Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey

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      ‘‘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.’’

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