Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ