Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey
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.