Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’’

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