

‘‘Aunt Rosie?’’

‘‘Hmm?’’ She sat down on the bed.

‘‘Will you sit with me till I fall asleep?’’ Annmarie swallowed. ‘‘Sometimes I get scared, ’specially since Daddy went to heaven.’’

A lump rose in Rosie’s throat as she brushed Annmarie’s hair away from her face. ‘‘I’m here as long as you want, sweetie.’’

‘‘Mommy said you were nice. She said I’d like it here.’’ Another smile followed, this one with heavy eyelids.

‘‘I’m glad she thinks so,’’ Rosie whispered.

‘‘Will Sly stay with me?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Annmarie snuggled deeper under the covers. ‘‘Good. Later I’ll play ball with him.’’

Rosie continued stroking Annmarie’s hair. The child’s breathing changed, and between one breath and the next, she fell asleep. Rosie sat there a moment longer, studying the child. Regret, heavy as heartbreak, stole through her. How could she have stayed away so long? It wasn’t as though Lily hadn’t wanted her to come. She had.

Rosie closed her eyes. Like the coward she was, she had stayed away. How could she have thought an old, old hurt was important compared to spending time with and cherishing a child?

Silently she rose from the bed. Sly stood up to follow her from the bedroom. Pointing toward Annmarie, Rosie commanded, ‘‘Guard.’’

Sly lay back down, and Rosie studied him a moment, wondering if he really would guard Annmarie or if he simply thought guard was another word for stay. Since he hadn’t protected her out there in the clearing, she had serious doubts. She had taken him to guard dog training when she first got him, liking the idea of a watchdog. He had loved attack training, but she doubted he would attack anyone not wearing a padded suit. She had soon discovered that he liked tracking better, and he had taken to that like a spawning salmon to a rushing stream.

When she returned to the kitchen, she found Ian at the sink, washing the breakfast dishes and putting them on the drain board. He looked surprisingly at ease, which brought Rosie to a complete halt at the doorway. The table had been cleared and wiped down. Somehow he had figured out that the embroidered cloth and basket of flowers belonged in the middle.

‘‘There are a couple of cups of coffee left in the pot,’’ he said without looking at her. ‘‘Ready for another?’’

Resisting the temptation to clear her throat she said, ‘‘Yes.’’

He took one of the mugs from the drain board, filled it and offered it to her.

It was a simple gesture of appeasement. The man had made a lot of those overtures since he walked through her door. For the life of her, though, she couldn’t cross the few steps to take the mug from him.

‘‘It’s going to take more than doing a few dishes to get on my good side,’’ she said, hating the words the instant they were out of her mouth.

‘‘So you have a good side,’’ he murmured. Deliberately he came toward her, extending the coffee cup toward her. She didn’t move, though she had the strongest urge to turn and run.

She accepted the cup from him, noting the teasing glint in his eyes. His hands were loose at his sides as if to reassure her he was harmless. Harmless? Not this man.

To her chagrin, he skirted slowly around her. He came to a stop in front of her, his eyes dark with an emotion she couldn’t name when he met hers again.

‘‘You have more than one good side, Rosie Jensen.’’

She took a sip of the coffee, which wasn’t nearly as hot as the flush that crawled up her cheeks. Flirting was something she hadn’t allowed herself since she came to Lynx Point. Forbidden or not, she had forgotten how exhilarating that initial dance between a man and a woman was. It had been years since she had been tempted to flirt back, to give a man any opening gambit at all. She wasn’t about to start now, especially with this man.

‘‘Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t particularly like you, and I don’t want you here. The sooner you’re gone, the better.’’ She cringed when she realized the tone she heard in her own voice was fear instead of anger.

He returned to the counter, poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned off the switch to the drip coffeemaker. He faced her, leaning against the counter and crossing his ankles. ‘‘I take it the truce is over.’’