Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey

Just point us toward Comin’ Up Rosie. I don’t want to trouble you.’’

      ‘‘It’s no trouble,’’ Rosie responded. She wasn’t about to tell him that he had just named her own nursery. Not until she knew a lot more. With any luck at all, they would run into Hilda on the road before they got there. ‘‘I’m headed that way.’’

      ‘‘I can carry her,’’ he said.

      Rosie understood the oblique statement for the command it was. No way was she letting go of Annmarie, and she began walking away from him. ‘‘You’re lucky to still be standing up, if you’ve lost as much blood as it looks like. Besides, you might lose her. Again.’’

      ‘‘I never lost her in the first place.’’ He matched her stride for stride.

      ‘‘Then why did you call saying that you had?’’

      ‘‘I didn’t.’’

      Deciding to ignore him, she glanced down at Annmarie. ‘‘Which do you think would be better for breakfast? French toast or blueberry pancakes?’’

      Ian would have eaten nails before admitting that this woman had outmaneuvered him. He let her get a couple of paces ahead of him, wishing he’d never agreed to Lily’s plan, wishing he had followed his own instincts and wishing he knew where the hell this woman was taking Annmarie. And damn, since someone had called, claiming the child was missing, Ian had to assume their destination was no secret.

      The man who had called the authorities didn’t have the child’s safety or well-being in mind. Far from it. Ian’s attention roved over the forest around them, looking for his unseen enemy—the men who had been following them since they boarded the ferry in Seattle. When they got off the ferry in Ketchikan, he’d pulled out every trick he knew to lose them, down to hiring a grizzled old fisherman who knew the Jensens to bring them the rest of the way. When he’d dropped them off at the dock in Lynx Point, he’d pointed Ian and Annmarie in the general direction of Comin’ Up Rosie. On that last leg of the journey the forest seemed too quiet, and Ian suspected an ambush. He’d had only an instant of warning before someone shot at them—and had the stupid luck to hit him. He and Annmarie had hidden until he had seen someone approach from the ocean side of the clearing. That’s when he’d decided on his own ambush, using himself as bait. Instead, he’d been ‘‘rescued.’’

      Maybe, just maybe, if they stayed away from the road, they had a chance. His luck had just about run out over the past twelve hours, but then he didn’t have anyone to blame but himself. He’d made stupid mistakes, he thought with irritation, the kind that he wouldn’t have put up with from a raw recruit, much less someone with the experience that he had.

      ‘‘Do pancakes come in chocolate?’’ Annmarie was asking.

      The woman laughed. ‘‘I don’t think so, sweetie.’’

      ‘‘Do they have chocolate milk in Alaska?’’

      ‘‘At my house they do.’’ Reaching the road, she waited for him. ‘‘Mr. Ian. Is that a first name or a last name?’’

      ‘‘Want it for the police report?’’ he asked.

      She arched an eyebrow. ‘‘Of course.’’

      ‘‘Ian Stearne.’’

      As if the simple telling of a name satisfied her, she began walking again.

      ‘‘Where are you going?’’

      ‘‘You said you wanted to go to Comin’ Up Rosie.’’

      ‘‘That’s right.’’

      She cocked her head in the opposite direction of the town. ‘‘It’s this way.’’

      ‘‘How long will it take to get there?’’ he asked.

      ‘‘Ten or fifteen minutes,’’ she said, glancing briefly over her shoulder. ‘‘You can wait here, and I’ll send someone for you.’’

      ‘‘Not a chance. Why don’t we go back along the coastline?’’ At least then they had a chance of blending in with the forest.

      ‘‘You’re kidding, right? This is a much easier walk.’’

      ‘‘What’s your dog’s name?’’ Annmarie asked. ‘‘I forgot.’’

      ‘‘Sly.’’

      Her voice had a totally different tone with the child than with him. In fact, if he had seen her first with Annmarie, he would never have imagined she was sharp-tongued enough to peel bark off a tree or had moves that would put his karate instructor to shame. The instant he had touched her, there in the clearing, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Beneath him she had felt fragile and soft, and she smelled of roses. Fragile, hell. She had known exactly what she was doing when she hit him.

      ‘‘That’s short for Sly Devious Beast,’’ the woman continued.

      ‘‘He’s funny looking,’’ Annmarie said.

      She laughed. ‘‘Yes, he is.’’

      In spite of himself, Ian liked her laugh. That and the way her fanny moved as she walked. He was out of his mind—no sane man would go near a woman who knew the moves she did. Even so, his gaze remained focused on the gentle sway of her bottom as she walked. Above it was a backpack, and Annmarie’s legs were wrapped around the woman’s slim waist. Below that tantalizing fanny were slender, denim-clad legs and lightweight hiking boots. She looked exactly like what she had proven herself to be—a woman who knew how to take care of herself.

      The road curved, then came to an end at a gate. Above it, a sign painted with yellow roses and ornate letters read, Comin’ Up Rosie.

      Beyond the gate he could see a greenhouse and rows of trees and shrubs. Between the nursery and the inlet stood a gray frame house with a wraparound porch and a bright-blue tin roof that matched the trim. On the heels of his quick assessment of how to defend the place was his awareness that he had come to a home. A real home, with everything that simple word conjured.

      More folk-art flowers were painted on window boxes and shutters. Even in the dim light of early morning, the place looked well-kept and cheerful. A far cry from the rustic cabin tucked in the woods he had expected.

      He liked the place on sight. He would like it a lot more, at the moment anyway, if it had been behind a fortress wall.

      The woman walked through the gate, and he lengthened his stride to catch up with her.

      ‘‘Thanks for showing us the way,’’ he said, determined to dismiss her.

      She skirted a brightly painted totem pole that dominated the middle of the yard, its fierce-looking, stylized animals somehow fitting the rest of the place.

      ‘‘No problem,’’ she answered, heading past the greenhouse. She climbed the steps to the house and pushed open the door. ‘‘Are you coming in, Mr. Ian Stearne?’’

      ‘‘You’re a little casual about walking into someone else’s home, aren’t you?’’ he asked, watching her enter the house.

      She stepped back onto the porch. ‘‘I think I forgot to mention my name earlier.’’

      She had forgotten no such thing, and they both knew it. Suspicions he had ignored surfaced. With her blond hair and dark eyes, she was an adult version of Annmarie.

      ‘‘Rosebud Jensen,’’ he said, feeling like a damn fool.

      ‘‘Rosie Jensen,’’ she corrected.

      Hell, he thought. How was he going to explain to Lily that he had attacked her sister?

      ‘‘Remember what I did to you back there?’’ Rosie shifted Annmarie on her hip, waiting for him to nod.

      Damned if he was going to give her that satisfaction.

      ‘‘If