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‘‘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.’’
