“Trust me to take the wheel?”

Rosie turned around to face Ian, tipping her head back so she could meet his gaze.

He grazed the back of a finger down the side of her face, a touch he couldn’t have stopped if his life had depended on it. He bent and pressed a kiss against her temple. “Go get some sleep, Rosie. You’re safe, I promise.”

Her heart thudding, Rosie walked toward the ladder. She turned around and found his attention on the water ahead of them. She watched him, wishing she understood what had just happened between them.

Moments later she collapsed on the bed. More tired than she cared to acknowledge, she admitted how much Ian had made her relax. She would never have imagined he could be so gentle.

And so the day ended as unusually as it had begun, her thoughts on a stranger—a man who felt oddly safe in spite of all that he was.…

Dear Reader,

As always, Intimate Moments offers you six terrific books to fill your reading time, starting with Terese Ramin’s Her Guardian Agent. For FBI agent Hazel Youvella, the case that took her back to revisit her Native American roots was a very personal one. For not only did she find the hero of her heart in Native American tracker Guy Levoie, she discovered the truth about the missing child she was seeking. This wasn’t just any child—this was her child.

If you enjoyed last month’s introduction to our FIRSTBORN SONS inline continuity, you won’t want to miss the second installment. Carla Cassidy’s Born of Passion will grip you from the first page and leave you longing for the rest of these wonderful linked books. Valerie Parv takes a side trip from Silhouette Romance to debut in Intimate Moments with a stunner of a reunion romance called Interrupted Lullaby. Karen Templeton begins a new miniseries called HOW TO MARRY A MONARCH with Plain-Jane Princess, and Linda Winstead Jones returns with Hot on His Trail, a book you should be hot on the trail of yourself. Finally, welcome Sharon Mignerey back and take a look at her newest, Too Close for Comfort.

And don’t forget to look in the back of this book to see how Silhouette can make you a star.

Enjoy them all, and come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Too Close for Comfort

MILLS & BOON

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To Anne, Judy, Robin and Steven

My own personal Fab Four

SHARON MIGNEREY

lives in Colorado with her husband and two dogs, Angel and Squirt. From the time she figured out that spelling words could be turned into stories, she knew being a writer was how she wanted to spend her life. She won RWA’s Golden Heart Award in 1995, validation that she was on the right path.

When she’s not writing, she loves puttering around in her garden, walking her dogs along the South Platte River and spending time at the family cabin in Colorado’s Four Corners region.

She loves hearing from readers, and you can write to her in care of Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10017.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 1

The touch of a cold, wet nose against Rosie Jensen’s neck brought her wide awake. In the next heartbeat, the telephone on the nightstand rang. She pushed the dog’s muzzle away and reached for the phone.

‘‘Hello.’’ She eyed the bedside clock. Four-seventeen. Only bad news came in the middle of the night. Sudden fear lodged in her throat. One of her sisters. Her parents.

‘‘Sorry to wake you,’’ came the calm voice of her close friend, Hilda Raven-in-Moonlight, over the line.

‘‘This better be good,’’ Rosie grumbled, the band of apprehension around her heart easing. Hilda was the island’s constable, not to mention head nurse of a tiny clinic, and the first to sound the alarm when a tourist got lost in the deceptively rugged interior of the island or tangled up with a bear. Tourists, however, wouldn’t arrive at this remote island in the Alaska inside passage for at least another month.

‘‘It is. A child has been reported lost.’’

Rosie cast the clock another glance. ‘‘At this time of night?’’ She sat up in bed. ‘‘Where? Whose?’’

‘‘That’s where this gets a little strange,’’ Hilda said after an almost imperceptible pause. ‘‘Apparently somewhere close to you. As for who—the man said they were from San Francisco. Yesterday, he somehow got separated from his little girl.’’

‘‘So why didn’t he get help then?’’

‘‘That’s what I asked,’’ Hilda returned. ‘‘The father said he just kept looking—that he didn’t want to think she was lost.’’

‘‘So you haven’t seen the guy. Just talked to him?’’

‘‘That’s right.’’

‘‘Which means we don’t have a specific scent.’’

‘‘Don’t tell me I’m asking the impossible. I know.’’

‘‘You haven’t asked anything. Yet.’’

‘‘If there’s a chance a child is lost…’’ Hilda cleared her throat. ‘‘It still gets pretty cold at night.’’

That was putting it mildly. During the first week in April, the nighttime temperatures regularly dropped to freezing. Rosie pushed the covers aside, got out of bed and peered outside, where dawn was still a promise.

‘‘We’ll have daylight in another hour. I’ll check along the road,’’ Hilda added.

‘‘Oh, sure,’’ Rosie quipped. ‘‘Leave me and Sly with the coastline. This is all pretty fishy, my friend.’’

‘‘Don’t forget your radio,’’ Hilda responded. ‘‘And take good care of you.’’

‘‘Don’t hang up yet,’’ Rosie said, vaguely alarmed that her friend hadn’t responded with the normal banter that lightened the tension of the job at hand. ‘‘What’s the kid’s name?’’

This time Hilda’s pause was long enough to heighten Rosie’s uneasiness another notch.

‘‘Annmarie,’’ she finally said.

The name wound through Rosie’s chest, leaving behind a gaping ache. No wonder Hilda hadn’t wanted to tell her. Memories washed over Rosie, the events of five years ago nearly as painful now as then. Three people alive knew the whole story—Rosie, her sister Lily and their mutual best friend since childhood, Hilda.

‘‘At least, that’s what it sounded like,’’ Hilda added. ‘‘The man had an accent, and he might have been saying Annie.’’

‘‘It’s probably just a stupid coincidence.’’

‘‘Yeah. Talk to you in a few.’’ Hilda broke the connection.

Rosie replaced the receiver on the phone and stared through the darkness for a moment. Lily’s daughter wasn’t the only Annmarie in the world. If there was ever a protective mother who wouldn’t have lost a child for the better part of a day, it was her sister Lily. Further, Lily’s husband had died two years ago, so no man would have lost her, either, accent or not.

Rosie padded through her dark house, Sly walking along beside her, his nails clicking against the hardwood floor. Rosie opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.

The air was chilly, and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms to banish the goose bumps. A hundred yards away the inlet glistened beneath a bright canopy of stars flung across the sky. She inhaled deeply, loving the scent of the rain-washed air. This simple pleasure was one of the reasons she had come to Kantrovich Island in the Alaskan inside passage just over three years ago. In the solitude she had found herself again and had regained a sense of purpose in her life.

To her surprise the dog didn’t step off the porch to do his usual middle-of-the-night thing, but stood next to her, his head cocked to one side, his nostrils twitching. The last traces of sleepiness left Rosie. This was Sly in his working stance. Someone was out there.

Even though she had seen him like this dozens of times since the two of them had embarked on this vocation two years ago, she still felt a thrill of appreciation. A novice at search and rescue herself, she had the luck of a great dog and a good teacher. Sly was no prize to look at, resembling a cross between a basset hound and a Border collie. His uncertain parentage had given him intelligence, acute hearing, a keen sense of smell and incredible perseverance. Most of all, he had uncanny instincts. Qualities that made him ideal as a search-and-rescue dog. Qualities she completely trusted.

She scanned the property from the inlet to the greenhouse to the nursery beyond, wishing daybreak was another hour closer. In the darkness her yard had an aura of mystery, reminding her that a couple of times yesterday she’d had the odd sense of being watched. Now, as then, she shook her head against that disquieting thought.

The night sounds were all ordinary. The barest rustle of a breeze through the trees, the faint lap of water at the shoreline. Next to her Sly sat with utter stillness, his nose lifted, twitching. A sense of urgency and deep uneasiness filled her, and she decided she couldn’t wait for daybreak.

Within ten minutes she was ready to go, dressed in jeans, a couple of layers of shirts, a waterproof jacket and flexible hiking boots. In the kitchen she clipped the radio onto her belt, picked up a backpack and slung it over her shoulder without checking the contents. She already knew it held everything she needed to administer basic first aid or even to survive in the forest for a couple of days, if it came to that.

Uncharacteristic indecision swept through her as she pulled the door closed behind her. The only time she locked the house was when she left the island—a deliberate habit she had cultivated as carefully as one of her fragile seedlings—proof that here she had nothing to fear.

Hers wasn’t an opinion shared by the man who’d built the house during the height of the cold war. The house was complete with a bomb shelter and a secret passage—whether to get in or get out without being seen, Rosie had never been sure.

Reclaiming control over her imagination, she deliberately stepped off the porch without locking the door and gave Sly a single command. ‘‘Search.’’

His long ears flapping, he took off at an easy lope toward the line of trees separating her meadow from the inlet. She loved working with the dog and knew that he wouldn’t stop searching until he had found his quarry. Who did he smell? The child? Someone else?

Rosie shook her head at the uneasiness that filled her over the mere thought of the name Annmarie. Before the day was over she would call, assure herself that her sister and Annmarie were just fine.

Rosie followed Sly closely, his black-and-brown coat making him nearly invisible in the predawn light, except for the flash of white at the tip of his bushy tail. Why had these people waited so long before reporting their daughter lost? Rosie wondered. She followed Sly past her nearest neighbor’s house, the Eriksens, a retired couple who had gone stateside a couple of weeks ago to visit their kids in Seattle.

The dog continued to follow the shoreline where the forest was generally thinner. Gradually the bright stars faded, and the eastern horizon began to lighten. The black of night gave way to a gray-predawn gloom.

Ahead she saw Sly sniffing about. A moment later he took off at a dead run, and she knew they were getting close.

Two minutes later he bayed, and she adjusted her direction. For the first time since leaving the house, he left the shoreline. Rosie followed, picking her way more slowly, wishing it were daylight. She whistled for him, and seconds later he reappeared. He briefly wagged his tail, then took off again in the direction he had come from.

The trees and undergrowth opened suddenly onto a clearing, near the road that led to town. Sly ran toward a dark mound that was unmistakably human.

Too large to be a child, Rosie thought as she hurried forward. Sly sniffed at the form sprawled on the ground, then moved away, his nose still to the earth. Rosie’s focused on the man.

He lay on his stomach, one arm flung above his head, nothing of his profile visible to tell her who he was. His clothes were wet, a sure sign he had been caught in the storm that had come through hours earlier. Though winter was over, hypothermia was still a real concern. Rosie knelt next to him, sliding her backpack off her shoulders and setting it on the ground. She touched her fingers to the man’s neck, checking for a pulse, relieved to find his skin warm.

The man exploded into action. One moment Rosie knelt next to him. In the next he grabbed her wrist and flipped her onto her back.

Her instant of surprise was followed by terror and by unbearable memories.

His knees straddled her hips. He loomed over her. The fury in his eyes terrified her.

Her terror gave way to unreasoning, instantaneous anger. Once she would have been paralyzed. No more.

Instinctively she scissored her legs up and over his shoulders and pushed. Hard. He groaned, then fell back. She slammed her fist into his crotch.

He crumpled to the ground and cried out, a high awful sound, telling her she had hurt him as effectively as she had intended. She twisted away from him, half surprised her counterattack had worked so well. Fleetingly she mentally thanked the self-defense instructor who had taught her the move.

Grabbing her backpack, she stood and backed away from the man. Shaking, she took in a giant breath and glanced around the clearing. She spotted Sly on the far side of the clearing, and her attention returned to the man.

Curled on his side, he gasped for air.

Fight dirty, fight hard, scream and run. Screaming would do her no good since her nearest neighbors were gone. The adrenaline rush made her legs too shaky to run. She inhaled another shuddering breath, so furious she was half tempted to kick the man just for good measure.

How dare he attack her when all she was trying to do was help. Whoever he was, whatever he was doing in the woods this time of night, let him stay here.

At least until Hilda arrived. She patted her belt for the radio, realizing she no longer felt its weight against her waist. There on the ground on the other side of the man lay the radio. Torn between wanting to run and wanting the radio, she edged away from him, looking for Sly. The dog was casting about for another scent some fifteen feet away.

The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked made her stop. Slowly she turned around, her heart pounding, her hands and cheeks suddenly icy cold.

The man stood, and with a remarkably steady arm, he aimed a revolver at her.

‘‘Who the hell are you?’’ he asked, his voice gritty.

‘‘You’ve got to be kidding,’’ she said, angry all over again in spite of the fear swamping her. ‘‘You assault me, then pull a gun on me, and you—’’

‘‘Lady…’’

The sky had lightened enough that she could see beads of sweat on his forehead. Probably a reaction to the injury she had just inflicted. Good. In the next instant she noticed a dark stain that spread across his chest from the collar of his jacket. She could smell the blood. Her instant of triumph was replaced by curiosity and unwanted concern.

She edged to one side, weighing her chances, intending to run at the first opportunity. If the blood was any indication, he wouldn’t be standing much longer.

‘‘Don’t move,’’ he commanded, pressing his free hand against his shoulder.

She stopped. His posture straightened, and his demeanor became even more threatening as he deliberately closed the distance between them, the gun still aimed at her. Her heart began to pound even harder.

She held his gaze, determined that he wouldn’t see a bit of her fear.

‘‘Where’s Marco?’’ he demanded.

‘‘Where’s the child—Annmarie?’’ she countered.

The man became suddenly still, and a glitter returned to his eyes.

‘‘You’re the man who called, right?’’ She swallowed.

Dark hair fell over his forehead above a slash of straight, equally dark brows. His jaw was square, covered with a heavy stubble, sharply defined without a hint of boyish softness, and further emphasized by a cleft in his chin. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean. Everything about him suggested his veneer of civilization was thin.

‘‘What child?’’ It was more a command than a question.

‘‘The one reported missing.’’

He muttered a string of swearwords under his breath.

They were as menacing as the gun he held on her. Her gaze again focused on the dark blob of the radio lying in the grass where she’d dropped it.

‘‘Hell,’’ he muttered, setting the gun’s safety and shoving it in his waistband at the small of his back. That action shocked her. Why pull a gun on her in the first place? ‘‘You’re out here because somebody called you. Mighty generous of you, coming out in the middle of the night like that.’’ Sarcasm laced his voice.

‘‘Not just anybody. The constable.’’

‘‘Constable?’’

‘‘Sheriff. Police.’’

‘‘Ah.’’

Sly’s deep bark interrupted him, instantly followed by a frightened cry.

A child’s cry.

She whirled toward the sound, but not before the man sprinted toward the edge of the clearing, where only Sly’s lazily wagging tail was visible within the drooping branches of an immense fir tree.

‘‘Your damn dog better not bite!’’ he yelled back to Rosie.

She easily caught up with him. ‘‘He hasn’t so far.’’ She passed him. Seconds later she skirted through the brush that hid the base of the tree. ‘‘What have you found, Sly?’’ she asked.

The wagging of Sly’s tail became more enthusiastic, and from under the branches came a soft whimper. Pulling a flashlight from her pack, she dropped to her knees, flicked on the light and lifted the branch out of the way.

Huddled next to the trunk was a little girl no more than four or five, hiding her face behind her small hands. Her braids had come mostly undone, and her pale hair hung in wisps around her face, which was dirty from the tracks of tears that had been wiped away more than once. She sat with her face averted, and her eyes were tightly closed.

‘‘Sweetie, are you all right?’’ Rosie asked gently, hearing the man crash after her.

At the sound of her voice, the child opened her eyes and turned to face Rosie.

A shock of recognition poured through Rosie. The sprinkle of freckles over the child’s nose and cheeks, the almond-shaped, dark-brown eyes and the blond hair were a stamp that marked Rosie, her two sisters and this child.

‘‘Annmarie?’’ This couldn’t be Annmarie, Rosie thought, even as she asked the question.

The child nodded, then swallowed. ‘‘I’m not supposed to talk to anyone till Mr. Ian comes back.’’

‘‘Sweetie, I’m your aunt Rosie.’’ This really was her Annmarie. My God, what was she doing here?

Annmarie uncurled herself a little. ‘‘I haven’t seen you for a long, long time.’’

‘‘That’s right.’’ It had been nearly eighteen months since their last visit. A long, long time. And, she had grown so much since then. ‘‘But on your last birthday I sent you a big teddy bear that you named Lulu.’’

Annmarie’s chin quivered. ‘‘I couldn’t bring her.’’

Rosie held out her arms. ‘‘Then maybe we can find her a sister to keep you company while you’re here.’’

Annmarie scrambled forward. ‘‘Mommy said I should stay with you. So here I am.’’

‘‘Here you are.’’ Rosie chuckled softly, mostly to reassure the child, then shut off the flashlight and dropped it in her pack. First things first. Make sure Annmarie was okay, then find out why she wasn’t with Lily in California.

Annmarie reached toward her. Rosie’s arms closed convulsively around the little girl. Between Lily’s infrequent visits to Lynx Point, she had sent Rosie tapes and pictures. So Rosie knew how Annmarie had grown, had listened to tapes as her cooing became real words, had remembered her birthdays and Christmas with the teddy bears and chocolate the little girl loved. But this was only the fourth time since Annmarie’s birth that Rosie had seen her. As she absorbed the sweet warmth of the child in her arms, Rosie felt a pang of sharp regret.

Tears threatened. Tears Rosie couldn’t afford. She blinked them away, crawled from beneath the canopy of thick branches and stood with the child in her arms. The man—Mr. Ian, she supposed—was breathing heavily. He rested his hands on his knees without taking his eyes off her. My God, why was Annmarie with this wounded, gun-packing stranger?

‘‘She’s okay?’’

‘‘You got hurted, Mr. Ian,’’ Annmarie said. ‘‘Did those bad men find you?’’

‘‘They’re gone, petunia,’’ he answered. The gentle tone in his voice was at odds with his scowl.

‘‘Good,’’ Annmarie responded. ‘‘I was real scared, but Mr. Ian hid me under the tree and told me if I was real quiet, everything would be okeydokey.’’ She smiled. ‘‘He was right.’’

‘‘I can see that.’’ More and more curious about the connection between Annmarie and this man, Rosie hoisted the child more firmly against her hip. ‘‘Bad men? What bad men?’’

‘‘The ones Mr. Ian saw in Ketchup Can,’’ Annmarie supplied.

‘‘Ketchikan,’’ he explained when Rosie glanced at him.

‘‘Ah,’’ she murmured. ‘‘And where is your mom?’’

‘‘She’s at home,’’ the child said simply.

He reached to take Annmarie out of Rosie’s arms, but she turned away, heading for the road that bordered the clearing.

‘‘Where are you taking her?’’ he asked.

‘‘Home.’’

‘‘There’s no need for that. 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 you ever call me Rosebud again, you’ll get more of the same.’’

She disappeared through the doorway, and he slowly walked toward the porch. Sly stood at the head of the steps, yawned, then flopped onto the floor. Ian climbed the steps as the dog watched, its expressive brows twitching.

Ian turned around slowly, his thorough gaze taking in the compound. As always happened for him, the detours he was tempted to call bad luck always turned out in the end. Relieved, he took a step across the porch toward the half-opened door.

Rosie reappeared, without Annmarie or the pack, a steaming mug in her hands, the mouth-watering aroma of coffee wafting toward him. She waited for him at the doorway, her expressive eyes wary, then handed him the cup.

‘‘You’ve got some explaining to do, Mr. Ian Stearne.’’ She poked him in the chest, ignoring that his six-foot, three-inch frame dwarfed her, treating him like a truant schoolboy.

Lily had been adamant that Annmarie would be safe with Rosie, and given her treatment of him, he understood why Lily thought so. Problem was, Lily didn’t understand how much trouble she was really in. With a thorny tongue and petal-soft skin, Rosie didn’t seem as naive as Lily, but she wasn’t ready for this much trouble, either. Just as he’d known would be the case when all this started, he had two charges to keep safe instead of one.

‘‘All right.’’ And he followed her into the kitchen where the aroma of coffee and cinnamon and roses reminded him of the home he’d never had and always dreamed of.

Chapter 2

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.’’

Chapter 3

Rosie’s grip tightened around the cup of coffee. ‘‘I want to know everything.’’

Ian sat down on one of the chairs next to the table, stretching his long, denim-clad legs out in front of him. Absently she noticed saltwater stains below the knees, indicating he had waded through ocean water at some point. His posture was deceptively relaxed, at odds with the anger in his eyes. Gone was the affectionate man who had teased Annmarie through breakfast. Her apprehension grew as she watched him lift his mug to his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he took a couple of swallows of coffee.

He set the cup down and met her gaze. ‘‘The man who was killed was an assistant D.A. in San Jose.’’

‘‘Oh, my God.’’

‘‘It gets worse,’’ Ian said.

Rosie wasn’t sure how it could be worse. She sat down and set her mug on the table, then realized she was trembling when coffee sloshed over the top.

‘‘The D.A. who was killed…he was working on a big case with organized crime connections.’’

‘‘This Marco person?’’

Ian nodded. ‘‘Indirectly. Marco works for Franklin Lawrence. At least, that was the gist of what I overheard right after he shot me.’’

Rumors had floated around the Silicon Valley for years that Lawrence, like his daddy before him, had mob connections going clear back to Bugsy Malone. The sort of thing you heard about but never paid much attention to. Now she wished she had.

‘‘How…when?’’ Rosie asked. Lily was a research scientist at the University of California, a genius in a field of microbiology Rosie barely understood. How could Lily have witnessed a murder?

‘‘She was on her way home one night. There’s an empty stretch of winding road—’’

‘‘You mean just beyond the country club?’’ Rosie asked, mentally following Lily’s path home. Lily’s neighborhood was tucked in the hills between an office park and exclusive neighborhoods that included a vineyard and the country club.

‘‘That’s right,’’ Ian said. ‘‘I didn’t know you’d ever been there.’’

‘‘I used to live in Los Gatos. Get to the point—she was on her way home.’’

Ian nodded, a flicker of surprise chasing across his face. ‘‘She just had the pure dumb luck to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Because this was such a high profile case, the D.A. kept her identity a secret, which worked out just fine until about ten days ago.’’ Ian’s voice grew rough. ‘‘Excerpts of her grand jury testimony were leaked to the press. With the clues they were given, it didn’t take them long to figure out the top-secret witness was your sister.’’

‘‘Oh, God. Lily—’’

‘‘—is fine,’’ Ian said, reaching for Rosie’s hand. ‘‘She’s safe. I promise.’’

She knew his gesture was an offer of comfort, but she flinched, anyway.

His hand dropped to his side. ‘‘Lily thought Annmarie would be better off with you.’’

Rosie shook her head. ‘‘Not with some maniac out there looking for you…’’ Except, to have any leverage with Lily they didn’t want Ian—they wanted Annmarie. In the back of Rosie’s mind that was a fact she had known all along—known and pushed aside.

Suddenly cold, she wrapped her arms around herself and surged to her feet. She moved to the window and stared outside, imagining a foe behind every tree.

Without facing him, she said, ‘‘In the middle of the night, Hilda got a call. The guy was looking for a missing child. He said he was from the Bay area.’’ She turned around and searched his face, knowing the answer but asking anyway, ‘‘It wasn’t you?’’

He shook his head.

‘‘Lily was wrong.’’ Agitated, Rosie waved a hand toward the window. ‘‘What we need is a SWAT team or a platoon of marines or the National Guard.’’ She frowned, deciding she had been too hasty in telling Hilda to bring her kids.

‘‘We’ll figure a way out.’’

We? She didn’t intend for there to be any we where this man was concerned. ‘‘What’s your connection to my sister?’’

‘‘I’m her next-door neighbor.’’

She closed her eyes, trying to remember what Lily had said about her neighbors. Only two came to mind: an elderly couple and a guy who always mowed her lawn. As she remembered, her dad liked the guy, a real compliment since he was usually suspicious.

According to their mom, Lily would have been lost without the guy’s help when her husband died. Since Lily hadn’t mentioned him by name—at least not that Rosie remembered—Rosie hadn’t given him much thought, other than to dismiss her mother’s assertion that the man was wealthy. Her mother also thought it was too bad that the two of them weren’t attracted to each other. Rosie knew how in love her sister had been with her husband, and she knew that Lily believed she would never re-marry. Rosie studied Ian, trying to imagine him in the role of the helpful lawn-mowing neighbor. Not likely.

‘‘The one who mows her lawn?’’ she asked anyway.

Ian grinned. ‘‘The same.’’

‘‘The one who doesn’t have a job because he’s supposedly as rich as Midas?’’ She still didn’t believe it.

‘‘Yep.’’

‘‘What do you do when—’’

‘‘I’m not traipsing around in the woods in the middle of the night?’’ He shrugged. ‘‘A little of this. A little of that.’’

‘‘No job?’’

‘‘No job.’’ Abruptly he stood up, scribbled on the pad next to the phone and handed it to Rosie. ‘‘Call your sister. She’ll fill you in.’’ He headed toward the back door.

‘‘Where are you going?’’ Rosie asked, glancing at the unfamiliar phone number on the sheet, then back at him.

‘‘To scout around the house and figure out how many different ways we can be ambushed.’’

‘‘By Marco?’’ She hated the nonchalant way he talked about the danger.

He nodded. ‘‘Smart girl. Call your sister.’’

Rosie stared after him as he went outside. Smart girl. It was the sort of comment that got her dander up. Swallowing the immediate retort that came to mind, she went to the phone and dialed the number.

On the porch Ian glanced back through the window, reassured to see Rosie with the phone to her ear. Good, he thought.

Technically he had told Rosie the truth about not having a job. Ian sponsored an intervention program for kids who reminded him of himself as a kid, who lived in neighborhoods that bred predators the likes of Marco. Ian’s involvement was hands-on and included his dream for an Outward Bound type of program.

Lily’s request came in the middle of negotiations to buy a ranch, where Ian hoped to establish a working environment that would provide a final chance for those kids most at risk. His option to buy it had expired yesterday. Given the chance, he would make the same choice again. He’d find another piece of property—after Annmarie was reunited with her mom.

Some things were worth any cost. As a child, he had been part of a family constantly moving from one crisis to another. His mother hadn’t dealt well with any of them. Ian was never sure whether his mother hadn’t had a shoulder to lean on or if she had simply never asked. Lily had become his surrogate little sister, and she needed help. He couldn’t turn his back on her.

Ian stepped off the porch. The misty streamers of clouds had dissipated into a high overcast. There was no doubt about it— Rosie Jensen had the best view anyone could want anywhere.

As he gazed out over the water and the steeply rising mountains, a profound sense of homecoming swept through him. The scenery in front of him moved him as little else ever had.

To his surprise the water was glassy smooth and a deep-jade green. Mountains stretched in the distance, rising from the water, cast in varying shades of blue, snow hanging in the high gorges. Directly across from the inlet less than a mile away, a scarred monolith of rock soared, stretching hundreds of feet above the water. A crumpled silver stream fell out of a steep canyon where dark pines grew, the water splashing into the inlet from a waterfall. Only the tall fins of a cruising pod of orcas reminded Ian that he looked out on an ocean, not a mountain lake.

He inhaled deeply, thinking of his dream for a ranch that would provide a wilderness experience and an opportunity for physical work. This place was even better than the ranch in northern California that he’d hoped to buy. With the water and the pine scent of forest, a boy might forget his anger while here—at least for a little while.

It was a dream that wouldn’t happen if he failed at keeping Annmarie and her aunt out of harm’s way. That thought in mind, Ian methodically explored the perimeter of Comin’ Up Rosie. Despite the whimsical name, he discovered it was a well-organized, working nursery where thousands of baby trees grew. Seedlings were protected within the shelter of a large greenhouse. Outside, larger trees grew—if they could be called that when they were little more than a foot tall—in orderly rows. After seeing the thousands of clear-cut acres of timber as they had sailed north from Seattle, Ian was glad to know that some of those trees would be replaced.

As for the compound itself, defending it wouldn’t be easy, but it wasn’t as bad as he had feared. From the porch of the house, much of the inlet was visible, and anyone approaching by water would be seen for a long while. The winding road that led toward the small town of Lynx Point disappeared into the forest a quarter mile beyond the gate. Ian would have liked it better had the road been visible for miles. The steep mountain that rose behind the house was the same scoured rock as the one across the inlet. No easy access to Rosie’s property in the direction. Not without rock-climbing equipment.

The place that worried him most was a steep slope on the hill behind the greenhouse. He climbed it, checking where he was visible from the compound below and where he wasn’t. He climbed higher, hoping to see more of the road. A huge boulder jutted out from the hillside, bright green moss growing at its shaded, moist base. Spotting a couple of footprints in the earth, he dropped to his haunches.

They sure weren’t Rosie’s. The boot belonging to the print was close to his own size twelve. Ian stood, matching his stance with the angle of the prints. He looked around for anything that might have been left behind. Beneath a shrub, he found a wadded-up piece of wax paper. From the smell of it, it had recently held a lunch meat sandwich.

Ian stood and gazed down at the tranquil landscape. From this vantage, only Rosie’s nursery and the lake-smooth water between Kantrovich Island and the next one was visible. He could only imagine two reasons anyone would be up here watching.

One. Someone knew this was where he and Annmarie were headed. If Lawrence couldn’t get Annmarie to use as leverage to keep Lily from testifying, maybe some other member of her family would do just as well.

Ian frowned, not liking that conclusion.

Two. Rosie or maybe one of her employees simply liked climbing up here for the view. A more benign reason for the footprints.

Damn. There was no other choice but ask her if she came up here. If this was all innocent, it would give her an unnecessary scare. If it wasn’t—hell, then she really would have something to be scared of.

Ian cocked his head to the side, listening, acquainting himself with the hum of noise that belonged to the island. Compared to any place he had ever lived, the island was quiet. The faint lap of water against the shore, the occasional chirp of birds, the steady chug of a fishing boat as it sailed up the channel…the sound of a vehicle coming up the road. Ian turned toward the gate and watched an ancient Volkswagen bus approach. Whatever color it might once have been was indistinguishable beneath layers of dirt and rust.

It wasn’t likely to be the sort of approach Marco would make. Besides, the nurse Rosie had called was due soon, so this was probably her.

In another minute the minibus came through the gate and rolled to a stop in front of the house. Doors opened, and no less than half a dozen children piled out, followed by two women. Both had long, dark braids, and both were dressed in jeans. The smaller of the two carried a black bag. Indeed, the nurse had arrived.

Rosie stepped onto the porch. ‘‘Hi, Hilda,’’ she called. ‘‘That was quick.’’

Her voice carried to Ian, and he frowned, again looking at the footprints in the ground. If voices always carried this far this easily, whoever had been watching her could hear as much as he could see.

The taller of the two women, a robust woman with jangling earrings and bracelets, laughed as she approached the porch. ‘‘You wanted me to take my time getting here?’’

‘‘No,’’ Rosie said, giving her a quick hug. ‘‘But I didn’t expect that you’d hurry, either.’’ She held a hand out to the other person. ‘‘Mama Sarah, how are you today?’’

‘‘Same as yesterday,’’ she responded.

Rosie hugged her, too, a smile on her face. ‘‘Old?’’ she quipped.

‘‘Not so old that I can’t keep you in line.’’

‘‘Where is this wounded, gun-packing stranger?’’ Hilda asked. ‘‘Did you follow my advice and lock him in the storage shed?’’

Rosie shook her head and held the door open. Whatever her reply might have been was lost to Ian as they went inside. One of the kids threw a Frisbee to another. Another couple of the kids emerged from a shed, their arms laden with squirming kittens that they carried to the porch.

One of the older kids came out of one of the storage sheds pushing an old motor scooter, which started right up. A second later, Rosie’s dog came flying out the door and down the steps, prancing next to the scooter. The kid stopped, then helped the dog onto the scooter, where he sat on the seat in front of the kid, paws resting on the handlebars. They took off again, the dog’s ears flapping and his mouth opened in a wide doggy grin.

Ian watched them a moment, liking the fun and wondering how you went about teaching a dog to ride a motor scooter.

Descending the slope, he decided the reinforcements were good. If Marco stayed true to form, he wouldn’t try anything while other people were around. There wasn’t much likelihood he would mistake one of these kids for Annmarie—her towhead was nothing like the dark ones of the kids playing in the yard.

One of the children opened the door to the kitchen and asked, ‘‘Hey, Rosie, can we have some milk for the kittens?’’

Ian couldn’t hear her reply, but it must have been affirmative because the kid smiled and said, ‘‘Thanks.’’

A moment later she came onto the porch with a bowl of milk. She set it down, laughing at something one of the children said. She glanced around the compound, and her laughter died when her gaze lit on him. She watched him cross the compound, her expression frankly appraising, a look that left him feeling as though he hadn’t measured up in some way. He hated the feeling and the defensiveness that came with it. Annoyed with himself, he smiled…a defense he’d learned over time that hid his real feelings and that had the added benefit of making others believe he didn’t let much of anything bother him.

‘‘How’s your sister?’’ he asked.

‘‘Worried about Annmarie,’’ she said.

‘‘You didn’t tell her about our trouble?’’

‘‘Now why would I do that?’’ she asked, folding her arms over her chest. ‘‘She has enough on her mind.’’

‘‘She does,’’ he agreed.

‘‘She said that you had promised to stay with Annmarie even after bringing her here. That’s not necessary, you know.’’

‘‘It is to me,’’ he said. ‘‘I promised.’’ In his own mind it was just that simple. He didn’t have many rules by which he lived his life, but the ones he had were carved in stone. Keeping his promises was at the top of the list. ‘‘Are you satisfied that I’m who I say I am?’’

‘‘If you’re asking did Lily vouch for you, yes. Her best friend and a man of good deeds, she said, adding that my folks like you, too.’’

A man of good deeds. He wasn’t, but it sounded exactly like something Lily would say. As for her folks liking him—the feeling was mutual, though he doubted anyone else’s opinion would sway Rosie.

Hilda appeared in the doorway behind Rosie, and Ian met her gaze. Her eyes were dark-brown, their shape similar to Rosie’s, full of intelligence and curiosity. She was a head taller than Rosie. She came onto the porch and extended her hand. ‘‘Hilda Raven-in-Moonlight.’’

‘‘Ian Stearne,’’ he responded, taking her hand.

She firmly shook it once, then released it. ‘‘Let’s take a look at that wound.’’ She turned back to look at the kids playing in the yard. ‘‘Jonathan,’’ she called.

‘‘Yeah,’’ one of the Frisbee-throwing kids answered.

‘‘You come get me if you see anyone coming.’’

‘‘Even Uncle Josh?’’

She chuckled. ‘‘Especially Uncle Josh.’’

‘‘Who’s he?’’ Ian asked, the hair at the back of his neck suddenly raising.

‘‘Hilda’s brother,’’ Rosie answered, leading Ian back into the house. ‘‘He comes and goes. Mostly goes. Mama Sarah, this is Ian Stearne.’’

‘‘I’m pleased to meet you,’’ Ian said, extending his hand to the old woman.

‘‘How do you know?’’ she asked, keeping her own firmly wrapped around her mug of coffee. She met his gaze, her eyes magnified behind thick glasses.

He laughed and sat down at the table. ‘‘I’m an optimist, I guess.’’ He glanced briefly across the kitchen at Hilda, who stood at the sink scrubbing her hands.

A twinkle lit Mama Sarah’s eyes. ‘‘You don’t know?’’

‘‘Sure I know. How could a man not be pleased to meet a lady like you?’’ he asked with a grin, which earned a laugh from her.

Drying her hands, Hilda approached the table. ‘‘This man who shot you. What does he look like?’’ Without waiting for an answer, she added, ‘‘Take off your shirt.’’

Ian briefly met her gaze, then Rosie’s, before peeling off the sweatshirt. ‘‘That’s a strange question for a nurse.’’

‘‘That’s not why I’m asking,’’ she said, reaching for her bag. From it she pulled out a wallet and handed it to him.

Ian opened it, revealing a law enforcement shield.

She smiled. ‘‘The island’s only nurse, Mr. Ian Stearne, and the local law. Now, then. About the man who shot you.’’

‘‘Marco’s about five-ten or five-eleven. Wiry build, a narrow face, and a scar on his cheekbone. Since it was dark, who knows what color his hair and eyes are.’’

Without speaking, Hilda tipped his head to the side, her touch firm as she prodded the flesh around the wound at the base of his neck.

‘‘How do you know his name?’’ Rosie asked.

‘‘Heard his buddy call him that right after they shot me.’’ Ian answered. ‘‘The other guy is about Rosie’s height.’’

‘‘This man. Does he have an accent?’’

He looked up at Hilda. ‘‘Yeah.’’

Hilda prodded the flesh around the wound. ‘‘This is quite a bruise. Almost looks like somebody kicked you.’’

‘‘Somebody did,’’ he returned, glancing at Rosie. He’d been expecting…hoping for…Marco. When he realized the person beneath him was a woman, surprise had frozen him. ‘‘She did a neat scissor kick, getting me right there.’’ He pointed at the wound.

‘‘That musta hurt,’’ Mama Sarah said.

‘‘It did.’’ He figured he didn’t need to add that the kick to his shoulder was the lesser of the two injuries Rosie had given him.

‘‘The man with the scar arrived yesterday…ate his meals at the Tin Cup,’’ Hilda said. ‘‘He was meeting friends here, he said, so they could hike up the glacier.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Everybody’s been laughing at him about that.’’

‘‘Why?’’ Ian asked.

‘‘There aren’t any glaciers on the islands this far south—only on the continent side of the fjords.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ A chill crawled down Ian’s spine.

‘‘Plus,’’ Mama Sarah added, ‘‘he wears city-slicker shoes.’’

Like ones that could have left the footprints up on the hill. The shoe that had left the print had a smooth sole.

Chapter 4

‘‘Keep the wound clean, and you’ll live to be shot at again.’’ Hilda squeezed an antibacterial ointment onto some gauze, which she laid over the wound.

‘‘Enough talk about getting shot,’’ Rosie said sharply.

‘‘Does anyone work for you who likes to have lunch up on the hill?’’ Ian asked. ‘‘Someone with a foot about the size of mine?’’

‘‘No one works for me right now.’’ Rosie rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if she were suddenly cold.

Ian had seen fear often enough to recognize the gesture for what it was.

‘‘That guy is plumb crazy about bologna and cheese sandwiches. That’s what Jane down at the diner told me.’’ Mama Sarah said. ‘‘Keeps ordering them to go.’’

That was confirmation Ian could have done without. Regrets never brought you anything but more regret, but he still wished he had followed his first instinct—to disappear with Annmarie until the trial was finished and Lily had her life back. Despite himself, he yawned.

‘‘Let me see if I’ve got this straight,’’ Hilda said, pinning him with a long glance. ‘‘The whole idea of coming here was to get Annmarie out of sight until after her mama has testified.’’

He nodded, in agreement that the plan was as flawed as Hilda made it sound.

‘‘And you’ve already been found out.’’

‘‘You can’t stay here, then,’’ Mama Sarah said. ‘‘I think you should take little Annmarie to the village.’’

Rosie shook her head.

‘‘What village?’’ Ian asked, immediately catching that she hadn’t referred to Lynx Point.

‘‘We’d stick out like sore thumbs,’’ Rosie said. ‘‘We need someplace we can blend in with the scenery for two or three weeks. Lily thought she would be called to testify next week, two weeks from now at the latest.’’

‘‘What village?’’ Ian asked again.

Rosie glanced at him. ‘‘A Tlingit village—’’

‘‘Where your uncle Raymond lives?’’ Ian’s gaze rested on Rosie’s blond head. She was right. She would be as conspicuous as a nun on Sunset Strip.

Rosie nodded.

During one of her melancholy periods, Lily had shown him pictures of the village, and he had been fascinated with her stories of family. She had given him a glimpse of the kind of family he had always dreamed about, who stood up for one another and cared for one another. Despite being one of six children, he’d never had that.

Ian’s oldest brother, Eric, had looked after Cara, both children from his mom’s first marriage. Eric had taken his anger and his frustration of losing his father out on Ian, an unwanted baby who was the result of a fling his mom had after Eric and Cara’s dad was killed. The twins, Adam and Aaron were the result of a short-lived marriage that ended soon after they were born. Ian always figured he was the most like Micah, the youngest and also the result of an affair. But ten years separated them. Hard to imagine the scrawny nine-year-old brother he remembered was now twenty-three.

Lily’s stories of her eccentric aunts and rowdy cousins seemed to help her through the grieving for her husband, and they’d been a balm to Ian—that not all families self-destructed in times of crisis.

He looked from Rosie to Hilda and realized the conversation had gone on without him. They were back to making plans that didn’t include him.

If anybody thought he was leaving, they were in for a surprise. The morning that Lily had shown up on his doorstep with Annmarie and a bag that she had already packed, she poured out the whole story. The murder, the secrecy that had surrounded her and then the threats she hadn’t wanted to believe were real. In that moment Ian felt as though he’d fallen backward into an abyss that held his darkest secrets. Fifteen years earlier he had run with a gang, and one night rivals came to his street looking for him. When they hadn’t found him, they had taken their revenge out on his sister and one of the twins. His sister had survived, but his brother hadn’t. It was the final straw in his tenuous relationship with his mother and his older brother. Fifteen years between then and now.

Aware that his thoughts had wandered once again—a sure sign he needed sleep, he went to the counter and poured himself another cup of coffee.

‘‘I think Annmarie and I should visit my folks,’’ Rosie said. ‘‘And, since we know I’m being watched, I could use some help with a little subterfuge.’’ She met Ian’s glance briefly, then turned her attention to Hilda and Mama Sarah. ‘‘Let’s assume for the moment that nobody knows Ian and Annmarie are here. With a little chaos and confusion, I think we could sneak them out without them being noticed.’’

Ian watched the kids play in the yard, utter tiredness washing over him, as Rosie laid out a plan where she would hide Annmarie with a shipment of seedlings scheduled for the following day, then leave with her. Adjustments were made as either Mama Sarah or Hilda offered a suggestion. Rosie altogether ignored Ian. Not that she needed his advice. Her idea to surround herself with enough people that she would be hard to keep track of made sense. She had the resources to pull it off and the bases covered. Except for one. She hadn’t included him in her plans. Regardless of what she thought, she wasn’t taking Annmarie anywhere without him.

As if anticipating the direction of his thoughts, she caught his gaze. ‘‘You’ll go with Hilda’s husband who will take you to Wrangall. From there you can catch the ferry back to Seattle.’’

‘‘And just when is all this supposed to happen?’’ he asked, deciding for the moment to let her think he was in agreement with her.

‘‘I’d like today, but all the likely boats we could take are long gone. First thing tomorrow morning. We’ll follow the usual schedule of the fishing boats pulling out. I’m down at the docks a lot this time of year—shipping seedlings out, so nothing would seem out of the ordinary.’’ She paused, her gaze searching his face. ‘‘Assuming nobody saw you and Annmarie come here with me, there’s no reason for anyone to think you’re here.’’

He nodded, and fought back a yawn. Except that he’d been outside scouting around. Except that somebody had been watching the place.

‘‘You see anybody when you were outside earlier?’’ Hilda asked.

‘‘Just you,’’ he responded.

‘‘It’s a good plan.’’

‘‘It’ll do,’’ he agreed.

‘‘Oh, such praise,’’ Rosie said, arching an eyebrow. ‘‘Do you have a better idea?’’

He met her gaze. ‘‘Like I said, it’ll do.’’

She motioned toward the stairs. ‘‘There’s a bed all made up in the back bedroom upstairs. You could probably use some sleep.’’

‘‘Are you finished here?’’ he asked.

‘‘Here?’’

He gave a sharp nod. ‘‘Making plans. Are you finished?’’

A wave of red pulsed through her cheeks, the color nearly as intense as the hot-pink of her T-shirt, and she averted her gaze. He waited. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, she cleared her throat and nodded.

He managed a smile, though he figured she was lying. ‘‘Sleep would be good, but not until I’ve had a shower.’’

‘‘There’s a bathroom upstairs, too,’’ she responded. ‘‘Clean towels are in the closet next to the sink.’’

He gave her another long stare, sure she wanted him out of the way so she could do whatever she wanted without his interference. Even so, now was as good a chance to get some rest as he was going to have—especially if she was right and they’d managed to arrive without being seen. Except, since this was their destination, sooner or later, somebody would be around to check. Ian could only hope for later.

He headed in the direction she had pointed, pausing at the doorway. ‘‘Promise you won’t leave while I’m asleep. Or take Annmarie away.’’

‘‘Now, what makes you think I’d do something like that?’’ Rosie demanded.

He shrugged, offering her another of his practiced smiles. ‘‘Simple. You don’t trust me.’’

She wanted to deny the truth of that, but she couldn’t. He held her gaze another long moment and she realized he wouldn’t be going anywhere until she promised.

‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘Promise?’’

Damn the man. ‘‘Yes.’’

His deadly serious expression vanished, and he winked. ‘‘Thank you.’’ His gaze searched her face an instant longer as though he somehow knew her promises were not lightly given. He turned away, and a scant second later she heard him climb the stairs.

‘‘You’ve got your hands full with that one,’’ Hilda commented, refilling her coffee cup and holding the pot toward Rosie in a silent offer. ‘‘For what it’s worth, I think he’s on the up and up.’’

Rosie agreed with her friend. She crossed the room and picked up her mug from the counter, allowing Hilda to refill the cup, mostly because she needed to keep her hands busy.

‘‘That, my children, is a fine-looking man,’’ Mama Sarah murmured.

‘‘Mama!’’ Hilda scolded, her wide smile at odds with her shocked tone.

Mama Sarah shrugged. ‘‘I’m not dead, and a woman would have to be not to notice.’’ She cocked an eyebrow at Rosie. ‘‘You’re sure you don’t want to take him with you to Petersburg?’’

‘‘Positive. I don’t need him. He can go back to San Jose.’’ She wasn’t dead, and the fact that her own assessment of Ian’s attributes mirrored Mama Sarah’s annoyed her to no end. Just what she didn’t need or want. A fine looking man on the ‘‘up and up.’’

‘‘The man couldn’t keep his eyes off you,’’ Mama Sarah said.

‘‘All the more reason to get rid of him.’’ Rosie had been all too aware of the way he looked at her. His eyes dark and warm. She hadn’t wanted to notice, but she had. And, damn, she had liked it. She recognized the warm, prickly sensation melting through her veins—the first stage of desire.

Nothing could have frightened her more.

Mama Sarah seemed unable—or unwilling—to let go of the topic. ‘‘Now, if I was a year or two younger—’’

‘‘A decade or two,’’ Hilda interrupted, with a dry chuckle.

The older woman laughed. ‘‘You’re grounded, my daughter.’’

‘‘By last count, until I’m about 199.’’

Above their heads Rosie heard the shower come on in the upstairs bathroom.

‘‘I’d better leave you some ointment for that wound,’’ Hilda commented. ‘‘An infection’s the last thing he needs.’’

Rosie shuddered, remembering how raw it had looked when she had finally loosened his shirt away from it. The bruising at the base of the wound had looked remarkably like the heel of her hiking boot. Of course, that wasn’t likely to be the only place he was bruised. Unwanted images of him standing naked in the shower filled her mind. She had seen his chest and arms. A scar bisected his chest, stark against a dark mat of hair, testimony of a major injury. Tanned skin stretched over well defined muscles and tendons. The veins on the back of his hands and his arms were equally well defined. Completely masculine. Completely fascinating.

And she was completely out of her mind.

Abruptly she set her mug down and pushed herself away from the counter, glancing at Hilda. ‘‘If that man calls you looking for Annmarie, what are you going to tell him?’’

‘‘That I haven’t seen her.’’

Rosie smiled. ‘‘So far, that’s the truth.’’

‘‘And he’s not answering the number he left for me, so I figure I’ve got a few questions for him the next time he calls. Preferably questions he can answer in person.’’

‘‘I don’t know whether to hope he shows or not.’’

‘‘We’d all be better off if we knew where he was,’’ Hilda said. ‘‘Your going away for a few days, that’s a good idea. There’s just tonight to deal with. I could take the two of them back to town.’’

‘‘If nobody saw them, we’re better off here.’’ Rosie shook her head and managed a smile. ‘‘They can hide in my wine cellar.’’ It was the name she had given to the bomb shelter hidden beneath the den, complete with an exterior entrance hidden a hundred feet away from the house, partway down the hill.

Hilda grinned. ‘‘Finally. A use for that room, never mind the cold war has been over for years.’’

Rosie smiled back. The old man who had built the house had poured a fortune into his insecurities. Never once had she imagined she would use the room for anything other than storage—certainly not for an escape that sounded like something out of a movie.

‘‘We’ll be okay,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ve got work to do to get ready.’’

‘‘You know we’ll keep an eye on things,’’ Hilda said. ‘‘I don’t want you worrying while you’re gone.’’

‘‘I know you will.’’ Unexpected emotion welled within Rosie, and she gave Hilda a quick hug.

The next few hours passed all too quickly. There were a hundred things to be done beginning with a call to her folks to let them know why she was bringing Annmarie for a visit and ending with a long list of the scheduled shipments of seedlings that needed to go out over the next three weeks, not that she intended to be gone that long. But just in case, she wanted to be prepared.

Hilda and Mama Sarah, bless them, provided the extra hands she needed to get everything in the greenhouse organized.

Rosie checked on Annmarie several times, who slept deeply, as though she had been kept awake for days. Each time she checked on the child, Sly sat up and watched her with inquisitive eyes as if expecting to be released from his command of ‘‘guard.’’ That he didn’t move from the room when she left gave Rosie a small measure of reassurance.

The upstairs was equally quiet, so much so that Rosie crept softly up the stairs to check on Ian. He slept sprawled on his stomach across the double bed, his feet and one arm hanging over the edge. His feet stuck out from the sheet, which had come untucked. His ankle bones were sharply protruding on either side of the Achilles tendon, the ankle itself looking oddly fragile in comparison to the rest of his musculature.

Unexpected memories swamped her, making her brace a hand against the doorjamb. Powerful…sweet feelings she hadn’t experienced in years. The whisper of a man’s breath against her cheek, the sweep of his hand against the inside of her thigh, his weight pressed against her.

She watched a long moment, her mouth dry. There had been a time when she was normal, seeking and enjoying the physical completion that came with being so close to a man. Once, a whole lifetime ago, she had imagined that she would one day have the kind of terrific marriage Lily and John had.

Rosie hadn’t wanted to remember.

Everything about this man made her remember.

If she allowed a man in her life again…and that was a very big if…he wouldn’t be anyone like Ian Stearne. She’d want someone she could feel safe with, someone who would cherish her, someone who would love the solitude here on the island as much as she did.

Within reach of Ian’s hand was his gun, a reminder this man had no more trust than she did. Remembering what had happened the last time she startled him, Rosie crept into the room and picked up the pile of clothes on the floor next to the bed. Since these were all he had, the least she could do was wash them.

He sat up in a fluid move, the gun once again in his hand, no trace of sleep in his eyes.

The predator was back.

She swallowed and held his clothes away from her.

‘‘I thought—’’ She cleared her throat. ‘‘I thought I’d wash your things.’’

The bed covers pooled around him. There was no doubt he was naked beneath the sheet. The instant she realized she was staring at his well-formed chest, her gaze slammed back to his face.

‘‘Okay.’’ He reset the safety on the weapon and watched her as she left the room. She was more than halfway down the stairs before she heard the mattress creak as he settled onto the bed.

Her heart pounding, at once again having a gun pointed at her, she went to the laundry room, emptying the pockets of his jeans before throwing everything into the washer. The pockets held nothing out of the ordinary…loose change, a Leatherman, a package of gum, a wallet. Nothing much that told her about the man—though what she had hoped for, she couldn’t have said.

Admitting distrust as much as curiosity drove her, she opened his wallet. It contained more cash than she had ever carried, a couple of major credit cards and his driver’s license, his address indeed next door to Lily’s. The face in the picture was smiling as though he didn’t have a care in the world. An expression far different than the predatory one he’d had a couple of minutes ago. Would the real Ian Stearne please stand up, she thought.

Behind the cash she found a couple of loose stamps and a laminated card. She turned it over—a photograph that was worn around the edges and creased as though it had once been folded for a long time before being protected behind the plastic. A group of children faced the camera, and she immediately picked out Ian. He looked ten or eleven. Two older children stood behind him, a boy and a girl, well into their teens. Two other boys, maybe five and dressed identically, were seated beside him. In his lap was a toddler, the only one of the group smiling. Remembering that her mother always wrote the date and their ages on the back of photographs, Rosie turn this one over. Nothing was written there. Whoever these people were, they were important to Ian—otherwise, why would he have had the old photograph laminated. Cousins, maybe, she decided, unable to see any family resemblance except between the two older kids and the five-year-olds.

A fishing license, receipt for a cash withdrawal from an ATM machine, and a permit for the gun he carried were the only other things in his wallet. Compared to the clutter and endless sheets of paper that filled her own, it didn’t seem like much to Rosie.

By the time twilight came, nearly all that could be done in preparation for their departure had been. Rosie glanced around the greenhouse at the orderly rows of seedlings that would be planted within another few weeks. Knowing she held the future for hundreds of acres of forest within her small greenhouse filled her with satisfaction. The realization always pleased her, even today when her mind hadn’t been on work at all.

‘‘Now I know why I became a nurse,’’ Hilda commented, rubbing the small of her back. ‘‘Better hours. Easier work.’’

Rosie smiled, briefly touched the resilient needles from one of the baby trees. ‘‘You’d rather save lives than watch things grow?’’

‘‘What I’d rather do is marry a millionaire and retire to a cabana on a tropical beach.’’ Hilda followed Rosie.

‘‘Not me. I wouldn’t give up this view for anything.’’ As was her habit, Rosie strolled toward the water’s edge, her gaze sweeping the panorama in front of her. Water and sky. Misty clouds and steeply rising mountains. The variegated shades of mauve that defined a soft sunset.

Hilda walked beside her, silent within her own thoughts.

Rosie turned toward the house where a light shone through the window. Inside, she could see Mama Sarah moving around the kitchen, the aroma of cooking onions wafting on the air. A couple of the kids had gone inside, but two others still played in the yard—their activity much less exuberant than it had been hours ago. Finally she raised her gaze to the hillside.

‘‘I hate this,’’ she murmured. ‘‘Being afraid and suspicious.’’

‘‘Not much choice if you want to keep that little girl safe.’’

‘‘Yeah. I know.’’

‘‘It’s pretty odd I was never able to get hold of the guy who reported his little girl missing.’’ Hilda clucked her tongue. She had gone back to her house a couple of hours earlier to check on messages. ‘‘I did get one answer back,’’ Hilda added. She glanced at Rosie, deliberately extending the pause.

‘‘Okay, I bite. And the question was?’’

Hilda grinned. ‘‘You’ve got a bonafide hero on your hands with Ian Stearne. Honorable discharge and a number of medals.’’ At Rosie’s raised eyebrow, she added, ‘‘You know how trusting Lily is—I just wanted to make sure this guy was legit.’’

‘‘Legit and a bonafide hero aren’t exactly the same thing.’’

‘‘That’s right. But this guy had a big article written on him in his hometown of Detroit. I left a copy of the fax for you on the kitchen table. Darn near got himself killed trying to get refugees to safety in Kosovo.’’

Probably how he came by the scar on his chest, Rosie thought.

‘‘And he runs something called Lucky’s Third Chance for kids. I left you an article about that, too,’’ Hilda said. ‘‘Your sister knows how to pick ’em.’’

Rosie wondered if Lily had ever seen Ian handle a gun.

‘‘I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone,’’ Hilda said.

‘‘I’m not sure we have any other choice. We’re all set for my cousin to meet us at the north end of Frederick Sound tomorrow afternoon. He can’t get there much sooner than that.’’

‘‘I still don’t like it.’’

Rosie didn’t, either. ‘‘Unless we were watched this morning when I got back here with Ian and Annmarie, nobody but you and Mama Sarah knows they’re here.’’

Hilda faced her. ‘‘You’ll call if you even hear an owl screech.’’

‘‘Or a mouse peep,’’ Rosie promised.

Rosie couldn’t have said what she expected dinner with Ian and Annmarie to be like, but it certainly hadn’t included the playful man who whooped and laughed and gently teased Annmarie into forgetting she was in a strange place. He sang to her, deliberately getting the lyrics wrong, accepting the child’s impatient corrections in a way that made Rosie think this was an old and familiar game with the two of them.

‘‘We’ll wash the dishes, won’t we Mr. Ian?’’ Annmarie said as Rosie began clearing the table. ‘‘Just like we do at home.’’

‘‘We don’t do dishes while we’re on vacation,’’ he returned with a grin. His sharp glance rested a moment on the shade covering the window. No one would mistake his silhouette for hers.

Annmarie pondered Ian’s statement a moment. ‘‘We can’t just leave the dishes dirty.’’

‘‘We could let the dog lick them,’’ he suggested.

She giggled. ‘‘You’re so silly. There would be germs.’’

‘‘Are you sure?’’ He held the plate up as if to inspect it. ‘‘I don’t see any germs,’’

‘‘That’s ’cause you need a mic…’’ She puckered her brow. ‘‘What’s the name of that thing Mama uses at work?’’

‘‘Microscope?’’ he offered.

She brightened. ‘‘That’s right.’’

‘‘I’ll wash the dishes,’’ Rosie said, picking up the plates and carrying them to the counter. ‘‘I bet there’s a movie on the TV.’’ The den was the one room in the house where there were thick drapes. The first winter Rosie had spent here, it was the only room in the house where she had felt truly safe.

‘‘I think she’s trying to get rid of us,’’ he said, scooping Annmarie into his arms.

‘‘You’ll come watch with us, won’t you?’’ she called as Ian carried her out of the kitchen.

‘‘Just as soon as I get my chores done.’’

As Rosie cleaned up the dishes, she listened to their muffled laughter coming from the den. She both envied and admired the easy rapport between them. She had only herself to blame that she didn’t know Annmarie as she now desperately wanted to.

She turned off the light in the kitchen and quietly let herself out of the house, Sly following her. He padded into the yard as he usually did, and she felt a moment’s relief from the day’s tension. Sly didn’t seem to smell anything unusual. She went to the edge of the porch and peered up the hillside where Ian had said someone had watched the house. From down here, Sly would probably never pick up a scent unless the wind came off the mountains at the center of the island instead of off the water.

Her relief vanished. Who did she think she was kidding with all her carefully made plans? The totem in the middle of her yard might be great for scaring away evil spirits, but would be useless against the men after Annmarie.

When Sly joined her back on the porch, she went into the house, carefully closing the door behind her. She heard a snicking sound and looked up in time to see Ian with the gun in his hand, putting the safety back on. Meeting her glance, he slipped the weapon in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

She couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or terrified that he’d heard her and Sly go outside. Turning her back to him, she locked the door, her fingers lingering over the lock.

‘‘Everything okay out there?’’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘‘You okay?’’

She turned around to face him. ‘‘I’ve had better days.’’

‘‘But you got to see your niece on this one.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’

‘‘She’s a beauty. As innocent and sweet as her mom.’’

‘‘Yes, she is.’’

‘‘But you haven’t seen her since—’’

‘‘Eighteen months ago,’’ Rosie finished. The last time Lily and Annmarie had been to the island. Then Rosie had imagined being the favorite aunt who shared secrets and special times. She hated knowing she was more stranger to Annmarie than this man. She lifted her gaze to Ian’s, unwilling to let him see her regret. ‘‘I don’t imagine you’re too sleepy, since you slept the day away, but we ought to be going to bed soon.’’

His gaze sharpened, and she swallowed, once again caught within a delicate web of attraction, too aware of him, too aware of herself, disliking herself and him because of it.

‘‘Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,’’ she added. The pang of regret that he’d be going his way, she’d be going hers, surprised her.

He nodded.

‘‘Well, then…’’ Relieved that he didn’t say a word about beds or what to do there if a person wasn’t sleepy, she turned off the light in the kitchen and made her way toward the den.

An instant later someone rapped loudly on the glass of the kitchen door, and a man called, ‘‘Open the door, Rosie. I can’t believe you’ve locked me out.’’

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