Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey

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      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.

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