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Chapter 1

Thetouch of a cold, wet nose against Rosie Jensen's neck brought her wide awake. In the next heartbeat, the telephone on the nightstand rang. She pushed the dog's muzzle away and reached for the phone.

"Hello." She eyed the bedside clock. Four-seventeen. Only bad news camein the middle of the night. Sudden fear lodged in her throat. One of her sisters. Her parents.

"Sorry to wake you," came the calm voice of her close friend, Hilda Raven-in-Moonlight, over the line.

"This better be good," Rosie grumbled, the band of appre­hension around her heart easing. Hilda was the island's consta­ble, not to mention head nurse of a tiny clinic, and the first to sound the alarm when a tourist got lost in the deceptively rugged interior of the island or tangled up with a bear. Tourists, how­ever, wouldn't arrive at this remote island in theAlaskainside passage for at least another month.

"It is. A child has been reported lost."

Rosie cast the clock another glance. "At this time of night?" She sat up in bed. "Where? Whose?"

"That's where this gets a little strange," Hilda said after an almost imperceptible pause. "Apparently somewhere close to you. As for who—the man said they were fromSan Francisco. Yesterday, he somehow got separated from his little girl."

"So why didn't he get help then?"

"That'swhat I asked," Hilda returned."The father said he just kept looking—that he didn't want to think she was lost."

"So you haven't seen the guy. Just talked to him?"

"That's right."

"Which means we don't have a specific scent."

"Don't tell me I'm asking the impossible. I know."

"You haven't asked anything. Yet."

"If there's a chance a child is lost…" Hilda cleared her throat. "It still gets pretty cold at night."

That was putting it mildly. During the first week in April, the nighttime temperatures regularly dropped to freezing. Rosie pushed the covers aside, got out of bed and peered outside, where dawn was still a promise.

"We'll have daylight in another hour. I'll check along the road," Hilda added.

"Oh, sure," Rosie quipped. "Leave me and Sly with the coastline. This is all pretty fishy, my friend."

"Don't forget your radio," Hilda responded. "And take good care of you."

"Don't hang up yet," Rosie said, vaguely alarmed that her friend hadn't responded with the normal banter that lightened the tension of the job at hand. "What's the kid's name?"

This time Hilda's pause was long enough to heighten Rosie's uneasiness another notch.

"Annmarie," she finally said.

The name wound through Rosie's chest, leaving behind a gap­ing ache. No wonder Hilda hadn't wanted to tell her. Memories washed over Rosie, the events of five years ago nearly as painful now as then. Three people alive knew the whole story—Rosie, her sister Lily and their mutual best friend since childhood, Hilda.

"At least, that's what it sounded like," Hilda added. "The man had an accent, and he might have been saying Annie."

"It's probably just a stupid coincidence."

"Yeah. Talk to you in a few." Hilda broke the connection.

Rosie replaced the receiver on the phone and stared through the darkness for a moment. Lily's daughter wasn't the only Ann­marie in the world. If there was ever a protective mother who wouldn't have lost a child for the better part of a day, it was her sister Lily. Further, Lily's husband had died two years ago, so no man would have lost her, either, accent or not.

Rosie padded through her dark house, Sly walking along be­side her, his nails clicking against the hardwood floor. Rosie opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.

The air was chilly, and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms to banish the goose bumps. A hundred yards away the inlet glistened beneath a bright canopy of stars flung across the sky. She inhaled deeply, loving the scent of the rain-washed air. This simple pleasure was one of the reasons she had come toKantrovichIslandin the Alaskan inside passage just over three years ago. In the solitude she had found herself again and had regained a sense of purpose in her life.

To her surprise the dog didn't step off the porch to do his usual middle-of-the-night thing, but stood next to her, his head cocked to one side, his nostrils twitching. The last traces of sleepiness left Rosie. This was Sly in his working stance. Some­onewas out there.

Even though she had seen him like this dozens of times since the two of them had embarked on this vocation two years ago, she still felt a thrill of appreciation. A novice at search and rescue herself, she had the luck of a great dog and a good teacher. Sly was no prize to look at, resembling a cross between a basset hound and a Border collie. His uncertain parentage had given him intelligence, acute hearing, a keen sense of smell and incredible perseverance. Most of all, he had uncanny instincts. Qualities that made him ideal as a search-and-rescue dog. Qual­ities she completely trusted.

She scanned the property from the inlet to the greenhouse to the nursery beyond, wishing daybreak was another hour closer. In the darkness her yard had an aura of mystery, reminding her that a couple of times yesterday she'd had the odd sense of being watched. Now, as then, she shook her head against that disquieting thought.

The night sounds were all ordinary. The barest rustle of a breeze through the trees, the faint lap of water at the shoreline. Next to her Sly sat with utter stillness, his nose lifted, twitching. A sense of urgency and deep uneasiness filled her, and she decided she couldn't wait for daybreak.

Within ten minutes she was ready to go, dressed in jeans, a couple of layers of shirts, a waterproof jacket and flexible hiking boots. In the kitchen she clipped the radio onto her belt, picked up a backpack and slung it over her shoulder without checking the contents. She already knew it held everything she needed to administer basic first aid or even to survive in the forest for a couple of days, if it came to that.

Uncharacteristic indecision swept through her as she pulled the door closed behind her. The only time she locked the house was when she left the island—a deliberate habit she had cultivated as carefully as one of her fragile seedlings—proof that here she had nothing to fear.

Hers wasn't an opinion shared by the man who'd built the house during the height of the cold war. The house was complete with a bomb shelter and a secret passage—whether to get in or get out without being seen, Rosie had never been sure.

Reclaiming control over her imagination, she deliberately stepped off the porch without locking the door and gave Sly a single command. "Search."

His long ears flapping, he took off at an easy lope toward the line of trees separating her meadow from the inlet. She loved working with the dog and knew that he wouldn't stop searching until he had found his quarry. Who did he smell? The child? Someone else?

Rosie shook her head at the uneasiness that filled her over the mere thought of the name Annmarie. Before the day was over she would call, assure herself that her sister and Annmarie were just fine.

Rosie followed Sly closely, his black-and-brown coat making him nearly invisible in the predawn light, except for the flash of white at the tip of his bushy tail. Why had these people waited so long before reporting their daughter lost? Rosie wondered. She followed Sly past her nearest neighbor's house, theEriksens , a retired couple who had gone stateside a couple of weeks ago to visit their kids inSeattle.

The dog continued to follow the shoreline where the forest was generally thinner. Gradually the bright stars faded, and the eastern horizon began to lighten. The black of night gave way to a gray-predawn gloom.

Ahead she saw Sly sniffing about. A moment later he took off at a dead run, and she knew they were getting close.

Two minutes later he bayed, and she adjusted her direction. For the first time since leaving the house, he left the shoreline. Rosie followed, picking her way more slowly, wishing it were daylight. She whistled for him, and seconds later he reappeared. He briefly wagged his tail, then took off again in the direction he had come from.

The trees and undergrowth opened suddenly onto a clearing, near the road that led to town. Sly ran toward a dark mound that was unmistakably human.

Too large to be a child, Rosie thought as she hurried forward. Sly sniffed at the form sprawled on the ground, then moved away, his nose still to the earth. Rosie's focused on the man.

He lay on his stomach, one arm flung above his head, nothing of his profile visible to tell her who he was. His clothes were wet, a sure sign he had been caught in the storm that had come through hours earlier. Though winter was over, hypothermia was still a real concern. Rosie knelt next to him, sliding her backpack off her shoulders and setting it on the ground. She touched her fingers to the man's neck, checking for a pulse, relieved 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 aimedather. Her heart begantopound 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 waistbandatthe 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, what was she doing here?

Annmarie uncurled herself a little. "I haven't seen you for a long, long time."

"That's right." It had been nearly eighteen months since their last visit. A long, long time. And, she had grown so much since then. "But on your last birthday I sent you a big teddy bear that you named Lulu."

Annmarie's chin quivered. "I couldn't bring her."

Rosie held out her arms. "Then maybe we can find her a sister to keep you company while you're here."

Annmarie scrambled forward. "Mommy said I should stay with you. So here I am."

"Here you are." Rosie chuckled softly, mostly to reassure the child, then shut off the flashlight and dropped it in her pack. First things first. Make sure Annmarie was okay, then find out why she wasn't with Lily inCalifornia.

Annmarie reached toward her. Rosie's arms closed convulsively around the little girl. Between Lily's infrequent visits to Lynx Point, she had sent Rosie tapes and pictures. So Rosie knew how Annmarie had grown, had listened to tapes as her cooing became real words, had remembered her birthdays and Christmas with the teddy bears and chocolate the little girl loved. But this 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 okey-dokey." 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 inSeattle. When they got off the ferry inKetchikan, 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 inAlaska?"

"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."

In spite of himself, Ian liked her laugh. That and the way her fanny moved as she walked. He was out of his mind—no sane man would go near a woman who knew the moves she did. Even so, his gaze remained focused on the gentle sway of her bottom as she walked. Above it was a backpack, and Annmarie's legs were wrapped around the woman's slim waist. Below that tantalizing fanny were slender, denim-clad legs and lightweight hiking boots. She looked exactly like what she had proven herself to be—a woman who knew how to take care of herself.

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.
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Chapter 2

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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 mecoffee." 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."

She paused at the door, her hand on the crystal doorknob.

"I have her number. Lily's, that is. You can call her."

She nodded before returning to the kitchen.

Ian shook a couple of tablets into his hand and swallowed them without water. She talked to him as though he was something foul the dog had dragged in. But her touch … that was a whole different matter.

He could hear her in the other room, talking … on the phone. He rushed from the bathroom, heard her concisely describe his injury. He snatched the telephone from her and yanked the cord from the wall.

"Damn, don't you get it?" He shook the end of the phone line in her face. "This isn't a game."

"I didn't think it was." Calmly she replaced the receiver in the cradle, took the cord from him and plugged it back into the socket. In the next instant the phone rang.

Not taking her eyes from him, Rosie picked up the receiver. "Sorry about that, Hilda," she said. "Now, like I was saying, I found that hiker you called me about earlier, and he needs a little first aid. If you'd like to bring the kids out for a visit that would be good, too… I knew you'd understand… Yeah, that's right. See you in a bit." She replaced the receiver, then said, "Do you want eggs with your pancakes?"

"You're nuts," he responded. "You can't just—"

"The eggs, Mr. Ian," she interrupted, the steel in her voice matching her posture. "How do you want them?"

"Over easy," he snapped. "Three, if you have enough."

"No problem." She made a point of looking at his bare chest, then added, "I've got a sweatshirt that will probably fit you if you don't want to put that bloody shirt back on."

"I don't," he said.

She half turned, then caught his glance once again. "What happened to your luggage?"

"We had to leave it on the ferry," he answered.

She gave him another thorough glance, then moved to the refrigerator, where she took out a carton of eggs. Ian watched her move around the kitchen, her expression softening when she looked at her niece.

He hoped the aspirin would kick in soon. His head pounded worse than a hangover from a three-day drinking binge. His groin was killing him, and his shoulder hurt like fire. Worse, he had completely lost control of the situation. To regain it, he needed to start thinking like the men chasing them—that was the key to a good, flexible plan that would put them a step or two ahead of the criminals that Lily was testifying against.

Rosie, though, seemed to have her own plan. But then, why wouldn't she? She'd had the upper hand all morning. And now, someone named Hilda was on the way—a nurse, if his hunch was right. Why in hell would Rosie have told her to bring kids for a visit? None of it made a bit of sense.

He returned to the bathroom where he drained the water out of the sink and rinsed the washcloth as best he could. By the time he was finished, the aroma of pancakes and eggs wafted from the kitchen, making his stomach rumble. He could hear Rosie and Annmarie talking, becoming acquainted with each other.

When Lily's husband died, Ian had met her parents and her sister Dahlia. Rosie hadn't come, but if that bothered Lily, she'd never said. In fact, she always spoke highly of Rosie, and Ian remembered that she had visited Rosie shortly after John's death. Still, he wondered why Rosie had never come toCaliforniain the almost three years he had lived next door to Lily. He cocked his head to the side, listening to their conversation.

He finished drying his hands, then folded the towel and hung it up. Without conscious thought, he picked up the .38, checked its ammunition and slipped the gun back into the waistband holster at the small of his back and left the bathroom.

One thing was sure. This woman might not have visited Annmarie, but there was no mistaking her affection. Rosie knew the child's preferences, touched her affectionately, listened in a way few adults did with children. The dog lay in the middle of the floor, where she had to step over him as she moved around the kitchen.

Seeing a gray sweatshirt hung over the back of one of the chairs, Ian moved into the room. Rosie spared him a passing glance when he grunted as he pulled the shirt over his head.

Then he made a quick exploration of Rosie's house, finding it laid out the way he'd expected. Upstairs there were a couple of bedrooms and a bath. Downstairs there was another bedroom, clearly Rosie's, a cozy living room and a den.

When he came back to the kitchen, Annmarie was still sitting on the counter, her face and voice animated as she told Rosie how they had played hide-and-seek with some scary men. Rosie smiled, encouraging her niece to continue, but there was no mistaking the rigid set to her shoulders. The lady was not amused.

At the time he hadn't been pleased, either. Ice had replaced the blood in his veins when he discovered they were being followed, especially after using all the precautions he could think of. Traveling under an assumed name. Taking a circuitous route, which hadn't been hard to do. There was no other way to reach remote communities inAlaska, including Lynx Point. He had paid close attention when they boarded the ferry inSeattle, and he was 99 percent certain they hadn't been followed. Which meant somehow Marco knew where they were headed and had probably been on the ferry ahead of them.

"Are you going to scowl those eggs into submission or eat them?" Rosie asked.

Ian focused on her, then on the table, discovering a steaming plate of eggs and blueberry pancakes in front of him. He managed a smile. "Could I talk you out of some more coffee?"

That eyebrow of Rosie's raised again. "In front of you. Next to the orange juice."

He glanced back at the table. Sure enough, coffee and juice. He sat down.

Rosie picked at her food as she watched Ian and Annmarie consume their breakfast as though they hadn't eaten in days. Annmarie's chatter and Ian's gentle and affectionate teasing with her were rooted in deep familiarity. Aware as she was of Annmarie, Rosie found it impossible to ignore Ian.

His easy smile did nothing to hide his watchfulness. She would bet he heard every sound from the furnace when it kicked on to the birds chirping outside. His quick exploration of her house had made her think of a warrior checking his defenses. Everything about him reminded her that he was a man who could attack with chilling efficiency. That frightened her far more than she cared to admit.

She longed to give voice to her questions, but the things she wanted to ask were hardly appropriate to voice in front of Annmarie. Who was this man who had been entrusted with Annmarie's care? How could Lily have witnessed a murder?

Rosie had no one but herself to blame for the fact that her sister didn't call. Inwardly Rosie cringed, thinking of their last conversation. Lily had wanted her to come visit, and Rosie had flatly refused to return toCalifornia. It was a refusal that had cut Lily to the quick, and Rosie found herself wishing she could have given a different answer.

Before she'd finished eating, Annmarie began to look drowsy, her head nodding, then jerking upright. Each time she snapped awake, she gave Rosie or Ian a sweet smile and put another piece of pancake in her mouth.

"She looks like I feel," Ian said.

"She's beautiful," Rosie murmured.

"Thanks," he murmured. "It's all this beauty sleep I've been missing lately."

Rosie looked up in time to see him stroke a lean hand down his cheek in an exaggerated gesture of a preening male. In spite of herself, her lips twitched.

It was on the tip of her tongue that she could tuck him in for a nap, too. Like every other man she knew, he'd take that suggestion as an invitation. All she said was, "Not to mention getting hit with an ugly stick." Nothing could have been further from the truth.

"Always knew I was a good-looking guy."

"Conceited, too." She stood up and rounded the table to where Annmarie was sitting. "How about a nap, sweetie?"

Annmarie nodded and held her arms up. Around a giant yawn, she said to Ian, "We're safe now, huh?"

"As safe as we can be, petunia," he returned.

She smiled sleepily and focused on Rosie. "Mommy said we would be."

Rosie picked up the child. Looking over Annmarie's head, she met Ian's gaze. "You stay put."

He lifted his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Hey. I'm not going anywhere."

Rosie carried Annmarie toward the bedroom, hearing the soft jangle of Sly's tags on his collar as he followed her. In the bedroom Rosie lay the child on the bed, still rumpled from her interrupted night's sleep. She slipped off Annmarie's shoes and tucked the covers around her.

"Aunt Rosie?"

"Hmm?" She sat down on the bed.

"Will you sit with me till I fall asleep?" Annmarie swallowed. "Sometimes I get scared, 'specially since Daddy went to heaven."

A lump rose in Rosie's throat as she brushed Annmarie's hair away from her face. "I'm here as long as you want, sweetie."

"Mommy said you were nice. She said I'd like it here." Another smile followed, this one with heavy eyelids.

"I'm glad she thinks so," Rosie whispered.

"Will Sly stay with me?"

"Yes."

Annmarie snuggled deeper under the covers. "Good. Later I'll play ball with him."

Rosie continued stroking Annmarie's hair. The child's breathing changed, and between one breath and the next, she fell asleep. Rosie sat there a moment longer, studying the child. Regret, heavy as heartbreak, stole through her. How could she have stayed away so long? It wasn't as though Lily hadn't wanted her to come. She had.

Rosie closed her eyes. Like the coward she was, she had stayed away. How could she have thought an old, old hurt was important compared to spending time with and cherishing a child?

Silently she rose from the bed. Sly stood up to follow her from the bedroom. Pointing toward Annmarie, Rosie commanded, "Guard."

Sly lay back down, and Rosie studied him a moment, wondering if he really would guard Annmarie or if he simply thoughtguard was another word forstay. Since he hadn't protected her out there in the clearing, she had serious doubts. She had taken him to guard dog training when she first got him, liking the idea of a watchdog. He had loved attack training, but she doubted he would attack anyone not wearing a padded suit. She had soon discovered that he liked tracking better, and he had taken to that like a spawning salmon to a rushing stream.

When she returned to the kitchen, she found Ian at the sink, washing the breakfast dishes and putting them on the drain board. He looked surprisingly at ease, which brought Rosie to a complete halt at the doorway. The table had been cleared and wiped down. Somehow he had figured out that the embroidered cloth and basket of flowers belonged in the middle.

"There are a couple of cups of coffee left in the pot," he said without looking at her. "Ready for another?"

Resisting the temptation to clear her throat she said, "Yes."

He took one of the mugs from the drain board, filled it and offered it to her.

It was a simple gesture of appeasement. The man had made a lot of those overtures since he walked through her door. For the life of her, though, she couldn't cross the few steps to take the mug from him.

"It's going to take more than doing a few dishes to get on my good side," she said, hating the words the instant they were out of her mouth.

"So you have a good side," he murmured. Deliberately he came toward her, extending the coffee cup toward her. She didn't move, though she had the strongest urge to turn and run.

She accepted the cup from him, noting the teasing glint in his eyes. His hands were loose at his sides as if to reassure her he was harmless. Harmless? Not this man.

To her chagrin, he skirted slowly around her. He came to a stop in front of her, his eyes dark with an emotion she couldn't name when he met hers again.

"You have more than one good side, Rosie Jensen." She took a sip of the coffee, which wasn't nearly as hot as the flush that crawled up her cheeks. Flirting was something she hadn't allowed herself since she came to Lynx Point. Forbidden or not, she had forgotten how exhilarating that initial dance between a man and a woman was. It had been years since she had been tempted to flirt back, to give a man any opening gambit at all. She wasn't about to start now, especially with this man.

"Let's get one thing straight. I don't particularly like you, and I don't want you here. The sooner you're gone, the better." She cringed when she realized the tone she heard in her own voice was fear instead of anger.

He returned to the counter, poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned off the switch to the drip coffeemaker. He faced her, leaning against the counter and crossing his ankles. "I take it the truce is over."
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Chapter 3

«^»

Rosie's grip tightened around the cup of coffee. "I want to know everything."

Ian sat down on one of the chairs next to the table, stretching his long, denim-clad legs out in front of him. Absently she noticed saltwater stains below the knees, indicating he had waded through ocean water at some point. His posture was deceptively relaxed, at odds with the anger in his eyes. Gone was the affectionate man who had teased Annmarie through breakfast. Her apprehension grew as she watched him lift his mug to his lips. His Adam's apple bobbed as he took a couple of swallows of coffee.

He set the cup down and met her gaze. "The man who was killed was an assistant D.A. inSan Jose."

"Oh, my God."

"It gets worse," Ian said.

Rosie wasn't sure how it could be worse. She sat down and set her mug on the table, then realized she was trembling when coffee sloshed over the top.

"The D.A. who was killed … he was working on a big case with organized crime connections."

"This Marco person?"

Ian nodded. "Indirectly. Marco works for Franklin Lawrence. At least, that was the gist of what I overheard right after he shot me."

Rumors had floated around theSilicon Valleyfor years thatLawrence, like his daddy before him, had mob connections going clear back to Bugsy Malone. The sort of thing you heard about but never paid much attention to. Now she wished she had.

"How … when?" Rosie asked. Lily was a research scientist at theUniversityofCalifornia, a genius in a field of microbiology Rosie barely understood. How could Lily have witnessed a murder?

"She was on her way home one night. There's an empty stretch of winding road—"

"You mean just beyond the country club?" Rosie asked, mentally following Lily's path home. Lily's neighborhood was tucked in the hills between an office park and exclusive neighborhoods that included a vineyard and the country club.

"That's right," Ian said. "I didn't know you'd ever been there."

"I used to live inLos Gatos. Get to the point—she was on her way home."

Ian nodded, a flicker of surprise chasing across his face. "She just had the pure dumb luck to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Because this was such a high profile case, the D.A. kept her identity a secret, which worked out just fine until about ten days ago." Ian's voice grew rough. "Excerpts of her grand jury testimony were leaked to the press. With the clues they were given, it didn't take them long to figure out the top-secret witness was your sister."

"Oh, God. Lily—"

"—is fine," Ian said, reaching for Rosie's hand. "She's safe. I promise."

She knew his gesture was an offer of comfort, but she flinched, anyway.

His hand dropped to his side. "Lily thought Annmarie would be better off with you."

Rosie shook her head. "Not with some maniac out there looking for you…" Except, to have any leverage with Lily they didn't want Ian—they wanted Annmarie. In the back of Rosie's mind that was a fact she had known all along—known and pushed aside.

Suddenly cold, she wrapped her arms around herself and surged to her feet. She moved to the window and stared outside, imagining a foe behind every tree.

Without facing him, she said, "In the middle of the night, Hilda got a call. The guy was looking for a missing child. He said he was from the Bay area." She turned around and searched his face, knowing the answer but asking anyway, "It wasn't you?"

He shook his head.

"Lily was wrong." Agitated, Rosie waved a hand toward the window. "What we need is a SWAT team or a platoon of marines or the National Guard." She frowned, deciding she had been too hasty in telling Hilda to bring her kids.

"We'll figure a way out."

We?She didn't intend for there to be anywe where this man was concerned. "What's your connection to my sister?"

"I'm her next-door neighbor."

She closed her eyes, trying to remember what Lily had said about her neighbors. Only two came to mind: an elderly couple and a guy who always mowed her lawn. As she remembered, her dad liked the guy, a real compliment since he was usually suspicious.

According to their mom, Lily would have been lost without the guy's help when her husband died. Since Lily hadn't mentioned him by name—at least not that Rosie remembered—Rosie hadn't given him much thought, other than to dismiss her mother's assertion that the man was wealthy. Her mother also thought it was too bad that the two of them weren't attracted to each other. Rosie knew how in love her sister had been with her husband, and she knew that Lily believed she would never remarry. Rosie studied Ian, trying to imagine him in the role of the helpful lawn-mowing neighbor. Not likely.

"The one who mows her lawn?" she asked anyway.

Ian grinned. "The same."

"The one who doesn't have a job because he's supposedly as rich as Midas?" She still didn't believe it.

"Yep."

"What do you do when—"

"I'm not traipsing around in the woods in the middle of the night?" He shrugged. "A little of this. A little of that."

"No job?"

"No job." Abruptly he stood up, scribbled on the pad next to the phone and handed it to Rosie. "Call your sister. She'll fill you in." He headed toward the back door.

"Where are you going?" Rosie asked, glancing at the unfamiliar phone number on the sheet, then back at him.

"To scout around the house and figure out how many different ways we can be ambushed."

"By Marco?" She hated the nonchalant way he talked about the danger.

He nodded. "Smart girl. Call your sister."

Rosie stared after him as he went outside.Smart girl. It was the sort of comment that got her dander up. Swallowing the immediate retort that came to mind, she went to the phone and dialed the number.

On the porch Ian glanced back through the window, reassured to see Rosie with the phone to her ear. Good, he thought.

Technically he had told Rosie the truth about not having a job. Ian sponsored an intervention program for kids who reminded him of himself as a kid, who lived in neighborhoods that bred predators the likes of Marco. Ian's involvement was hands-on and included his dream for an Outward Bound type of program.

Lily's request came in the middle of negotiations to buy a ranch, where Ian hoped to establish a working environment that would provide a final chance for those kids most at risk. His option to buy it had expired yesterday. Given the chance, he would make the same choice again. He'd find another piece of property—after Annmarie was reunited with her mom.

Some things were worth any cost. As a child, he had been part of a family constantly moving from one crisis to another. His mother hadn't dealt well with any of them. Ian was never sure whether his mother hadn't had a shoulder to lean on or if she had simply never asked. Lily had become his surrogate little sister, and she needed help. He couldn't turn his back on her.

Ian stepped off the porch. The misty streamers of clouds had dissipated into a high overcast. There was no doubt about it—Rosie Jensen had the best view anyone could want anywhere.

As he gazed out over the water and the steeply rising mountains, a profound sense of homecoming swept through him. The scenery in front of him moved him as little else ever had.

To his surprise the water was glassy smooth and a deep-jade green. Mountains stretched in the distance, rising from the water, cast in varying shades of blue, snow hanging in the high gorges. Directly across from the inlet less than a mile away, a scarred monolith of rock soared, stretching hundreds of feet above the water. A crumpled silver stream fell out of a steep canyon where dark pines grew, the water splashing into the inlet from a waterfall. Only the tall fins of a cruising pod of orcas reminded Ian that he looked out on an ocean, not a mountain lake.

He inhaled deeply, thinking of his dream for a ranch that would provide a wilderness experience and an opportunity for physical work. This place was even better than the ranch in northernCaliforniathat he'd hoped to buy. With the water and the pine scent of forest, a boy might forget his anger while here—at least for a little while.

It was a dream that wouldn't happen if he failed at keeping Annmarie and her aunt out of harm's way. That thought in mind, Ian methodically explored the perimeter of Comin' Up Rosie. Despite the whimsical name, he discovered it was a well-organized, working nursery where thousands of baby trees grew. Seedlings were protected within the shelter of a large greenhouse. Outside, larger trees grew—if they could be called that when they were little more than a foot tall—in orderly rows. After seeing the thousands of clear-cut acres of timber as they had sailed north fromSeattle, Ian was glad to know that some of those trees would be replaced.

As for the compound itself, defending it wouldn't be easy, but it wasn't as bad as he had feared. From the porch of the house, much of the inlet was visible, and anyone approaching by water would be seen for a long while. The winding road that led toward the small town of Lynx Point disappeared into the forest a quarter mile beyond the gate. Ian would have liked it better had the road been visible for miles. The steep mountain that rose behind the house was the same scoured rock as the one across the inlet. No easy access to Rosie's property in the direction. Not without rock-climbing equipment.

The place that worried him most was a steep slope on the hill behind the greenhouse. He climbed it, checking where he was visible from the compound below and where he wasn't. He climbed higher, hoping to see more of the road. A huge boulder jutted out from the hillside, bright green moss growing at its shaded, moist base. Spotting a couple of footprints in the earth, he dropped to his haunches.

They sure weren't Rosie's. The boot belonging to the print was close to his own size twelve. Ian stood, matching his stance with the angle of the prints. He looked around for anything that might have been left behind. Beneath a shrub, he found a wadded-up piece of wax paper. From the smell of it, it had recently held a lunch meat sandwich.

Ian stood and gazed down at the tranquil landscape. From this vantage, only Rosie's nursery and the lake-smooth water betweenKantrovichIslandand the next one was visible. He could only imagine two reasons anyone would be up here watching.

One. Someone knew this was where he and Annmarie were headed. IfLawrencecouldn't get Annmarie to use as leverage to keep Lily from testifying, maybe some other member of her family would do just as well.

Ian frowned, not liking that conclusion.

Two. Rosie or maybe one of her employees simply liked climbing up here for the view. A more benign reason for the footprints.

Damn. There was no other choice but ask her if she came up here. If this was all innocent, it would give her an unnecessary scare. If it wasn't—hell, then she really would have something to be scared of.

Ian cocked his head to the side, listening, acquainting himself with the hum of noise that belonged to the island. Compared to any place he had ever lived, the island was quiet. The faint lap of water against the shore, the occasional chirp of birds, the steady chug of a fishing boat as it sailed up the channel … the sound of a vehicle coming up the road. Ian turned toward the gate and watched an ancient Volkswagen bus approach. Whatever color it might once have been was indistinguishable beneath layers of dirt and rust.

It wasn't likely to be the sort of approach Marco would make. Besides, the nurse Rosie had called was due soon, so this was probably her.

In another minute the minibus came through the gate and rolled to a stop in front of the house. Doors opened, and no less than half a dozen children piled out, followed by two women. Both had long, dark braids, and both were dressed in jeans. The smaller of the two carried a black bag. Indeed, the nurse had arrived.

Rosie stepped onto the porch. "Hi, Hilda," she called. "That was quick."

Her voice carried to Ian, and he frowned, again looking at the footprints in the ground. If voices always carried this far this easily, whoever had been watching her could hear as much as he could see.

The taller of the two women, a robust woman with jangling earrings and bracelets, laughed as she approached the porch. "You wanted me to take my time getting here?"

"No," Rosie said, giving her a quick hug. "But I didn't expect that you'd hurry, either." She held a hand out to the other person. "Mama Sarah, how are you today?"

"Same as yesterday," she responded.

Rosie hugged her, too, a smile on her face. "Old?" she quipped.

"Not so old that I can't keep you in line."

"Where is this wounded, gun-packing stranger?" Hilda asked. "Did you follow my advice and lock him in the storage shed?"

Rosie shook her head and held the door open. Whatever her reply might have been was lost to Ian as they went inside. One of the kids threw a Frisbee to another. Another couple of the kids emerged from a shed, their arms laden with squirming kittens that they carried to the porch.

One of the older kids came out of one of the storage sheds pushing an old motor scooter, which started right up. A second later, Rosie's dog came flying out the door and down the steps, prancing next to the scooter. The kid stopped, then helped the dog onto the scooter, where he sat on the seat in front of the kid, paws resting on the handlebars. They took off again, the dog's ears flapping and his mouth opened in a wide doggy grin.

Ian watched them a moment, liking the fun and wondering how you went about teaching a dog to ride a motor scooter.

Descending the slope, he decided the reinforcements were good. If Marco stayed true to form, he wouldn't try anything while other people were around. There wasn't much likelihood he would mistake one of these kids for Annmarie—her towhead was nothing like the dark ones of the kids playing in the yard.

One of the children opened the door to the kitchen and asked, "Hey, Rosie, can we have some milk for the kittens?"

Ian couldn't hear her reply, but it must have been affirmative because the kid smiled and said, "Thanks."

A moment later she came onto the porch with a bowl of milk. She set it down, laughing at something one of the children said. She glanced around the compound, and her laughter died when her gaze lit on him. She watched him cross the compound, her expression frankly appraising, a look that left him feeling as though he hadn't measured up in some way. He hated the feeling and the defensiveness that came with it. Annoyed with himself, he smiled … a defense he'd learned over time that hid his real feelings and that had the added benefit of making others believe he didn't let much of anything bother him.

"How's your sister?" he asked.

"Worried about Annmarie," she said.

"You didn't tell her about our trouble?"

"Now why would I do that?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest. "She has enough on her mind."

"She does," he agreed.

"She said that you had promised to stay with Annmarie even after bringing her here. That's not necessary, you know."

"It is to me," he said. "I promised." In his own mind it was just that simple. He didn't have many rules by which he lived his life, but the ones he had were carved in stone. Keeping his promises was at the top of the list. "Are you satisfied that I'm who I say I am?"

"If you're asking did Lily vouch for you, yes. Her best friend and a man of good deeds, she said, adding that my folks like you, too."

A man of good deeds. He wasn't, but it sounded exactly like something Lily would say. As for her folks liking him—the feeling was mutual, though he doubted anyone else's opinion would sway Rosie.

Hilda appeared in the doorway behind Rosie, and Ian met her gaze. Her eyes were dark-brown, their shape similar to Rosie's, full of intelligence and curiosity. She was a head taller than Rosie. She came onto the porch and extended her hand. "Hilda Raven-in-Moonlight."

"Ian Stearne," he responded, taking her hand.

She firmly shook it once, then released it. "Let's take a look at that wound." She turned back to look at the kids playing in the yard. "Jonathan," she called.

"Yeah," one of the Frisbee-throwing kids answered.

"You come get me if you see anyone coming."

"Even Uncle Josh?"

She chuckled. "Especially Uncle Josh."

"Who's he?" Ian asked, the hair at the back of his neck suddenly raising.

"Hilda's brother," Rosie answered, leading Ian back into the house. "He comes and goes. Mostly goes. Mama Sarah, this is Ian Stearne."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Ian said, extending his hand to the old woman.

"How do you know?" she asked, keeping her own firmly wrapped around her mug of coffee. She met his gaze, her eyes magnified behind thick glasses.

He laughed and sat down at the table. "I'm an optimist, I guess." He glanced briefly across the kitchen at Hilda, who stood at the sink scrubbing her hands.

A twinkle lit Mama Sarah's eyes. "You don't know?"

"Sure I know. How could a man not be pleased to meet a lady like you?" he asked with a grin, which earned a laugh from her.

Drying her hands, Hilda approached the table. "This man who shot you. What does he look like?" Without waiting for an answer, she added, "Take off your shirt."

Ian briefly met her gaze, then Rosie's, before peeling off the sweatshirt. "That's a strange question for a nurse."

"That's not why I'm asking," she said, reaching for her bag. From it she pulled out a wallet and handed it to him.

Ian opened it, revealing a law enforcement shield.

She smiled. "The island's only nurse, Mr. Ian Stearne, and the local law. Now, then. About the man who shot you."

"Marco's about five-ten or five-eleven. Wiry build, a narrow face, and a scar on his cheekbone. Since it was dark, who knows what color his hair and eyes are."

Without speaking, Hilda tipped his head to the side, her touch firm as she prodded the flesh around the wound at the base of his neck.

"How do you know his name?" Rosie asked.

"Heard his buddy call him that right after they shot me." Ian answered. "The other guy is about Rosie's height."

"This man. Does he have an accent?"

He looked up at Hilda. "Yeah."

Hilda prodded the flesh around the wound. "This is quite a bruise. Almost looks like somebody kicked you."

"Somebody did," he returned, glancing at Rosie. He'd been expecting … hoping for … Marco. When he realized the person beneath him was a woman, surprise had frozen him. "She did a neat scissor kick, getting me right there." He pointed at the wound.

"That musta hurt," Mama Sarah said.

"It did." He figured he didn't need to add that the kick to his shoulder was the lesser of the two injuries Rosie had given him.

"The man with the scar arrived yesterday … ate his meals at the Tin Cup," Hilda said. "He was meeting friends here, he said, so they could hike up the glacier." She shook her head. "Everybody's been laughing at him about that."

"Why?" Ian asked.

"There aren't any glaciers on the islands this far south—only on the continent side of the fjords."

"Ah." A chill crawled down Ian's spine.

"Plus," Mama Sarah added, "he wears city-slicker shoes."

Like ones that could have left the footprints up on the hill.The shoe that had left the print had a smooth sole.
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Chapter 4

«^»

"Keep the wound clean, and you'll live to be shot at again."

Hilda squeezed an antibacterial ointment onto some gauze, which she laid over the wound.

"Enough talk about getting shot," Rosie said sharply.

"Does anyone work for you who likes to have lunch up on the hill?" Ian asked. "Someone with a foot about the size of mine?"

"No one works for me right now." Rosie rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if she were suddenly cold.

Ian had seen fear often enough to recognize the gesture for what it was.

"That guy is plumb crazy about bologna and cheese sandwiches. That's what Jane down at the diner told me." Mama Sarah said. "Keeps ordering them to go."

That was confirmation Ian could have done without. Regrets never brought you anything but more regret, but he still wished he had followed his first instinct—to disappear with Annmarie until the trial was finished and Lily had her life back. Despite himself, he yawned.

"Let me see if I've got this straight," Hilda said, pinning him with a long glance. "The whole idea of coming here was to get Annmarie out of sight until after her mama has testified."

He nodded, in agreement that the plan was as flawed as Hilda made it sound.

"And you've already been found out."

"You can't stay here, then," Mama Sarah said. "I think you should take little Annmarie to the village."

Rosie shook her head.

"What village?" Ian asked, immediately catching that she hadn't referred to Lynx Point.

"We'd stick out like sore thumbs," Rosie said. "We need someplace we can blend in with the scenery for two or three weeks. Lily thought she would be called to testify next week, two weeks from now at the latest."

"What village?" Ian asked again.

Rosie glanced at him. "A Tlingit village—"

"Where your uncle Raymond lives?" Ian's gaze rested on Rosie's blond head. She was right. She would be as conspicuous as a nun on Sunset Strip.

Rosie nodded.

During one of her melancholy periods, Lily had shown him pictures of the village, and he had been fascinated with her stories of family. She had given him a glimpse of the kind of family he had always dreamed about, who stood up for one another and cared for one another. Despite being one of six children, he'd never had that.

Ian's oldest brother, Eric, had looked after Cara, both children from his mom's first marriage. Eric had taken his anger and his frustration of losing his father out on Ian, an unwanted baby who was the result of a fling his mom had after Eric and Cara's dad was killed. The twins, Adam and Aaron were the result of a short-lived marriage that ended soon after they were born. Ian always figured he was the most like Micah, the youngest and also the result of an affair. But ten years separated them. Hard to imagine the scrawny nine-year-old brother he remembered was now twenty-three.

Lily's stories of her eccentric aunts and rowdy cousins seemed to help her through the grieving for her husband, and they'd been a balm to Ian—that not all families self-destructed in times of crisis.

He looked from Rosie to Hilda and realized the conversation had gone on without him. They were back to making plans that didn't include him.

If anybody thought he was leaving, they were in for a surprise. The morning that Lily had shown up on his doorstep with Annmarie and a bag that she had already packed, she poured out the whole story. The murder, the secrecy that had surrounded her and then the threats she hadn't wanted to believe were real. In that moment Ian felt as though he'd fallen backward into an abyss that held his darkest secrets. Fifteen years earlier he had run with a gang, and one night rivals came to his street looking for him. When they hadn't found him, they had taken their revenge out on his sister and one of the twins. His sister had survived, but his brother hadn't. It was the final straw in his tenuous relationship with his mother and his older brother. Fifteen years between then and now.

Aware that his thoughts had wandered once again—a sure sign he needed sleep, he went to the counter and poured himself another cup of coffee.

"I think Annmarie and I should visit my folks," Rosie said. "And, since we know I'm being watched, I could use some help with a little subterfuge." She met Ian's glance briefly, then turned her attention to Hilda and Mama Sarah. "Let's assume for the moment that nobody knows Ian and Annmarie are here. With a little chaos and confusion, I think we could sneak them out without them being noticed."

Ian watched the kids play in the yard, utter tiredness washing over him, as Rosie laid out a plan where she would hide Annmarie with a shipment of seedlings scheduled for the following day, then leave with her. Adjustments were made as either Mama Sarah or Hilda offered a suggestion. Rosie altogether ignored Ian. Not that she needed his advice. Her idea to surround herself with enough people that she would be hard to keep track of made sense. She had the resources to pull it off and the bases covered. Except for one. She hadn't included him in her plans. Regardless of what she thought, she wasn't taking Annmarie anywhere without him.

As if anticipating the direction of his thoughts, she caught his gaze. "You'll go with Hilda's husband who will take you to Wrangall. From there you can catch the ferry back toSeattle."

"And just when is all this supposed to happen?" he asked, deciding for the moment to let her think he was in agreement with her.

"I'd like today, but all the likely boats we could take are long gone. First thing tomorrow morning. We'll follow the usual schedule of the fishing boats pulling out. I'm down at the docks a lot this time of year—shipping seedlings out, so nothing would seem out of the ordinary." She paused, her gaze searching his face. "Assuming nobody saw you and Annmarie come here with me, there's no reason for anyone to think you're here."

He nodded, and fought back a yawn. Except that he'd been outside scouting around. Except that somebody had been watching the place.

"You see anybody when you were outside earlier?" Hilda asked.

"Just you," he responded.

"It's a good plan."

"It'll do," he agreed.

"Oh, such praise," Rosie said, arching an eyebrow. "Do you have a better idea?"

He met her gaze. "Like I said, it'll do."

She motioned toward the stairs. "There's a bed all made up in the back bedroom upstairs. You could probably use some sleep."

"Are you finished here?" he asked.

"Here?"

He gave a sharp nod. "Making plans. Are you finished?"

A wave of red pulsed through her cheeks, the color nearly as intense as the hot-pink of her T-shirt, and she averted her gaze. He waited. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, she cleared her throat and nodded.

He managed a smile, though he figured she was lying. "Sleep would be good, but not until I've had a shower."

"There's a bathroom upstairs, too," she responded. "Clean towels are in the closet next to the sink."

He gave her another long stare, sure she wanted him out of the way so she could do whatever she wanted without his interference. Even so, now was as good a chance to get some rest as he was going to have—especially if she was right and they'd managed to arrive without being seen. Except, since this was their destination, sooner or later, somebody would be around to check. Ian could only hope for later.

He headed in the direction she had pointed, pausing at the doorway. "Promise you won't leave while I'm asleep. Or take Annmarie away."

"Now, what makes you think I'd do something like that?" Rosie demanded.

He shrugged, offering her another of his practiced smiles. "Simple. You don't trust me."

She wanted to deny the truth of that, but she couldn't. He held her gaze another long moment and she realized he wouldn't be going anywhere until she promised.

"Okay."

"Promise?"

Damn the man. "Yes."

His deadly serious expression vanished, and he winked. "Thank you." His gaze searched her face an instant longer as though he somehow knew her promises were not lightly given. He turned away, and a scant second later she heard him climb the stairs.

"You've got your hands full with that one," Hilda commented, refilling her coffee cup and holding the pot toward Rosie in a silent offer. "For what it's worth, I think he's on the up and up."

Rosie agreed with her friend. She crossed the room and picked up her mug from the counter, allowing Hilda to refill the cup, mostly because she needed to keep her hands busy.

"That, my children, is a fine-looking man," Mama Sarah murmured.

"Mama!" Hilda scolded, her wide smile at odds with her shocked tone.

Mama Sarah shrugged. "I'm not dead, and a woman would have to be not to notice." She cocked an eyebrow at Rosie. "You're sure you don't want to take him with you toPetersburg?"

"Positive. I don't need him. He can go back toSan Jose." She wasn't dead, and the fact that her own assessment of Ian's attributes mirrored Mama Sarah's annoyed her to no end. Just what she didn't need or want. A fine looking man on the "up and up."

"The man couldn't keep his eyes off you," Mama Sarah said.

"All the more reason to get rid of him." Rosie had been all too aware of the way he looked at her. His eyes dark and warm. She hadn't wanted to notice, but she had. And, damn, she had liked it. She recognized the warm, prickly sensation melting through her veins—the first stage of desire.

Nothing could have frightened her more.

Mama Sarah seemed unable—or unwilling—to let go of the topic. "Now, if I was a year or two younger—"

"A decade or two," Hilda interrupted, with a dry chuckle.

The older woman laughed. "You're grounded, my daughter."

"By last count, until I'm about 199."

Above their heads Rosie heard the shower come on in the upstairs bathroom.

"I'd better leave you some ointment for that wound," Hilda commented. "An infection's the last thing he needs."

Rosie shuddered, remembering how raw it had looked when she had finally loosened his shirt away from it. The bruising at the base of the wound had looked remarkably like the heel of her hiking hoot. Of course, that wasn't likely to be the only place he was bruised. Unwanted images of him standing naked in the shower filled her mind. She had seen his chest and arms. A scar bisected his chest, stark against a dark mat of hair, testimony of a major injury. Tanned skin stretched over well defined muscles and tendons. The veins on the back of his hands and his arms were equally well defined. Completely masculine. Completely fascinating.

And she was completely out of her mind.

Abruptly she set her mug down and pushed herself away from the counter, glancing at Hilda. "If that man calls you looking for Annmarie, what are you going to tell him?"

"That I haven't seen her."

Rosie smiled. "So far, that's the truth."

"And he's not answering the number he left for me, so I figure I've got a few questions for him the next time he calls. Preferably questions he can answer in person."

"I don't know whether to hope he shows or not."

"We'd all be better off if we knew where he was," Hilda said. "Your going away for a few days, that's a good idea. There's just tonight to deal with. I could take the two of them back to town."

"If nobody saw them, we're better off here." Rosie shook her head and managed a smile. "They can hide in my wine cellar." It was the name she had given to the bomb shelter hidden beneath the den, complete with an exterior entrance hidden a hundred feet away from the house, partway down the hill.

Hilda grinned. "Finally. A use for that room, never mind the cold war has been over for years."

Rosie smiled back. The old man who had built the house had poured a fortune into his insecurities. Never once had she imagined she would use the room for anything other than storage—certainly not for an escape that sounded like something out of a movie.

"We'll be okay," she said. "I've got work to do to get ready."

"You know we'll keep an eye on things," Hilda said. "I don't want you worrying while you're gone."

"I know you will." Unexpected emotion welled within Rosie, and she gave Hilda a quick hug.

The next few hours passed all too quickly. There were a hundred things to be done beginning with a call to her folks to let them know why she was bringing Annmarie for a visit and ending with a long list of the scheduled shipments of seedlings that needed to go out over the next three weeks, not that she intended to be gone that long. But just in case, she wanted to be prepared.

Hilda and Mama Sarah, bless them, provided the extra hands she needed to get everything in the greenhouse organized.

Rosie checked on Annmarie several times, who slept deeply, as though she had been kept awake for days. Each time she checked on the child, Sly sat up and watched her with inquisitive eyes as if expecting to be released from his command of "guard." That he didn't move from the room when she left gave Rosie a small measure of reassurance.

The upstairs was equally quiet, so much so that Rosie crept softly up the stairs to check on Ian. He slept sprawled on his stomach across the double bed, his feet and one arm hanging over the edge. His feet stuck out from the sheet, which had come untucked. His ankle bones were sharply protruding on either side of the Achilles tendon, the ankle itself looking oddly fragile in comparison to the rest of his musculature.

Unexpected memories swamped her, making her brace a hand against the doorjamb. Powerful … sweet feelings she hadn't experienced in years. The whisper of a man's breath against her cheek, the sweep of his hand against the inside of her thigh, his weight pressed against her.

She watched a long moment, her mouth dry. There had been a time when she was normal, seeking and enjoying the physical completion that came with being so close to a man. Once, a whole lifetime ago, she had imagined that she would one day have the kind of terrific marriage Lily and John had.

Rosie hadn't wanted to remember.

Everything about this man made her remember.

If she allowed a man in her life again … and that was a very big if … he wouldn't be anyone like Ian Stearne. She'd want someone she could feel safe with, someone who would cherish her, someone who would love the solitude here on the island as much as she did.

Within reach of Ian's hand was his gun, a reminder this man had no more trust than she did. Remembering what had happened the last time she startled him, Rosie crept into the room and picked up the pile of clothes on the floor next to the bed. Since these were all he had, the least she could do was wash them.

He sat up in a fluid move, the gun once again in his hand, no trace of sleep in his eyes.

The predator was back.

She swallowed and held his clothes away from her.

"I thought—" She cleared her throat. "I thought I'd wash your things."

The bed covers pooled around him. There was no doubt he was naked beneath the sheet. The instant she realized she was staring at his well-formed chest, her gaze slammed back to his face.

"Okay." He reset the safety on the weapon and watched her as she left the room. She was more than halfway down the stairs before she heard the mattress creak as he settled onto the bed.

Her heart pounding, at once again having a gun pointed at her, she went to the laundry room, emptying the pockets of his jeans before throwing everything into the washer. The pockets held nothing out of the ordinary … loose change, a Leatherman, a package of gum, a wallet. Nothing much that told her about the man—though what she had hoped for, she couldn't have said.

Admitting distrust as much as curiosity drove her, she opened his wallet. It contained more cash than she had ever carried, a couple of major credit cards and his driver's license, his address indeed next door to Lily's. The face in the picture was smiling as though he didn't have a care in the world. An expression far different than the predatory one he'd had a couple of minutes ago. Would the real Ian Stearne please stand up, she thought.

Behind the cash she found a couple of loose stamps and a laminated card. She turned it over—a photograph that was worn around the edges and creased as though it had once been folded for a long time before being protected behind the plastic. A group of children faced the camera, and she immediately picked out Ian. He looked ten or eleven. Two older children stood behind him, a boy and a girl, well into their teens. Two other boys, maybe five and dressed identically, were seated beside him. In his lap was a toddler, the only one of the group smiling. Remembering that her mother always wrote the date and their ages on the back of photographs, Rosie turn this one over. Nothing was written there. Whoever these people were, they were important to Ian—otherwise, why would he have had the old photograph laminated. Cousins, maybe, she decided, unable to see any family resemblance except between the two older kids and the five-year-olds.

A fishing license, receipt for a cash withdrawal from an ATM machine, and a permit for the gun he carried were the only other things in his wallet. Compared to the clutter and endless sheets of paper that filled her own, it didn't seem like much to Rosie.

By the time twilight came, nearly all that could be done in preparation for their departure had been. Rosie glanced around the greenhouse at the orderly rows of seedlings that would be planted within another few weeks. Knowing she held the future for hundreds of acres of forest within her small greenhouse filled her with satisfaction. The realization always pleased her, even today when her mind hadn't been on work at all.

"Now I know why I became a nurse," Hilda commented, rubbing the small of her back. "Better hours. Easier work."

Rosie smiled, briefly touched the resilient needles from one of the baby trees. "You'd rather save lives than watch things grow?"

"What I'd rather do is marry a millionaire and retire to a cabana on a tropical beach." Hilda followed Rosie.

"Not me. I wouldn't give up this view for anything." As was her habit, Rosie strolled toward the water's edge, her gaze sweeping the panorama in front of her. Water and sky. Misty clouds and steeply rising mountains. The variegated shades of mauve that defined a soft sunset.

Hilda walked beside her, silent within her own thoughts.

Rosie turned toward the house where a light shone through the window. Inside, she could see Mama Sarah moving around the kitchen, the aroma of cooking onions wafting on the air. A couple of the kids had gone inside, but two others still played in the yard—their activity much less exuberant than it had been hours ago. Finally she raised her gaze to the hillside.

"I hate this," she murmured. "Being afraid and suspicious."

"Not much choice if you want to keep that little girl safe."

"Yeah. I know."

"It's pretty odd I was never able to get hold of the guy who reported his little girl missing." Hilda clucked her tongue. She had gone back to her house a couple of hours earlier to check on messages. "I did get one answer back," Hilda added. She glanced at Rosie, deliberately extending the pause.

"Okay, I bite. And the question was?"

Hilda grinned. "You've got a bonafide hero on your hands with Ian Stearne. Honorable discharge and a number of medals." At Rosie's raised eyebrow, she added,"You know how trusting Lily is—I just wanted to make sure this guy was legit."

"Legit and a bonafide hero aren't exactly the same thing."

"That's right. But this guy had a big article written on him in his hometown of Detroit. I left a copy of the fax for you on the kitchen table. Darn near got himself killed trying to get refugees to safety in Kosovo."

Probably how he came by the scar on his chest, Rosie thought. "And he runs something called Lucky's Third Chance for kids. I left you an article about that, too," Hilda said. "Your sister knows how to pick 'em."

Rosie wondered if Lily had ever seen Ian handle a gun.

"I don't like the idea of leaving you alone," Hilda said.

"I'm not sure we have any other choice. We're all set for my cousin to meet us at the north end of Frederick Sound tomorrow afternoon. He can't get there much sooner than that."

"I still don't like it."

Rosie didn't, either. "Unless we were watched this morning when I got back here with Ian and Annmarie, nobody but you and Mama Sarah knows they're here."

Hilda faced her. "You'll call if you even hear an owl screech."

"Or a mouse peep," Rosie promised.

* * *

Rosie couldn't have said what she expected dinner with Ian and Annmarie to be like, but it certainly hadn't included the playful man who whooped and laughed and gently teased Annmarie into forgetting she was in a strange place. He sang to her, deliberately getting the lyrics wrong, accepting the child's impatient corrections in a way that made Rosie think this was an old and familiar game with the two of them.

"We'll wash the dishes, won't we Mr. Ian?" Annmarie said as Rosie began clearing the table. "Just like we do at home."

"We don't do dishes while we're on vacation," he returned with a grin. His sharp glance rested a moment on the shade covering the window. No one would mistake his silhouette for hers.

Annmarie pondered Ian's statement a moment. "We can't just leave the dishes dirty."

"We could let the dog lick them," he suggested.

She giggled. "You're so silly. There would be germs."

"Are you sure?" He held the plate up as if to inspect it. "I don't see any germs."

"That's 'cause you need a mic…" She puckered her brow. "What's the name of that thing Mama uses at work?"

"Microscope?" he offered.

She brightened. "That's right."

"I'll wash the dishes," Rosie said, picking up the plates and carrying them to the counter. "I bet there's a movie on the TV." The den was the one room in the house where there were thick drapes. The first winter Rosie had spent here, it was the only room in the house where she had felt truly safe.

"I think she's trying to get rid of us," he said, scooping Annmarie into his arms.

"You'll come watch with us, won't you?" she called as Ian carried her out of the kitchen.

"Just as soon as I get my chores done."

As Rosie cleaned up the dishes, she listened to their muffled laughter coming from the den. She both envied and admired the easy rapport between them. She had only herself to blame that she didn't know Annmarie as she now desperately wanted to.

She turned off the light in the kitchen and quietly let herself out of the house, Sly following her. He padded into the yard as he usually did, and she felt a moment's relief from the day's tension. Sly didn't seem to smell anything unusual. She went to the edge of the porch and peered up the hillside where Ian had said someone had watched the house. From down here, Sly would probably never pick up a scent unless the wind came off the mountains at the center of the island instead of off the water.

Her relief vanished. Who did she think she was kidding with all her carefully made plans? The totem in the middle of her yard might be great for scaring away evil spirits, but would be useless against the men after Annmarie.

When Sly joined her back on the porch, she went into the house, carefully closing the door behind her. She heard a snicking sound and looked up in time to see Ian with the gun in his hand, putting the safety back on. Meeting her glance, he slipped the weapon in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

She couldn't decide whether to be relieved or terrified that he'd heard her and Sly go outside. Turning her back to him, she locked the door, her fingers lingering over the lock.

"Everything okay out there?" he asked.

She nodded.

"You okay?"

She turned around to face him. "I've had better days."

"But you got to see your niece on this one."

"Yeah."

"She's a beauty. As innocent and sweet as her mom."

"Yes, she is."

"But you haven't seen her since—"

"Eighteen months ago," Rosie finished. The last time Lily and Annmarie had been to the island. Then Rosie had imagined being the favorite aunt who shared secrets and special times. She hated knowing she was more stranger to Annmarie than this man. She lifted her gaze to Ian's, unwilling to let him see her regret. "I don't imagine you're too sleepy, since you slept the day away, but we ought to be going to bed soon."

His gaze sharpened, and she swallowed, once again caught within a delicate web of attraction, too aware of him, too aware of herself, disliking herself and him because of it.

"Tomorrow's going to be a long day," she added. The pang of regret that he'd be going his way, she'd be going hers, surprised her.

He nodded.

"Well, then…" Relieved that he didn't say a word about beds or what to do there if a person wasn't sleepy, she turned off the light in the kitchen and made her way toward the den.

An instant later someone rapped loudly on the glass of the kitchen door, and a man called, "Open the door, Rosie. I can't believe you've locked me out."
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Chapter 5

«^»

The doorknob rattled again. "C'mon, Rosie. I know you're in there."

Ian glanced at Rosie. "Who the hell is that?"

The dog stood in front of the door lazily wagging his tail. Ian would bet his new SUV that whoever stood on the other side of the door was someone the dog knew. Even so, he wasn't reassured.

"It sounds like Hilda's brother," Rosie returned, her own voice in a whisper.

"Josh?" Ian asked, coming up with a name from earlier in the day. A man who came and went. When Rosie nodded, he added, "What happens if you ignore him? Will he go away?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Trust him?"

A long second passed before she shook her head. "He's probably drunk—sometimes he comes out here to sleep it off. There's a cot in one of the sheds—if he stays he'll crash there." She frowned. "When he's drunk, though, he never comes to the house. He doesn't cause any trouble—just sleeps it off."

The man outside knocked on the glass again. "I just want some coffee." The door shook as though he'd put his shoulder against it. "She ain't here," he said, his voice muffled as though he'd turned away from the door.

The hair on the back of Ian's neck rose.

"Nobody…" The man continued to talk, but what he said couldn't be understood.

Ian drew his weapon and crept toward the door. Flattening his back against the wall, he peered through the thin sliver between the gauzy curtain and the glass. At first he saw nothing. Then one of the shadows moved, and he realized there was a man on the outside wall, standing just as he was, his back to the wall by the door. The shadows outside moved again, and one more time there was pounding against the door.

Ian pulled Rosie away from the front of the door and pushed her toward the den.

"Mr. Ian. Auntie Rosie, where are you?" Annmarie called, her high voice sounding unnaturally loud. The patter of her footsteps faltered, then her voice became even more plaintive. "Mr. Ian?"

His muscles tensed as the ominous shadows outside shifted. From the corner of his eye, he watched Rosie silently cross the kitchen toward her niece. Without taking his attention off the shadows, he assessed his options, which were damn few.

In the next instant the window in the door shattered, and an arm reached through the window frame to unlock the door.

"Rosie, get out of here," Ian commanded.

He grabbed the arm and jerked hard. The bone snapped, and the man cried out.

To Rosie, the breaking glass sounded like gunfire, but no less so than a man's howl of pain. She scooped up Annmarie and ran into the den. Only half aware of the soothing words she gave the child, Rosie grabbed Annmarie's jacket and shoes. From the kitchen there were grunts and the sound of a scuffle.

She didn't have to wonder who had just broken into her house. She knew. Marco somebody. And Josh was with him.

Rosie took a shaky breath and turned off the light in the den, carrying Annmarie through the dark room.

"I want Mr. Ian," the child said plaintively.

"Shh," Rosie murmured.

Within a heartbeat, he had turned into a deadly predator—lethal in his intent, his gun appearing in his hand as though it had always been there. He scared her to death. She could only hope he'd buy the time they needed to escape.

"He'll be along in a minute." She opened the door to a coat closet, the interior looking darker than she ever remembered. Reaching through the hanging garments, she pressed on the rear wall, and it opened. She fumbled for the light switch, found it, and turned on the light above a steep, hidden stairwell. She set Annmarie down and held her hand. "Come on. You, too, Sly."

Rosie heard a crash in the kitchen, the sound of breaking furniture, then a gunshot. Swiftly she retrieved her backpack from the closet floor plus one other that she used when she was gone overnight.

"Mr. Ian," Annmarie cried.

"Shh," Rosie whispered, urging the little girl down the steep steps. At the bottom she set down the packs, knelt and thrust Annmarie's arms into the jacket, put on her shoes and tied them.

"It's those bad men again, isn't it?" Annmarie looked up at Rosie. "I want them to go away." Her chin firmed. "And I want Mr. Ian."

"He'll catch up." Rosie put on a jacket, then guided the child toward the steel door at the back of the room. She didn't know whether he would or not, but nothing was more important than getting Annmarie to safety.

She unlatched the door and pulled it open. Sly preceded her into the tunnel, his nose to the cold concrete floor. She took Annmarie's hand. "Come on, sweetie. It will be okay."

"Rosie, where the hell are you?" she heard Ian call directly above them.

Rosie kept walking, but Annmarie came to a firm halt. "Mr. Ian," she called.

Rosie frowned and let go of the child. She went back to the hidden stairwell. "Down here."

An instant later he appeared at the top of the stairs. "Well, I'll be damned." He turned around and pulled the door closed behind him. Then he hit the light bulb with the heel of his hand, shattering it and thrusting the stairwell into darkness. He clattered down the stairs. "A secret passage. Just when were you going to trust me enough to tell me about this?"

"It wasn't a matter of trust." She turned on the flashlight she'd already put into her pocket and thrust one of the backpacks into his hands. "And it isn't a secret. If that's Josh out there, he knows about this. Everyone on the island does."

"Everyone?"

"Yep." She went to the doorway of the tunnel and turned to wait for him.

As much as she wanted to know what had happened, something in his expression kept her from asking. When his gaze lit on Annmarie, who stood in the dark tunnel with Sly, the lines around his mouth softened.

"Hey, petunia," he said. "I see you're keeping Sly company."

"You don't have to pretend," she said, her voice solemn. "I know it's those bad men."

Ian glanced back Rosie, casually taking the flashlight from her. "How long is this?" he asked, walking away from her. "C'mon, Annmarie."

"About a hundred feet. It comes out just below the greenhouse." Rosie pulled the steel door closed behind her.

"I saw your boat earlier today." He glanced over his shoulder, the shadows from the flashlight making him look huge. "It's all gassed up?"

"Of course it is," she responded, feeling more annoyed by the second at his presumptive tone.

"Excellent."

She hurried into the cold tunnel, noting that Annmarie was right on Ian's heels.

"Are we almost there?" the child asked. "I don't like this place."

"Talk real quiet," Ian commanded softly.

"Okay," she whispered, then repeated, "Are we almost there?"

"Yes," Rosie answered softly.

Ian suddenly flicked off the flashlight, plunging the tunnel into total darkness. "C'mere, petunia," he whispered.

Though she couldn't see him, Rosie knew that he had picked up Annmarie. A second later she saw a wavering light hitting the bushes that hid the entrance to the tunnel.

"Tell me about the end of the tunnel," Ian commanded softly, bending his head close to Rosie's ear.

Oddly aware of the scent of his clothes that she had washed earlier, Rosie thought a moment, trying to visualize the area as it had been last fall when she checked it to make sure that the gate was secure. "There's a chain-link gate," she answered. "And on the other side there are several big bushes. You can't even see the gate unless you know where to look."

"Any obvious path?"

"No."

"Okay. That's good."

He handed Annmarie to her. "You wait here while I check things out. If you hear anybody coming down the tunnel, hide in the bushes."

"We're coming with you," Rosie said, taking a step after him.

"Now's not the time to argue." His voice was still in a whisper, but it was filled with steely resolve. He leaned down, his face so close she could see the glitter of his eyes despite the dark. "Youwill wait here. That's—"

"An order?" she returned.

His answer was a moment in coming. "Yes. If that's how you want to put it."

She hadn't expected him to admit he was ordering her, and no ready reply came to mind.

He brushed a hand over Annmarie's hair, then turned away and a second later pulled open the gate. The sound of metal against metal was faint—Rosie knew what it was, but it still sounded loud to her, especially as she again saw the wavering movement of a flashlight beyond the edge of the bushes. One moment Ian's silhouette filled the entrance of the tunnel and the next he was gone.

Darned if she was going to wait here where they were likely to be caught.

The instant he was out of sight, she thought of a retort.This isn't the army, and I've been making my own decisions, thank you, and doing just fine. The man expected that she'd stay put just because he said. Not likely.

She crept to the end of the tunnel, and she stood a moment, wishing she could see beyond the bushes. She glanced at Sly, who was alert and listening. Nothing in his posture suggested anyone was near. She moved out of the tunnel, shielding Annmarie's head from the branches of the surrounding bushes with her arm. Sly followed close on her heels.

The brush beyond was even thicker than Rosie remembered. Of course, she had never once been here at night. She moved away from the gate, wondering where Ian had gone. Her own movements sounded loud enough to awaken a hibernating bear.

The wavering light came closer, and whoever was on the other side was obviously searching, the light pattern sweeping up, then down. A nearly silent growl rumbled through Sly. Rosie pressed a hand against his muzzle, signaling him to be quiet.

"Shh," she whispered against Annmarie's ear, relieved when she felt the child nod and press more tightly against her.

However noisy Rosie thought she'd been, the man carrying the flashlight was louder, his footsteps crunching against the rocky shoreline. A scant second later, the light passed within inches of their feet and someone walked past. Footsteps tromped a bit farther, then paused. Again a beam of light was aimed slowly over the brush, once again missing them by inches. Rosie's heart pounded so hard it hurt.

Then she heard faint voices from inside the tunnel.

Quietly Rosie lifted Annmarie into her arms, then slowly moved farther away from the gate, resisting her urge to take the path of least resistance. She moved up the slope, hoping she didn't slide, hoping nothing in her movements would give away their location. She was in the business of finding people, not hiding them. She would have given nearly anything to run to the boat, and if there had been more cover … and if she hadbeenalone … she might have risked it.

She had carried Annmarie a scant ten feet when the voices in the tunnel became more distinct.

"You out here, Sid?" someone called from the tunnel.

"Down here." The flashlight beam was aimed in their direction again, this time hitting the spot where they had been. "Only thing I've seen out here is a skunk."

"They got out of the house somehow. You took care of the boat?"

"Oh, yeah. Nobody'll be using it again."

An instant later the gate opened with a loud squeak, and Sid chuckled. "I would have heard that. Ain't nobody come this way."

"There's no other way they could have gotten out of the house. They've gotta be here."

Another arc of light joined the first one and made a slow sweep around the tunnel entrance. "Find them."

The beams of light came closer and closer. The temptation to run was overwhelming. Instead she sat still, holding Annmarie more tightly, and keeping her eyes on the ground so they couldn't possibly catch the reflection of light if it skimmed over her again. The light hit the tip of Sly's tail, swept suddenly up and beyond them. They sat perfectly still and watched the play of light as the two men moved back toward the house.

"They ain't here," Sid said. "It's like I told you, nobody came through that gate but you."

"Hey, fellas." Josh's voice. "I searched the house like you wanted. She's not there. You guys didn't find her, either?"

"Nope."

"Well, I did what you asked. I want my money."

"After we find her and the kid," Marco said. "We've got bigger problems."

"Like the guy bleeding all over the kitchen floor," Josh interjected.

Bleeding? Rosie thought. She'd almost forgotten about the breaking glass and the arm that had suddenly appeared through the window.

"Did I tell you my sister is a nurse?" he added.

"She won't be helping him."

Rosie pressed a hand against her mouth. Had Ian killed the man?

"Suit yourself," Josh returned. "I still want my money. Waiting, well, that wasn't part of the deal. Ain't my fault she up and disappeared."

"Take it or leave it. Now, you know her. Where would she go?"

"Could be anyplace, I guess. Sooner or later I figure she'll show up at my sister's place."

"That's where we're goin' then." Marco suddenly chuckled. "In fact, that's a real good idea. We can get Bill's arm splinted and wait for them to call or show up."

Relief flowed through Rosie … nobody was dead. Broken arms were enough. She peered through the brush up to her house, where every light was on. Strangers were in her house. She hated that. Since they were on their way to Hilda's, she'd have to go somewhere else. But where?

"Sid, you keep an eye out here. It would be just like that G.I. Joe to circle back."

Rosie listened as the men moved away, their voices growing more indistinct. She had to admit that she wouldn't have thought about going back, but doing so was a good idea. Hide out where they've already looked. Except, what would she do if they came back, and since they were leaving Sid here, they would come back.

The immediate problem was getting off the island. Rosie wasn't picky about how, so long as she found a boat with enough fuel to get them to the rendezvous point where she was meeting her cousin tomorrow. That thought in mind, she hoisted Annmarie more firmly against her hip and moved farther away from the tunnel, finally deciding to head for the shoreline. There was lots of brush for cover, and the terrain would be easier, too.

"Are we safe yet?" Annmarie whispered.

"Almost."

"Where are we going?" she wanted to know.

"My neighbors," Rosie whispered back, just then deciding. Mike and Katrina Eriksen had a sleek forty-five-foot power yacht. Granted, Mike and Katrina were inSeattle, and granted, the boat was Mike's pride and joy. It was also the answer to a prayer.

"Where's Mr. Ian?" Annmarie asked. "He said 'wait here' and we didn't. So, how can he find us?"

"He's got the flashlight," Rosie responded.

"Oh." The child nodded as if the answer made sense.

Rosie reached the edge of the brush near the road. They would have to cross about fifty yards of open ground before they'd have cover again. She sat down at the edge of the brush and set Annmarie down.

"We're going to rest a minute," Rosie said. One of the men had indicated they were going to the village. So far, she hadn't seen a vehicle come this way. Unless these guys were walking, which didn't seem likely, sooner or later they had to come by. After they did, she and Annmarie would cross the road.

Sly plopped down next to them, and Annmarie scratched his ears.

In the silence that followed, Rosie listened. In the distance she heard a boat chug up the channel. Once she thought she heard the snap of a branch nearby, but Sly didn't so much as twitch a muscle, so she dismissed the sound.

Finally she heard a vehicle, and a few minutes later it came down the track.

"Are those the bad men?" Annmarie asked.

"I don't know." Rosie frowned at the child's question. Annmarie had so many of them, but they should have been cosmic questions like Why is the sky blue? and Where do babies come from? instead of being focused on the danger around them.

When the vehicle went by, Rosie recognized it as Josh's old Willy, held together with spit and promises. Inside she counted four people. She waited until it was well out of sight and the sound faint before taking Annmarie's hand and standing up.

They quickly crossed the road and were almost to the brush when the large form of a man loomed suddenly before them.

A scream lodged in Rosie's throat.

She thrust Annmarie behind her and struck at the man with a high flying kick.

She missed.

When she whirled around he was ready for her, grabbing her leg, and using her own momentum to throw her to the ground. In the next instant, he pinned her, using the weight of his body to hold her down. Against her back the ground felt cold, stark contrast to the man, who radiated heat.

"You never give up, do you?" Ian said, grabbing her wrists when she would have struck him.

Her relief was replaced with that same unreasoning panic when she realized she had no escape. Even her legs were caught within the vise of his.

"Let me up," she demanded, hating the tremor that engulfed her.

He rolled off her without letting her go. "Gladly. I don't want a repeat of this morning." He pulled her to her feet, then conversationally, as though nothing was out of the ordinary, said to Annmarie, "Hi, petunia."

"I keep telling you," she said, folding her arms over her little chest. "I am not a flower. I am Annmarie."

"Decided not to wait for me, huh?" Ian's gaze strayed from her to the road, and he guided them farther into the brush.

"I decided to get out of the tunnel before we were found." She wrenched away from his grasp.

"Which explains why you're here … nearly a half mile from your house."

"That's right." Rosie folded her own arms, mostly to keep from doing something stupid, like hitting him. The urge surprised her, annoyed her. She hadn't wanted to hit anybody in years. "And the next time you order me to do anything, you might assume that I do have one or two brain cells and I know how to use them."

He stepped closer. "The next time I order you to do something, I'll expect you to do it."

"This isn't the army."

"You've gotthat right."

"And I can take care of myself."

"Like getting pinned twice in the same day."

She lifted her chin. "At least I wasn't shot."

"No, you weren't." He stared down at her. "You should have known it was me—your damn dog was wagging his tail."

"And what does he know?" Rosie glanced at the dog, who had just confirmed what she'd always suspected. As a watchdog, Sly was worthless.

"I want to go home," Annmarie interrupted, a tremble in her voice. "And I want my own bed and my own Lulu."

Ian lifted her up. "I know. It's been a tough day."

She scrubbed at her face with a little fist. "And I don't like fighting," she added with a sniff.

"Okay," he agreed, glancing at Rosie. "No more fighting." Rosie reached for Annmarie, who curled a little more firmly against Ian.

That one simple, small gesture tore open Rosie's heart. How could she ever have let it come to this—that she was so little a part of her sweet Annmarie's life that even this small giving of comfort was denied her.

"Okay," Rosie whispered, positive she was about to utter a promise nearly impossible to keep. "No more fighting."

Annmarie smiled.

"So, petunia," Ian said. "Where are we going?"

"To the neighbor's house. That's what Aunt Rosie said."

"Ah." He glanced at Rosie. "And the plan is?"

"They have a boat. A very nice boat. There's only one problem."

"Which is?"

"We're going to borrow it."

"I don't see how that's a problem."

"The Eriksens are inSeattle. I can't ask them."

Ian chuckled. "You mean we're going tosteal a boat." He motioned for Rosie to lead the way. "At last. Something we agree about."
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Chapter 6

«^»

When they arrived at the Eriksens' home, it looked much as it had that morning, except for a single light at the back of the house—a light that Rosie recognized as the timer for Katrina Eriksen's orchids. During the entire walk through the dark, Rosie had worried that somehow the faceless Marco would find a way to be here. She sighed with relief and left the protection of the brush that separated the shoreline from the water.

Ian grabbed her arm before she'd taken two steps. "Somebody is there."

"Because of the lights? They're on a timer."

He turned her so she was fully facing him, his expression stern, his touch firm. She tensed, an involuntary reaction that made him immediately drop his hand. Even as she was glad he let her go, she hated his knowing that she was so uncomfortable that any touch made her flinch.

"Okay, this time I'm asking. Nicely. Stay put. Wait here. Don't move." He smiled, ducking his head slightly, his gaze remaining intently on her. Then he added, "Please."

"Nobody is here."

A day's dark stubble on his face emphasized the slash of his smile. It really was a nice one, but she hated that he was trying to charm her with it.

"I'm not convinced," he said, his smile fading. His attention focused so completely on the trail behind her that she turned around to look, half expecting to see someone. Nobody was there. "And until I am," he added, "I want you and the little petunia here safe where I know where you are."

His logic accomplished what his smile hadn't. "Okay, tough guy. We'll wait." She had the feeling he wasn't used to explaining himself. Much as she hated to admit it, he made sense. Her earlier dread returned.

"Promise?"

"Don't you trust me?" She summoned a smile of her own.

"No."

Somehow she hadn't expected he'd be so blunt. Well, they were even. She didn't trust him, either.

"We promise," Annmarie said, taking Rosie's hand. "Don't we?"

Rosie glanced from Annmarie back to Ian, realizing he wouldn't budge until she had given her word. Besides, she wasn't up for any additional physical encounters with him. Two in one day had been more than enough. "Okay. I promise."

Ian slid away from them, his dark form blending in with the shadows. Watching him, Rosie realized that he didn't have a jacket. The night was cool—below fifty, and with the humidity, it felt even colder. His body had radiated heat when he touched her, making her wonder if he even felt the temperature.

A scant couple of seconds later, she saw him glide across the clearing and peek in one of the lit windows. He watched for a moment, then disappeared from view as he went around the house. The minutes that followed dragged, and Annmarie began to fidget.

Dropping to one knee so they were eye level with each other, Rosie whispered, "Everything is going to be okay."

"I know."

The matter-of-fact statement left her at a loss for words. Sly sat down next to her and butted his head against Annmarie's hand, and she obligingly petted the dog. Rosie's attention returned to the house, where she saw nothing of Ian. She had been positive the lights were on a timer, but what if she was wrong and Ian was right?

Rosie hadn't felt knots of apprehension like this in years … not since those last months she lived with Lily before Annmarie was born. Rosie had spent that winter being afraid of being alone and startled at every unfamiliar sound. Her first months onKantrovichIslandhad been only marginally better. Today's events made her realize just how much an illusion her hard-won peace had been. She had walled herself inside an ivory tower, pretending she was fine and expecting that trouble was out there in the world somewhere. Instead, it was right here.

She hated that, even though it had brought Annmarie to her. She should be with her mother. Safe. Doing ordinary things like blowing bubbles and reading stories and playing with stuffed animals and visiting the zoo. Not running from thugs who would use a child as a pawn in a deadly game.

Ian emerged from the shadows and glided toward them, more phantom than substance until he was a scant ten feet away.

"Well?" she demanded.

"The boat was a good idea," he answered softly, his tone mild in comparison to hers. "It's all clear."

"I knew it would be."

"You weren't kidding about this being anice boat." He led the way across the clearing. "We have just one challenge."

"Only one?" Rosie returned dryly. "Things are looking up."

"Indeed they are. But that gorgeous white yacht will stand out like a beacon. It's bound to attract attention."

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

Ian nearly laughed as he opened the door to the boathouse, a huge structure that looked, at first glance, like a huge old-fashioned barn. "You mean you don't have a plan?"

"Borrow Mike's boat. That was my plan."

Inside the boathouse, the yacht gleamed, even in the dark. He scooped Annmarie up and climbed onto the craft at its stern, the boat rocking slightly beneath his weight. Setting her down, he offered Rosie his hand. She followed without taking it, crossing the narrow deck and opening a door. Sly came after, close on her heels. She flipped a switch, and light illuminated the boathouse. Rosie blinked, the light almost glaring after being in the dark for such a long time.

"Wow," Annmarie breathed. "This is even better than Mr. Potter's motor home."

"It sure is." Ian didn't know squat about boating, but if ever a craft had made him want to learn, this one did. This setup was as sweet as anything he could have imagined. Until now, he hadn't found anything that made him want to part with the huge sum of money this yacht represented.

He followed Rosie inside, where she methodically inventoried the cupboards in the narrow galley, which were well stocked with a variety of nonperishables. Next to the galley was a dinette that looked as though it transformed into a bunk.

He opened another door and ducked his head to keep from hitting it as he went down a couple of steps to a stateroom in the bow. A double bed was tucked partway beneath a low ceiling—the galley above, he realized. A narrow doorway and built-in storage were on the opposite wall. On the other side of the doorway was a compact head. Underneath the stairs he found a washer and dryer. All the comforts of home and then some.

When he came back up the steps, he could hear Rosie talking to Annmarie, explaining the location of life vests and an inflatable raft. Listening to her and making a mental note of the things she was telling her niece, he finished his exploration, finding the compartment for the engine and mechanical systems, a salon and bridge equipped with what looked like the latest in computerized navigation paraphernalia. At the rear of the boat, he found another stateroom, this one with a queen-size bed and another bathroom, somewhat larger than the other. Outside and up top, the controls on the flying bridge were no less impressive than those below. The boat could be driven from either location. Sweet, he thought.

"Ian," Rosie called.

"Up here." He came to the back of the bridge so he could see her.

"The holding tank needs to be filled." She pointed at a garden hose, coiled on the wall of the boathouse next to a spigot.

He came down, realizing he could learn a lot simply by listening to Rosie as she continued her explanation to Annmarie of all the things she was checking from the batteries to the oil and fuel. He was used to performing such in-depth checks when he flew planes. Until now he hadn't imagined performing the same checks in preparation for sailing.

He filled the tanks, then tackled the most obvious problem—hot-wiring the ignition. The wires were completely concealed by smooth panels that didn't show so much as an exposed screw, and he had just figured out how to remove the first of several panels when Rosie and Annmarie climbed to the bridge.

"What are you doing?" Rosie demanded, eyeing the Leatherman in his hand and a panel leaning against the wall.

"Hot-wiring the ignition." From his knees he glanced back at her. Her hands were on her hips, and in one … was a key.

"Gee," she said, holding it up. "That's a good first thought. Not."

"You have a key. Rosie the Resourceful strikes again." That came out more sarcastic than he had intended. Left to his own devices, he would have found them transportation, though not the first-class accommodations she had managed. He replaced the panel and fastened it, then stood up and held out his hand. "You might have mentioned that you knew where the key was."

"You might have asked before you started taking the boat apart," she returned. She held the key out as if to give it to him, then folded her fist around it, her brows drawn together. "When was the last time you piloted a boat?"

"Last summer." He held his hands out in a silent request for the key.

"How big?"

"Big enough." He wasn't about to tell her that the last boat he'd been in was powered by a three-horsepower outboard motor. Recalling that Rosie's father was a salmon fisherman, Ian added, "I suppose you've handled boats this big."

"Once or twice." One of her eyebrows raised, an expression he was beginning to recognize as her attempt to keep her temper in check.

"And you'd prefer to drive, too." Nothing like stating the obvious, he thought.

She smiled. "I would."

He moved aside so she had access to the wheel. She inserted the key into the ignition, then went to the stem, where she turned off the interior lights, plunging the boat into darkness. Ian felt the slight shift of the yacht as she climbed the ladder to the flying bridge.

"Wait for me," Annmarie called, following her.

Ian watched the pair, shaking his head, admitting that his ego had taken another hit. He didn't like being a fifth wheel. Rosie had found the boat, knew how to operate it, had the keys … and evidently thought she was a good sailor, too. Based on his experience with her, she undoubtedly was.

A motor cranked on, and the door to the inlet rolled up like an oversize garage door. He went to the deck where the clean smell of the ocean surrounded him.

Rosie stood behind the wheel at the upper bridge, her legs slightly braced. She eased the throttle forward. Smooth as silk, the yacht emerged from the boathouse with barely a ripple. When they were clear, she pushed the button for the boathouse door, and it closed, its motor sounding louder than the purr of the yacht's engines.

Ian climbed the ladder. Annmarie smiled at him and patted a cushion next to her, an invitation to sit. Her legs were swinging back and forth, and she was busy asking Rosie a dozen questions from what everything was called to when would they get there, her curiosity and her acceptance once again at the surface. Ian sat down next to Annmarie, and she scooted closer to him, patting his leg, without missing a beat in her conversation with Rosie.

"That's the throttle," Annmarie explained to him, pointing. "It makes the boat go forward and backward." She waved a hand over the console, and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Gauges. For everything."

"Wow," he said.

"Aunt Rosie knows what they all are for."

"I can see that she does."

"And there aren't any seat belts, but there is a lifeboat. It's compacted." Annmarie squirmed to look around him. "It's right over there."

"I figured you'd want to drive from the bridge inside," Ian said to Rosie.

"I can see better up here."

She was right. Below, they would have had visibility only ahead of them, but up here they would see a full 360 degrees. She had been right to douse the lights, too. His night vision returning, he could see much more than he would have been able to if there had been any lights on.

Rosie handled the controls with a familiarity that Ian admitted he couldn't have managed. In the abstract, sailing a boat seaworthy enough to get them however many miles they had to cover was simple. Now that he had observed Rosie's thorough check of the craft, he had new appreciation for the skill and knowledge required.

"Do you have a license to drive this thing?"

"It's pilot, not drive." She caught his glance from the corner of her eye. "And, as a matter of fact, I'm certified on craft up to five thousand tons."

"That sounds big," he said.

She laughed. "All it means is that I know how to keep my dad's fishing boat from sinking."

"Ah, the salmon fishing. Lily told me about that." He watched Rosie a moment longer, then said, "You love this don't you."

She grinned. "Yeah. I do." The smile slipped a little. "Not the reason for being here. I never knew I coveted a yacht until I went out with Mike and Katrina last fall."

"So buy one."

She shook her head. "That requires way more money than I have. Can you read a map?"

He nearly laughed. "Only in my sleep."

"Nobody reads when they are asleep," Annmarie said. "He's teasing, Aunt Rosie."

From one of the drawers under the console, Rosie pulled out a book and handed it to him. He flipped on the flashlight and saw that he held detailed charts that covered the Alaskan coast from Skagway to Seattle. Within seconds he found the key, checked the index and found the map for Lynx Point on Kantrovich Island. Both seemed insignificant within the maze of islands that made up the inside passageway. From where he sat, he took note of the heading on the compass, then glanced back to the island behind them.

Its silhouette was black against the shiny surface of the water and the cloud-laced night sky above them. When they were fifty yards farther from the shore, he could see Rosie's place, where it still looked as though every light in her house and greenhouse were on. In the opposite direction the few lights from Lynx Point illuminated low-hanging clouds. A dozen boats were lined up along the wharf, their geometric shapes reminding Ian of the battlements on an ancient fortress.

Rosie steered the yacht directly away from the island. When he sensed that she had changed direction, he looked ahead and saw that she was steering toward a blinking light and compared their position to the map. She was headed for a narrow channel that separated Kantrovich Island from the adjoining island where they would emerge into a much larger straight.

Whether the boat gleamed like a beacon within the night, soon it wouldn't matter. Within another few minutes they would be out of sight of Rosie's place and Lynx Point. They had a good chance—a very good chance—of disappearing.

For the first time since the men had broken into Rosie's house, he relaxed. His luck had held.

"Where are we, Mr. Ian?" Annmarie asked, tracing her finger up one of the waterways on the map.

"Here," he said, planting his finger.

"Oh." She peered at the lines. "Is it a long way to Grandma's house?"

He found Petersburg on one of the other charts. "Way over here."

She sat up straighter and looked out beyond the boat. "We could get lost."

"We won't," he assured her. "Your aunt is the captain, and I'm her first mate in charge of navigation. We have it handled."

"Good."

"Are you warm enough, petunia?" he asked, drawing her close.

She yawned. "Yes."

That she didn't take offense to his pet name for her told him just how tired she was. He lifted her onto his lap, and she curled close.

He pulled the book of maps closer. The route from Kantrovitch Island to anywhere else was a confusing maze past dozens of other islands. Recalling her plan to meet a cousin who was to take them to her parents' home, he asked. "Where are we supposed to meet your cousin?"

"An island at the tip of Kanwau Bay."

The boat passed the beacon, and she again adjusted their direction.

"The Prince of Wales Island is a big one."

She glanced over her shoulder, vague surprise chasing across her features when she realized he had found the bay—one of hundreds of inlets on Prince of Wales. The island she had referred to was minuscule in comparison.

"Map Reading 101," he explained.

"A regular Boy Scout."

"Nah, just a ranger."

"You were a forest ranger?"

"Go ahead, insult me," he returned. "An Army Ranger,75th Regiment at your service."

"A ranger. I should have figured—the tough-guy attitude and all."

"Yeah, that's me. Rangers lead the way." He glanced down at the child sleeping in his arms. At the moment he didn't feel tough, but if that's what it took to keep Annmarie and Rosie safe, he could handle it. Protecting women and children might not be one of Rogers Standing Orders, but it was at the top of his personal list. Gesturing toward the book of maps, he asked, "Is this busywork? I would have thought you'd be relying on the GPS system."

"That tells us where we are," she said, "but the map has information the GPS system doesn't have—depth at high and low tides, for instance."

"Ah. He glanced again at the channel she was guiding them toward. "It's just about low tide, right? You should still have plenty of clearance."

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I was pretty sure we did, but it's good to double-check. She's fallen asleep, hasn't she?"

"Yep." He covered her forehead with his hand. "I think I'll take her below—don't want her to get chilled."

"You, either. There should be a couple of coats in the locker next to the galley. Mike's not as tall as you, but he's bigger around, so one of them should be a close enoughfit."

"That would be good," he answered. He wasn't cold yet, but as chilly as it was, it wouldn't be long. "Are you warm?"

"For now."

"I'll be back." He picked up Annmarie and carefully carried her down the ladder, stepping over the dog, who was at the bottom. He took her to the larger of the two staterooms, figuring she'd be less likely to roll out of the queen-size bed. Sly followed him and plopped down as soon as Ian laid Annmarie down. When he pulled off her shoes, she sighed and stretched out more fully. Finding a blanket from the cupboard, he covered her, then stood watching her a moment, thankful that everything had turned out as well as it had. When he left the stateroom, Sly stayed behind. Watchdog or not, Ian wondered. Either way, he was glad that she wouldn't be completely alone while she slept.

What a day it had been, Ian thought. And damn, they had been lucky. He'd successfully hidden Annmarie when he figured out how close they were to being found. He hadn't been seriously wounded in the attack this morning when he could have just as easily been dead. Finally there was Rosie. Aggravating and alluring. She obviously didn't need him, which grated more than he cared to admit. She attracted him at levels he didn't begin to understand, and that grated, too, especially since it was clearly one-sided. He hadn't been dumb enough to like a girl who didn't like him back in years.

Given his sarcasm about her resourcefulness, he figured he owed her yet another apology. Since she hadn't accepted any of his earlier ones, he was better off keeping his mouth shut. A peace offering in the form of coffee was as close as he was going to get. While it brewed, he found the locker containing several coats and, indeed, one fit.

The aroma must have preceded him up the ladder a few minutes later because she said, "That smells heavenly. I kept hoping I smelled coffee."

"I thought you might want some," he said, pouring her a cup from the thermos.

"You thought right," she murmured, taking it from him and inhaling the aroma before she took a sip. "Thanks."

Ian poured one for himself, then glanced at the waterway ahead of them, which gleamed more like a river than ocean water. "Just how narrow does this get?" he asked. "And how safe is this at night?"

"Safe enough—if I pay attention to what I'm doing. At the narrowest point, it's more than a hundred feet. During high tide, the current is filled with eddies that I would nevertry,much less at night, so we're lucky. This will save us a couple of hours."

"Handling a boat of this size—is that something everyone who lives on the inside passage knows?" Ian asked.

"Mostly," Rosie answered. She smiled, as though some memory had pleased her, her face illuminated by the lights from the console. "When I was a kid, during the season, we all worked." She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the wheel and inhaled deeply. "And, if I was steering, somebody else got to do the heavy work."

Ian chuckled. "You've driven—piloted—this boat before?"

"Yeah. When Mike got it last summer, he could see that I had a serious case of envy. I teased him that I might take it when he wasn't looking." Her smile faded. "I never imagined that I really would."

"We'll figure out how to make it right."

"We'd better hope we're able to takeMiss Pris home just as spit-polished as she was when we took her, or I'll be working off the debt for the rest of my natural life."

"MissPris—that's not really the boat's name, is it?"

"It really is." Rosie looked over her shoulder at him, a grin lighting her face. "So much as a smudge, and Mike has a conniption. So that's what Katrina began calling her, and the name stuck."

"If we wanted to rent a boat like this, what would it run us?" he asked.

"I don't know. Lots."

He made a mental note to check on the going rate for charters. Whatever it was, Mike and Katrina Eriksen would be paid for the use ofMiss Pris.

"I've been thinking about your plan to meet up with your cousin. He was going to take you to your folks' place, right?"

"That was the plan."

"We've got a perfectly good way of getting there on our own."

"That's right. I just didn't want to call him until I knew we'd get this far safely."

"You've got it covered, then," he said.

"Don't sound so surprised."

Her tone invited him to take offense. He didn't. Compared to Lily, everything about Rosie surprised him. Lily let herself need others, and Rosie seemed to want him to believe that she didn't need anyone. He might have fallen for it if he hadn't seen how she was with Annmarie.

The channel ahead of them became more narrow, and without a word Rosie handed him the cup. He sat down on the bench close to the wheel and watched her expertly maneuver the boat. She skillfully used the throttle to carry the boat with the current, which seemed suddenly fast, a feat that would have been impressive during the day. In the dark it was damn near miraculous.

Almost at once they emerged from the channel into a much broader one, one that looked as though the closest islands ahead of them were miles and miles away. He turned on the flashlight and looked at the map. "This is Sumner Strait?" he asked.

She nodded, turning on the running lights and eliminating the need for a flashlight. Behind them, Kantrovich Island could no longer be seen. Ahead, in the far distance, there were a couple of other boats, their own running lights making them look like sparkling gems on black satin.

"You did it," he said, giving voice to his relief. If they didn't make any mistakes, they had a good chance of simply disappearing until after Lily had testified and it was safe to return. "Good job." He handed her back the cup of coffee.

She didn't reply, but took a long sip. "You thought Marco would show up, didn't you?"

"I had a hunch," he admitted

"Why?"

Ian stared into the night for a long moment and finally settled on the truth. "I've known a hundred guys just like him. Hell, I could've turned out just like him—except I got lucky."

She looked sharply at him and he shrugged. "I grew up running with a gang filled with guys like Marco. He's paid well enough to be loyal. He gets high from violence and power."

Rosie shuddered.

"You're looking more tired by the minute," he said a little while later.

"I didn't get any sleep today, which is why I'm going to show you how the autopilot works. Sooner or later I'm going to need a nap."

"If I were you, I'd want more than a nap." He joined her at the wheel, so she could show him. The principles she explained were the same as he was used to in aircraft, and he soon found himself more focused on the woman than on what she was saying.

This close, he was again aware of the scent of roses. Mostly he was struck by how small she was, something he had a tendency to forget when she was attacking him or keeping him at a distance with her sharp words and sharper looks. This morning he had been reminded of a frightened kitten putting on a show of ferocity, an image that returned now. An image he was positive she would take issue with if he were dumb enough to share it.

The tension that radiated from her couldn't be disguised. When he accidentally brushed against her and she once again started, he would have bet all he owned that she was scared of him—not leery, not nervous, but bone-deep frightened.

He moved slightly away, giving her more space, but the fine trembling of her body didn't lessen.

Without speaking, he refilled her cup from the thermos and offered it to her.

As he had known she would, she made sure she didn't touch him when she took the cup. He figured asking her about it would only lead to an argument, so he didn't say anything. Standing behind her, he watched as she continued to explain the autopilot and the GPS system, and he thought about how assured she was on one hand and how edgy he made her on the other. Somehow, he had to make her understand that he wouldn't hurt her, despite their earlier physical altercations.

He had watched her reassure both Annmarie and Sly with her touch. An obvious answer. All he had to do was show her that she had nothing to fear from him.

He placed his hand at the back of her neck. She started. He caught her shoulders with his hands, holding her still.

"Shh," he softly urged, gently massaging the tendons with his thumbs and fingers, relieved that his hands were warmer than her skin. As for her skin—it was far too soft for his own peace of mind. The truth he didn't want to admit was that he wanted to touch her.

"I don't—"

"Shh." Positioning his thumbs on either side of her nape, he massaged the muscles of her neck, then worked his way down each shoulder to her arms. If her muscles were any tighter, she'd break.

"Ian. I don't need a massage."

"Don't talk. I'm not going to hurt you."

"You already have."

"Sorry." He hadn't in this moment, so he knew she had to be talking about earlier. He figured her pride had suffered most of all. His own had certainly taken a bruising. He'd never before been bested by somebody he outweighed by a hundred pounds.

He gentled the pressure of his touch, rubbing away one knot at a time in her neck, then moving on to the next.

"You're not going to stop, are you?"

He smiled, realizing that she hadn't asked him to. Instead of answering, he adjusted his touch to what he sensed she preferred and continued working the muscles of her neck and shoulders, pleased that little by little they became softer.

She stood very still, as though to acknowledge what he was doing, in any way at all, would somehow be a betrayal. His intention was to relax her, but he found himself thinking about how nice she felt and about how much nicer it would be to touch more than her neck and back. With considerable effort he kept his fingertips from running down the full length of her spine, or from turning her in his arms so he could hold her.

"We'll be heading in this direction for a while, won't we?" he asked, forcing his thoughts away from the dangerous ground of seduction, which was his usual intent when offering a massage.

A moment passed before she answered. "Yes." Her voice was little more than a whisper, as though she had dredged it from deep inside her.

"Trust me enough to take the wheel for a while?"

Slowly she turned around to face him, tipping her head back so she could meet his gaze.

He grazed the back of a finger down the side of her face, a touch he couldn't have stopped if his life had depended on it. If he hung on to the last shreds of his discipline, he'd keep from kissing her. "You need to get some sleep," he added.

She nodded.

He bent and pressed a kiss against her temple without touching her otherwise. So much for discipline. "Go get some sleep, Rosie. You're safe, I promise."

Her heart thudding, Rosie stepped past Ian and made her way to the ladder. She turned around and found his attention on the smooth water ahead of them. She watched him a moment, wishing she understood what had just happened between them. Something she wouldn't think about if she wanted any peace of mind at all.

Moments later she collapsed on the bed, gathering Annmarie close and arranging the blanket over them. More tired than she cared to acknowledge, she admitted just how much Ian's gentle massage had made her relax. She would never have imagined he could be so gentle or so generous.

And so the day ended as unusually as it had begun, her sweet Annmarie in her arms, and her thoughts on a stranger—a man who felt oddly safe in spite of all that he was.
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Chapter 7

«^»

When Rosie was unable to reach her cousin or her parents by radio the following morning, Ian didn't buy her logical conclusions, and he seriously doubted that she believed what she told him, either.

Her dad's radio was old and probably didn't reach this distance. They were probably broadcasting on the wrong frequency to reach her cousin. The weather was interfering somehow.

Ian figured if scientists stationed at the South Pole could stay in radio contact, he and Rosie ought to be able to reach people only a couple hundred miles away. His years of discipline did little to assuage his worry or his frustration.

"Let's head south," he stated. "The farther we get from here, the less likely anyone will be able to find us." He didn't like any of the reasons he could think of for not being able to make contact.

"We're not going to do that," she flatly returned. "Yesterday's plan was a good one, and we're sticking to it."

"Things have changed since yesterday."

"My cousin is doing me a big favor by agreeing to take Annmarie and me to my folks' place," Rosie said. "We can't just not show up. That will scare my folks to death."

Ian double-checked the autopilot to ensure it was engaged and faced Rosie who sat at the dinette with Annmarie. She was dividing her attention between her coloring book and a cartoon video.

"Your cousin might have decided to turn a profit like Hilda's brother, Josh. For all we know, Marco and company will be with him."

Rosie shook her head. "You don't know Kyle."

"That's right. I don't." Ian glanced through the window, where an open channel of water extended miles in front of them. "So tell me about him."

"Like what?"

"If somebody wanted to buy him off, what's his weakness?"

Rosie set down her crayon and met his gaze. "You have the most suspicious mind. Kyle is a lot like my dad. Straightforward. Honest as the day is long. He doesn't gamble, he doesn't drink much beyond the occasional beer, and since his wife died, he's been living with his mom."

"A mama's boy, huh?"

Rosie glared at him. "The woman has cancer, and she's probably going to die because the insurance company won't pay for the treatment she needs and—"

"I get the picture," Ian said.

"I doubt it," she returned. "Kyle's one of the good guys. I trust him with my life."

"We meet him and that's exactly what you're doing, Rosie." He glanced at Annmarie. "And not just your own. Are you that positive? Are you willing to risk everything?" He nodded toward Annmarie.

"Yes," she insisted without a moment's hesitation, but her attention suddenly focused on her niece. She looked back at Ian, then stood up, tilting her head back to maintain eye contact with him. "Yes," she repeated.

The absolute certainty of her conviction and her steady brown-eyed gaze made him want to believe her—that her cousin could be trusted with their lives, if she was right, they would have somebody who could get the supplies they needed, somebody who could be their eyes and ears, if she was wrong … he didn't even want to contemplate that.

"Okay," Ian agreed. "But we'll do it my way. Got it?"

"We'll do it the way that makes sense," she replied, one eyebrow raised. She looked more rested than she had last night, and her defenses were all firmly back in place. The woman who might have let him kiss her last night was nowhere to be found this morning. "And, you will talk to me before—"

"If I had an ounce of sense, I'd just lock you up and be done with it."

She came out of her chair, sudden color suffusing her face. She poked him in the middle of his chest with a finger, her eyes suddenly glittering. "Don't you threaten me, not now, not ever." Her voice quavered … fear, he realized, not the anger she intended him to believe.

Ian clasped her hand and flattened it against his chest. Her fingers were icy inside the warmth of his. He didn't know what the hell they were even talking about anymore. He just knew, as he had last night, that something about him—personally—frightened her.

"You're fighting," Annmarie said, her attention straying from the video. "And you promised." She shook one of her fingers. "No fighting."

As suddenly as it had surfaced, the anger dissolved out of Rosie's posture, and the glitter in her eyes took on the sheen of unshed tears. It didn't take a rocket scientist to appreciate the stress she was under. As a man, he wanted to hold her—something she clearly wouldn't allow. She pulled her hand away and turned slightly so she was looking outside instead of at him.

"Okay. You want to plan for the worst … after yesterday, I guess that makes sense," she said, her voice husky.

"A little caution goes a long way," he agreed casually, accepting her tentatively offered truce.

"What do you want to do?" she asked, something in her voice making him believe that simple question was anything but simple for her.

Succinctly he outlined how they would make their approach to her cousin's vessel and what he wanted her to do if they discovered her cousin had unwanted company.

Rosie listened, realizing Ian had a grasp of danger that she didn't. He explained their strategy as though all this was very familiar to him. Recalling his admission to being an army ranger, she supposed it might be. If movies were to be believed, he was a one-man demolition team all by himself. As long as he kept Annmarie safe, she wouldn't complain.

Safe. Such a simple assumption. At one point in her life she'd been positive that no such thing as the bogeyman existed. Then, one night, she'd let two men—one of them a man she had dated briefly—into her apartment, naively sure no harm could come to her. She couldn't have been more wrong.

"Want breakfast?" Ian asked after he'd laid out the plan.

"Only if you're cooking," she returned. He might be the tough guy, but darned if she was going to take on the happy homemaker role.

He grinned, as if understanding the direction of her thoughts. "No problem."

She envied his easy transition from planning for a catastrophe to the mundane matter of breakfast.

He reached out and tousled Annmarie's hair. "Want to help me rustle up some breakfast?"

"Sure." She jumped up. "What's rustle?"

He laughed. "This time it means cook."

"Okay." She followed Ian up to the galley.

Rosie moved to the console, automatically making a mental note of their heading and the various readings on the gauges. Ahead of her, water stretched for as far as the eye could see, dotted with mountain islands in the distance. In another few weeks gray whales would be seen. Now the water was smooth as glass, the mist hanging low here and there. Behind her Annmarie and Ian discussed the merits of frozen toaster waffles over reconstituted dried eggs.

Rosie found her attention was on them more than on navigating the boat. Everything about Annmarie was a pleasure. Rosie soaked up each moment, her pleasure unexpected and sharply intense with each revelation of the child's personality.

Ian, though, held Rosie captive. Something about the man occupied her thoughts as little else ever had. She wanted to know everything about him, wishing she could lie to herself about that. Physically he was alluring—far too. The what-ifs that marched relentlessly through her mind gave her no peace. What if he touched her more intimately and she discovered she couldn't bear it? What if she could? What if he knew what had happened to her and withdrew? What if he didn't?

Rosie mentally cursed her cousin's radio silence. If she had been able to reach him, they'd be directly on their way to Petersburg instead of taking a detour that put them a day's sail away. The sooner they were at her folks' place the better. The sooner she had some distance between herself and Ian, the better.

From the moment she woke up, she felt disoriented, and she was shocked that she had slept for almost five hours. Sometime during the night Ian had come down from the flying bridge. When she came out of the stateroom, he was drinking coffee and keeping watch over the autopilot from the interior bridge.

He had found Mike's video library. Animated figures of a cartoon danced across the television screen, whether keeping Annmarie or him entertained, Rosie wasn't sure. Annmarie sat at the table in the salon with a cup of hot chocolate, swinging her leg to the beat of the music. The coloring book and crayons were strewn across the table. And Sly lay asleep on the floor at Ian's feet.

Rosiehad beenabletowatchIanonly a moment before he sensed her presence and turned around. But that moment was long enough for all the confusion she felt last night to wash over her again. A day's stubble shadowed his cheeks and jaw, and he should have looked disreputable. He didn't.

She absolutely didn't know how to handle him. She had deliberately sparred with him yesterday, hoping he'd keep his distance. He hadn't.

The only saving grace was they'd be on their way to her parent's house as soon as they met with her cousin. Then, she could put a little distance—a lot of distance—between herself and the very disturbing Ian Stearne.

Last night she had darn near jumped out of her skin when he first touched her, and by the time he was done kneading her neck and shoulders, her legs had felt so rubbery she was lucky she'd been able towalkatall. She had wanted to cry, she hadwanted to turn around and yell at him for daring to touch her and … she had wanted to turn in his arms and discover if his kiss was as gentle as his touch.

That it might not be scared her.

That it might be terrified her.

That she was even thinking about it … that was the most frightening of all.

This morning she hadn't known what to expect of him or herself. Thankfully, he seemed to have no hang-ups at all, and he had offered her coffee and told her they should just keep heading south, though he'd kept the craft on the course she'd charted last night, a course that would have them rendezvousing with her cousin within a few hours.

She had been willing to discount his radio silence to any number of things until Ian voiced his worries. Now she found herself occupied with all the unknowns they faced and was increasingly concerned about what had happened at Lynx Point last night after Josh took Sid and Marco's wounded comrade to Hilda's place.

Unable to tolerate the radio silence a moment longer, Rosie adjusted the radio frequency to the one she knew Hilda monitored and called for a radio check. That ought to be innocuous enough. If anyone was with Hilda, as long as she didn't call Rosie by name, it would all be okay. Simple. Static filled the line, and Rosie's worry, fed by Ian's caution, increased another notch.

She caught his glance as he came out of the galley and set plates loaded with sausage links and waffles on the table.

"Who are you calling?" he asked.

"Hilda. And don't worry. I won't say where we are."

"It didn't occur to me that you would."

"At least you spared me the 'loose lips sink ships' line."

He laughed.

"Raven-in-Moonlight," came Hilda's answer a moment later. "Identify yourself."

"NRX051," Rosie responded, using the boat's identification number instead of her normal call sign. If nothing else, she wanted Hilda to know that they were in the Eriksens' boat. Sooner or later Mike would miss it. "This is a radio check."

"You're coming through loud and clear at Lynx Point where the time is 8:17 and all is well," came Hilda's voice, adding the island's latitude and longitude. "Do you need anything else?"

"No. Thanks for your help. Out."

"Out," Hilda replied, and the connection went dead. At least she had answered the call. She had sounded okay.

The fact that she hadn't used Rosie's name when she answered meant she either wasn't alone or that she was worried the radio calls were being monitored or— Why in the world hadn't her cousin answered his call? None of the possibilities were good.

Rosie longed to yell at somebody. She had spent a whole year being afraid, and she had vowed she would never be that afraid again.

Annmarie followed Ian, carefully carrying a pitcher of syrup. "Breakfast is ready," she said, announcing the obvious. "I cooked the waffles in the toaster, and Mr. Ian cooked the sausages."

Rosie did a quick check of equipment readings before turning away from the console. She took the pitcher of syrup from Annmarie, who flashed her a smile and scrambled into a chair.

"Do you like waffles, Aunt Rosie?"

"I sure do."

"Personally, I would have been happy with cold pizza," Ian said, sitting down at the table.

"Yucky," Annmarie said. "Mommy says that's bad for you."

"That's why I like it. Can't always be eating stuff that'sgood for you." Ian sat next to Annmarie. Rosie stood a moment longer, watching them, once again feeling like an outsider.

"Come on, Rosie. The autopilot is on, and you can see anything coming from right here." He waited for her to sit down before putting the bite of food on his fork into his mouth. "Do you think Hilda is okay?"

"Yes," Rosie lied, wishing she believed it. "She sounded fine." She cut a corner off the waffle and put the bite in her mouth, trying to ignore the knots in her stomach.

"Eat," Ian urged her a couple of minutes later, pointing his own fork at the pieces she had stirred around on her plate. "And stop worrying."

"Easy for you to say."

Two hours later they cruised slowly into Kanwau Bay. Ian kept watch from the flying bridge, as he'd said he would. Rosie hadn't seen his ever-present gun this morning, but she had no doubt he was armed.

As they had planned yesterday, her cousin's fishing boat was anchored several hundred yards off Kanwau Island. The boat was a sleek trawler, well-maintained and functional. A man on-board waved as they approached. Rosie slowed the yacht and came to a full stop with mere feet separating the two boats. He threw a line across, and Ian lashed it to one of the cleats.

Sly barked, reassuring Ian that at least sometimes the dog chose to alert them to the presence of a stranger.

"What's happened?" Rosie demanded of the man, coming to the rear deck. "Why didn't you respond to our radio call?"

He jumped aboard. "It's nice to see you, too, Rosie," he said, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. To Ian, he stuck out his hand. "Kyle Lamont."

"Ian Stearne."

"Well now, that's good." The corners of Kyle's dark eyes crinkled, making them nearly disappear within the weathered lines of his face, which bore the stamp of that Native American side of the family that Lily had so often spoken of. "If you weren't, I was authorized to use force to subdue you."

Ian relaxed a notch. "A family trait, then."

Kyle laughed. "Rosie's been giving you trouble, huh?" He tipped a battered baseball cap back on his head and glanced around, then gave a long, slow whistle. "Nice boat you've got here."

"Thanks. Wish I could say it's mine. Actually, it belongs to a friend of Rosie's."

"As I always say, it's good to have friends you can borrow stuff from. So, where's this daughter of Lily's?"

"Kyle." Rosie folded her arms.

"Hold yer horses, girl," he said. "Meeting your folks' granddaughter comes first."

"I'm right here," Annmarie answered, coming to stand shyly behind Ian.

Kyle grinned at her."You look just like your mommy." Ian supposed that on a casual glance, she did. Until he had met Rosie, he had thought so, too. "Actually," he said, "I think she's a spitting image of her aunt."

"That's 'cause Aunt Rosie borned me," Annmarie said. "I have lots of freckles, just like her."

A fleeting expression of complete dismay chased across Rosie's face and was replaced by a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's right," she said, cheerfully.

The reply, Ian thought, was just a little too upbeat. He felt as though he had just been poleaxed. In all the times he and Lily had talked about her family, she hadn't mentioned this. Not once. Not ever. He would have remembered.

Shelve it,he told himself.

"Well, that explains it." He glanced at Kyle. "How about some coffee?"

"Sounds good." Kyle followed Ian inside, where he gave the interior another long, appreciative glance. "It's a good thing you have nice digs here," he said, "because you can't go to Petersburg."

"Why not?" Rosie asked, following them inside. Clearly reluctant to speak, he looked beyond Rosie to Annmarie.

"Hey, petunia," Ian said to her. "How about I put on another video for you while we talk to Kyle."

"I don't want to."

Ian slung her under his arm, making her giggle. "That's just because you think you're going to miss something."

"Am I?" she asked.

"Absolutely," he assured her, taking her to the salon. "Boring grown-up talk. Wouldn't you rather find out if Sylvester is finally going to catch Tweety Pie?"

"I don't want to watch TV."

"We'll do something fun later."

"What?"

"I don't know. You'll just have to think of something." He slid the video in the player and, as soon as he was assured she was at least pretending to watch, rejoined Kyle and Rosie in the galley.

"She's a pistol," Kyle said. He sat at the dinette, his legs stretched down the aisle, and Rosie was curled on the opposite seat.

"That she is." Ian slid in beside her, and he felt her shrink away from him. On the pretense of getting coffee, he got back up and leaned against the counter instead of sitting down. "So, what's going on?"

Kyle lowered his voice and looked at Rosie. "Somebody damn near killed your dad last night. Now, I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Your mama didn't want you being worried and all, but I figured how else could I explain—"

She blanched and reached across the table. "What happened?"

"You know he's had his boat in dry dock the last couple of months, doing some maintenance on the hull, and somebody jumped him last night just as he was quitting work. Well, you know your dad—"

"He's okay?"

"Oh, yeah. The other guy, though, had to be flown to the hospital in Juneau." He patted her hand. "He's just fine, Rosie."

"And Mom?"

"Other than being mad as a hornet, she's fine, too.

"Your dad said this guy could have killed him, but he didn't. He told the state police that he'd been paid to kidnap your mom or dad," Kyle added.

"These people—these thugs—went after my folks?" Rosie threw up her hands, her voice filled with fear and frustration.

Kyle caught Ian's gaze. "Turns out the guy has ties to that mob family—"

"Franklin Lawrence?" Ian asked, hating that he already knew the answer.

"That's the one—for the trial where Lily is testifying. Anyway, the marshal is keeping an eye on yourfolks,and by latetoday some extra law will be arriving from the state police. But they're all in agreement."

"No," Rosie murmured. "No."

"We need to stay away," Ian finished. Franklin Lawrence wasn't content to go after Annmarie. If he couldn't get to her, he'd go after other insurance. Lily's sisters and her parents were fair game, too, and anybody else that might be used as leverage to keep her from testifying. Which meant they had even bigger problems.

"That's right," Kyle said. "Your dad and me—we figured the radio frequencies are being monitored, so that's why I didn't answer you this morning."

"Good thinking," Ian said.

Rosie shook her head. "We can't stay on the boat."

"Think about it, Rosie," Ian said. "They don't know where we are right now—that's a much safer proposition for Annmarie." He glanced around. "We can stay aboard until after Lily has testified." When he and Annmarie had left California, Lily had thought she would be testifying in a week or ten days. The yacht would be plenty comfortable for that length of time.

"We can't stay on the boat," she repeated.

"Why not?" Ian demanded.

She looked away from him. "We don't have any clothes."

It was a feeble excuse, and they both knew it. He glanced at her cousin. "I bet Kyle would go shopping for us."

"Oh, sure, just whip out the old American Express card."

Ian pulled a wallet from his pants' pocket and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Kyle. "What else?"

"You can't just throw money at a problem and expect it to go away."

"That's right," he agreed. "But sometimes it damn sure helps."

"We don't have enough fuel."

"It's a diesel engine?" Kyle asked. "What do you need, a couple hundred gallons?"

Ian nodded.

"I can refuel you."

Ian peeled off another three bills and gave them to Kyle.

She stared in disbelief at Ian. "The neighborhood store is—"

"About five hours from here," Kyle interrupted. "I can get everything you need in Wrangall or Ketchikan. Make me a list."

"I don't believe you. You can't afford this." Rosie threw her hands up.

"Actually, I can," Ian replied. A couple thousand dollars … per day … wouldn't put a dent in his bottom line. That she didn't want his money raised his estimation of her … a lot. The list of people who wanted his money was long—acquaintances and strangers and his ex-wife who had wanted nothing to do with him until he had money. His buddy, Jack Trahern, was the only other person in his life who had been as unmoved by his money as Lily, and now Rosie.

She gave him another scathing glance before turning away. She couldn't have been any more clear that being isolated on the boat with him was the last thing she wanted. Unfortunately, it couldn't be helped. Ian's gaze lingered on her a moment before he looked at Kyle and nodded toward the steps, then followed the man to the deck.

"These guys are damn persistent," Ian said. "Is there any way they could know about your coming here?"

Eyes narrowed, Kyle thought a moment. "Anything is possible. Rosie called me on the radio yesterday, so if they are monitoring like we think they could be, they might. I sailed pretty far into the bay, and I haven't seen a soul, which is about right for this time of year. I didn't notice anybody unusual when I bought fuel at Wrangall last night."

He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and wrote down a number. "This is the frequency Rosie called. Let's adjust it up or down depending on the hour." He added the notations with the comment, "Old Navy SEAL trick from a coon's age ago. It's not foolproof, but it'll make keeping track of us harder."

"I could have sworn that was an old ranger trick."

Kyle's eyes gleamed. "Just treat this like any other covert operation, and things will go fine."

"How did you know I was onboard?" If Ian recalled yesterday's plans correctly, he wasn't supposed to have been with Rosie and Annmarie.

"I talked to Hilda," Kyle returned. "Knew something was up when she began speaking in Tlingit," he continued, relating how she had called him after Rosie's radio check. He patted the cash he had put in his pocket. "Guess I'd better get the shopping list from Rosie and get moving."

"Too bad this yacht is so conspicuous." Ian said. Kyle glanced up and down the gleaming white deck. "It's not too bad," he finally said. "There's a lot of craft on the water this size, and every day closer to summer, there will be more. A month from now, nobody would give it a second glance." A big grin creasing his eyes nearly closed, he slapped Ian on the back, "If you're worried, just throw a little mud on her so she doesn't gleam quite so bright. I've got a couple of fishing nets, if you want one."

Instantly deciding the nets could be effective in making the yacht less conspicuous, at least from the air, Ian said, "Yeah, I want one."

He helped Kyle transfer the net from the fishing boattothe yacht, and the two of them arranged the net over the bow, draping it to look as though it had just been pulled from the water. As camouflage, it wasn't too bad. As long as you didn't stoptocontemplate how out of place the net looked on a yacht.

Kyle left a few minutes later, shopping list in hand and a meeting place and time set for later in the day. Ian went back inside, which felt warm after the brisk temperature on deck. Rosie had moved to the salon, and she sat with Annmarie, each of them coloring side-by-side pages.

"What next?" Ian asked. "We've got hours to kill before we meet Kyle again. And by the way, you were right and I was wrong."

"A macho man who can admit he's wrong. I am amazed. I was right about what?"

She didn't look up, but Annmarie did, blinking both of hereyes in a wink.

"About your cousin being an okay guy."

"You promised that we'd do something fun," Annmarie said. "And I've decided."

"You have?" he asked.

She nodded. "I want to find some pretty seashells to take home to Mommy." She jumped up and clapped her hands together. "She loves seashells. And you know what?"

"What, petunia?"

She scowled at him, making him anticipate that she would scold him for his pet name.

"You told me to think of something, and I did." She went back to the table, propped her elbows on it, and looked at her aunt. "Aunt Rosie, what's a really yucky plant?"

"Bind weed," she promptly answered.

Annmarie shook her head. "Even worse."

Rosie looked at Annmarie and thought a moment. "Thistle."

"And it has a flower, right?"

"It does—a prickly purple one."

"Good." Annmarie skipped over to Ian, and plopped her same elbows on his knee, and looked at him with guileless eyes. "That's what I'm going to call you, Mr. Ian. Mr. Thistle. If you don't call me a petunia, I won't call you Mr. Thistle."

Ian met Rosie's gaze over the top of Annmarie's head. Rosie snickered, then laughed out loud, a belly laugh that invited others to join her. If he hadn't been attracted to her before, her laugh would have done it.

"Okay, petunia," he said with a grin.

Annmarie looked at her aunt, then lifted her hands in the air in a gesture so similar to Rosie's that Ian laughed.

"He's hopeless," she said in a very grown-up voice.

"I know," Rosie agreed.

Only "hopeless," Ian thought. Things were definitely looking up.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 8

«^»

"Ohh, look at this one," Annmarie said, rubbing a small shell against her pant leg, imitating her aunt Rosie. Her cheeks were rosy and her brown eyes sparkled, and she held the shell up for his inspection.

To Ian the shell looked much like the others they had spent the last couple of hours collecting—some kind of small clam. He wouldn't have given two licks for finding any shells, but Rosie, resourceful and knowledgeable as always, knew exactly where to look.

"Holdit for me, okay?" Annmarie added. "We found awhole bunch more." She clapped her hands. "I can't waittogive thesetoMommy."

He grinned at her enthusiasm as she scampered over the rocky shore to rejoin Rosie. She opened her arms and laughed at something Annmarie said. Abruptly he was struck with the old, old memory of bringing his mother presents when he was little older than Annmarie. His mother would open her arms and hug him just the way Rosie was hugging Annmarie. By the time he was twelve he'd learned his mother was happy to see him so long as he brought presents. Somewhere along the way she had stopped liking his presents, and he suspected that she had stopped loving him a long time before Aaron died.

"Snap out of it," he muttered to himself. That part of his life was over.

Rosie and Annmarie were bent over a tide pool, and Sly was dragging a huge piece of driftwood, his tail wagging. Rosie pointed, and Annmarie laughed. They were irresistible to Ian, and he joined them. For the next hour they traipsed up and down the rocky shoreline, examining everything on the beach from gnarled driftwood to tide pools, ever shadowed by the dog. Through it all Annmarie searched for shells.

Just when Annmarie seemed ready for more stimulation, Rosie initiated a game of fetch with Sly … at least until the dog tired of the game. Then they went back to looking for shells.

Ian tagged along with his attention mostly focused on keeping a sharp lookout for other boats and planes. Only one float plane had come within shouting distance, a green, single-engine plane with red wings that Annmarie was sure belonged to Santa Claus. She had clapped her hands and waved and offered the reasonable explanation that Santa used his reindeer only at Christmastime. Since it wasn't Christmas, he obviously traveled by plane. She was disappointed when it flew on without so much as a dip in its wings acknowledging them. Ian was relieved.

Rosie had kept Annmarie on the move, which he suspected was as much to keep her mind occupied as it was to play with the child. Play they did. Whatever concerns Rosie had, they were clearly secondary to keeping Annmarie entertained and occupied. For the umpteenth time he found himself silently asking why she hadn't ever come to see Lily and Annmarie.

Rosie cared about the child. He'd have to be blind, deaf and a total idiot not to see that. Had she not wanted to give the child up? Then why had Lily taken her? What possible reason hadkept Rosie away from Annmarie?

Deliberately he cataloged the possibilities. Rosie had a fling that resulted in an unwanted pregnancy. A low-life of a lover had walked out on her when he discovered she was pregnant. She'd deliberately agreed to carry a child for Lily and her husband, then regretted giving up the child. Any one of those scenarios were plausible, Ian decided.

He concluded that none of them mattered under the larger reality that Lily was the best mother a child could hopefor, andRosie clearly loved Annmarie. Still, he found himself caught in that moment of Annmarie's announcement and Rosie's stricken expression. He found himself redefining the ideal family thathe'd longedfor as a boy. He kept wondering what his ownwould have been like if there had been love and commitment like Rosie and Lily had for each other and for Annmarie.

Ian glanced at his watch. The small nameless island that she had chosen for their shell-collecting excursion was about an hour from the rendezvous point that he and Kyle had agreed upon, which meant they had to leave soon.

"Look," Annmarie said, running to him as she had a dozen times over the past hour. "This one has real pretty colors on it,don't you think?"

He carefully took the small, sand-scoured shell from her, treating it like the treasure she thought it was. She turned it over so he could see the iridescent inside.

"Aunt Rosie saysthis shell is a mussel." Annmarie grinnedathim. "Did you know you have muscles?" She pokedathersmall bicep, hidden beneath her jacket. "And you can eat mussels, too, did you know that?"

"Really?" He gave the small shell another look. "It would take a lot of these to fill you up."

She giggled. "That's what Aunt Rosie said."

"Said what?" Rosie asked, coming toward them.

Ian flexed his own bicep, smiling broadly and unwilling to pass up an opportunitytotease her. "That you like muscles. Big ones."

A quick grin flashed across her face. "You wish."

"Hey, a guy can hope."

"As long as he doesn't mind disappointment."

"Not me. I'm lucky. Ask anybody."

"Is that how you cametohave cash enough to send Kyle shopping?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, meeting her gaze. "In a manner of speaking. A few years back, I was injured—"

"Is that where you got the scars on your chest?"

He'd forgotten that she'd seen him without a shirt. "Yeah."

"And that was lucky?"

"That wasn't. But being on medical leave was.Otherwise I wouldn't have gone out to buy a six-pack, andI wouldn't havebought a lotto ticket that won me several million dollars."

"If you're so rich, what are you doing hanging out in my sister's neighborhood?"

"Because I like it. Kids play outside, and people mow their own lawns. They invite the guys who live on the back fence over for a barbecue. And if a neighbor wants to repair his car in the driveway, they come over to help instead of raising a stink and claiming the neighborhood is going to the dogs."

"I see." She turned away.

"Do you?" He wanted to tell her about the kids and the work his foundation supported, but couldn't find the words to keep from sounding like some bleeding heart, Goody Two-shoes. He wanted to tell her how Lily's neighborhood represented everything he'd always wanted. Stability. Where normal was going to the movies and taking your kids to soccer practice instead of dodging cars while playing stickball and dodging the cops because of what you'd done the previous night. He waited until she stopped walking and looked at him. "With the money or without it, I'm a pretty simple guy."

"Simple, yeah, right." Then she smiled. "Your money has nothing to do with my opinion of you. Someday you might tell me about your project—Lucky's Third Chance—instead of trying to make me believe you're just a good ol' boy doing good deeds to pass the time."

While he absorbed that, she took Annmarie's hand.

"Once more up and down the beach, sweetie. Then it's time to go meet Kyle."

"Okay." Annmarie motioned to Ian. "C'mon, Mr. Ian."

"You go ahead," he said. "I'll meet you at the boat."

As the afternoon had gone on, the one thing he kept worrying about was the tenacity with which Franklin Lawrence had gone after Lily's family. A concern took root that he couldn't banish. If Lawrence would go after Lily's parents when he couldn't get to Rosie or Annmarie, what would keep him from going after the youngest sister, Dahlia? Even if the local police could be convinced to keep an eye on her, Ian would feel better knowing she was being looked after by somebody who could devote himself to the job twenty-four hours per day.

And the one man for the job was his buddy, Jack Trahern.

While Rosie and Annmarie had played, Ian worked out the details for a viable plan—assuming Jack was agreeable. If they were right and the radio traffic was being monitored, all he and Jack had todo was talk in the old code theyhad developed a long time ago, and nobody would be the wiser.

Back at the boat he requested a patch to a land line and made the call to Fort Benning, Georgia. To his relief Jack was home. Antsy and bored from the month's leave he had just started, Jack related that he had to decide soon whether to re-up for another three-year hitch. He caught on immediately they needed to speak in code when Ian identified himself as Lucky, his nickname from the army. They fell into the routine of their army strategies when they had been planning a mission. Jack made it clear that he'd rather come cover Ian's back, but agreed to go to Colorado and keep an eye on Dahlia. Ian hung up, feeling relieved that he'd done what he could for Lily's youngest sister, mere seconds before Annmarie came inside and joined him at the bridge.

"We have lots of treasures for Mommy," Annmarie announced, sitting down on the floor and pulling shells and rocks out of a mesh bag. "This one is pretty, don't you think, Mr. Ian?" She held out one of the rocks, pointing out the flecks of fool's gold within it. "Aunt Rosie says it might be a good one to slice open. Grandpa has a special saw to do that. And then we can polish it all up so it looks wet and shiny all the time." She chattered on, telling him about each find and relating some tidbit of a story that Rosie had passed on to her.

While Ian listened to her, he was aware of Rosie moving around the back of the boat, talking to Sly. Curious about what they were doing when they still hadn't come inside five minuteslater, he went outto the aft deck. There, hefound Rosie sitting on the floor, marred with drying mud and scuff marks, with a disgusted-looking Sly between her legs, who was having his feetwashed.

Ian grinned. "He found the mud hole, I see."

"It must be a male thing." She dunked his paw back into thepailof water. "Toobadhedidn'tmakeit worth theeffort bygoing after the clams."

She made a point of glancing at his stocking feet.

Somehow he'd managed to find the same hole before he'd come aboard earlier. Much as he'd like to blame the dog, a lot of the mud on the deck he'd brought on board. He met Rosie's eyes, and she gave him a good-natured grin.

"You're a slob, aren't you?"

"I like things to be clean." It wasn't much of a defense, just enough to keep her teasing him.

She laughed. "Like this morning's dishes—that I washed."

"I cooked," he said.

"Hmm. Yes, you did. Where would we be without toasters and microwaves?" She finished patting the dog's foot dry, then stood up in a single fluid motion. "After we're underway—"

"I'll swab the deck," he finished, hoping she'd smile.

She did. "Good idea. A woman's place is at the helm."

Relieved that the tension between them had lessened enough they could banter with each other, he watched her climb the ladder to the flying bridge, his attention drawn, as usual, to the sweet curve of her fanny.

They had several days ahead of them, and if they couldn't get along, the forty-five-foot yacht was going to be small. If they got along as well as he'd like … it was still going to be damn small, since they had a chaperone.

* * *

The rendezvous with Kyle went without a hitch.

Maybe that was what kept bothering Ian as the sun began to set for their second night aboardMiss Pris. Absently listening to Rosie and Annmarie as they put away supplies, he stoodatthe wheel of the flying bridge, steering them toward a remote island he hadn't even told Rosie was their destination. His instincts had kicked up big-time, and he wantedtodisappear without a chance of anyone knowing where they were.

The sunset faded from brilliant streamers of orange into a soft lavender as he thought about the conversation with Kyle. Nothing in the refueling or the transfer of supplies from Kyle's boat should have bothered Ian. But, he was bothered. He had brought back everything on the list, including extra ammunition for his .38. So, Ian shouldn't have been bothered. But he was.

Until he figured out why, he wouldn't let it go, nor would he rest easy. He knew better thantoignore the warning twist in his gut.

"I'm climbing up the ladder, Mr. Ian," Annmarie said a short while later.

Rosie hadn't wanted her climbing up and down without one of them being there to keep an eye on her, a safety precaution that she'd turned into a game for the child simply by telling her that it was bad luck to climb a ladder without someone watching.

"Come on up, petunia," he returned, coming to the back of the bridge.

"Mr. Thistle," she said, pointedly as she climbed, "I came to tell you that Aunt Rosie says dinner is almost ready."

"Ah." He picked her up when she reached the top rung. "Want to help me drive for a minute?"

"Sure," she responded. "Where are we going?"

He pointed toward one of the many mountain islands in the distance. "To that island." He set her down in front of the wheel.

"This won't work," she informed him. "I can't see."

"Tomorrow we'll find a stool or something."

"Okay." She looked up at him. "We're not going to Grandma's house, are we?"

"Nope."

"Did the bad men gotoGrandma's house?"

He gazed downather, wishing he could lie. "Yes, they did. But the police came, and the bad guys are in jail and everybody is okay."

"I guess that's why they can't help us. They're busy with Grandma," she said a moment later, her logic sounding reasonable, evento him.

"Makes sense to me."

She was quiet a moment, then said, "There sure are a lot ofthem."

That he couldn't deny, much as he wantedto.

She sat down on the bench nextto the wheel. "That's okay 'cause Rosie and me—we have youto take care of us, don'twe?"

"We do," he promised.

She sat up on her knees to better see the directionthey wereheaded, and after a moment's silence said, "The police, they're not too busy to watch over Mommy, are they?"

"They're taking real good care of her. I promise." He crossed a figure over his heart, then extended a handtoher, which she promptly took. He shook it. "She's as safe as a bug in a rug."

"You got it wrong," she said. "It'ssnug as a bug." Then she scowled. "What's snug mean, Mr. Ian?"

"Safe, kiddo. Safe."

"Oh. Well, that's good."Shesat back down andbegan swinging her feet. "Ilike my aunt Rosie."

"Your mom knew you would."

"Do you like her?"

"Yeah." In that instant he realized he really did like Rosie.Beyond admiring her self-sufficiency. Beyond thinking she wasthe most aggravating woman he'd ever met. Beyondhis difficulty keeping his eyes on her face and away from the soft curve of her breasts.

"And Sly, too."

"And Sly, too," he agreed.

A moment later Rosie called up to them. "Come and get it."

* * *

"You can't get along without the news?" Ian asked Rosie the following morning. She had the television turned to the news from a television station inJuneau. After not hearing the news for a few days, it all seemed morbidly familiar and depressing. A foreign government in upheaval. An indiscretion of major proportions by a politician. Assaults and murders in various West-Coast cities. No wonder Rosie had decided to chuck it all for her island home.

"It's not the news I want," she said. "I want to see the satellite map for the weather."

"Ah," he said around a yawn, pouring himself a cup of coffee. When he had been in the service, he had frequently gone weeksata time with too little sleep, but he didn't remember being this tired. He glanced outside. They were still anchored in the cove he'd picked out last night. Unlike last night, misty streamers of fog hung close to the water, obscuring the shoreline here and there.

He held the pot toward Rosie, silently offering her another cup. She came toward him and held out her mug, which he filled.

"Annmarie still asleep?" he asked.

Rosie nodded.

"I think you got her all tuckered out yesterday." He yawned again.

She grinned at him. "She's not the only one. You stayed up all night again, didn't you?"

He met her direct gaze over the top of his cup.

"Looking for us … that would be like tryingtofind the proverbial needle in a haystack… If that's what's keeping you up."

"What would make you think so? Maybe I just have insomnia."

"I heard the way you prowled around the boat, like a watchman on rounds. So don't be cute."

"Cute?" He grinned. "You think I'm cute?"

"You know I don't." That eyebrow rose. "If you think somebody needs to be awake and keep watch, we should probably be taking turns."

"Rule nine," he agreed. "Okay."

"Otherwise, we're taking stupid chances."

"Probably," he returned, tacking on, "Rule five."

"What are you talking about?"

Pleased that he'd made her turn around to look at him, he thought about kissing her. And what she'd do if she decided she needed to be defending herself instead of kissing him back.

Deciding that a lack of sleep had seriously addled his judgment, he merely said, "You've just related rules five and nine of Rogers Standing Orders." Her expression clearly indicated she thought he was nuts. "Rogerswrote down the nineteen standing orders that are at the core of how rangers carry out a mission."

He began reciting the orders, and Rosie watched him. It was a good thing he knew them completely by heart, because he was lost in her beautiful dark eyes that were such a contrast to her fair skin and hair. He would like to kiss each freckle sprinkled over her cheeks. He would like to feel the warmth of her skin and see if it was as silky as it looked. He wondered if she was really listening despite her focused attention. Her gaze moved over his face, and he wondered what she saw. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, realizing he hadn't shaved. Not in a couple of days. To her, he probably looked like the outlaw. Shaving, though, was a good idea. If he got as close to her as he'd like, her soft skin wouldn't survive—not without major beard burn.

Beard burn? Like she'd let him that close.

"And nineteen," he said, "Let the enemy come close enoughtotouch, then jump out and finish him off with your hatchet."

"A hatchet? When was this, anyway?"

"The French and Indian War." He grinned. "Hatchets are very efficient weapons."

"I'll take your word for it." She shuddered.

"So, why the TV, Rosie? I thought you got the weather from the radio."

"I do," she said. "We're still close enoughtowinter that I like seeing the satellite pictures, though. They give me a better idea of what's likelytohappen over the next few days than the forecast from the weather radio." She grinned. "Which is very accurate about current conditions."

He glanced outside. "Cool and foggy. Fifty percent chance of showers."

She chuckled. "Just like the other three hundred days of the year."

"What about the other sixty-five?"

"Oh, we save those for sunshine or snow."

Ian glanced back at the television, his attention caught when Rosie's name was announced by a concerned-sounding anchor.

"Rosebud Jensen, a resident ofKantrovichIsland, was abducted from her home the night before last," the anchor said. "According to a neighbor, she was taken at gunpoint, along with her niece who is visiting fromCalifornia. The alleged kidnapper is described as a tall Caucasian with dark hair and eyes, in his early-to-mid thirties. In an apparently related incident, a fishing boat belonging to her family was vandalized inPetersburg. State police had no comment on the disappearance of Ms. Jensen and her niece. A spokesman said no ransom demand has been made nor has her family been contacted. The two are still missing as of this morning."

"Damn," Ian swore. Franklin Lawrence and his henchmen had been brilliant. Force them into hiding where communicating would be difficult and dangerous, then use that silence to their advantage. If they attempted to use the radio, they could be located. And if they didn't, Lily—perhaps even Rosie's parents—would think the story was true. Ian had no doubt that somebody would make sure she heard the story. His attention shifted from the television to Rosie. The color had drained out of her face, her expression stricken.

The newscast went to a commercial, and she punched the on-off button, then turned on him. "Oh, my God, Lily is going to be out of her mind with worry … and why wouldn't she?" She whirled toward the console. "We've gottocall her. Right now."

She picked up the microphone for the radio, ready to do the one thing they couldn't … not safely.

Ian covered her hand with his own, waiting for her to jerk away from him. She didn't, which made him want to gather her close and offer her reassurance. Remembering how she had stepped away from him every other time he'd been this closetoher, he didn't dare touch more than her hand, though. Finally she turned slightly and looked upathim, her face pale, her eyes wide and filled with worry.

"You're right," he said. "We need to call Lily, but we can't use the radio."

"Why not?" Sudden tears shimmered, and she blinked them away. "This will make her crazy. And somebody is blamingyou, in case you missed that part."

"I know. Let's think about this. Worst-case scenario."

"Worst-case—Lily is goingtobe convinced that she'll bekilling us if she testifies." Rosie closed her eyes, and a tear seeped beneath one. She opened them and looked back at him. "We can't wait, Ian. We can't. If I were in her shoes I'd do whatever Franklin Lawrence demanded."

"That's what he's counting on." He gently turned Rosie around to face him, his hands cupping her shoulders, expecting her at any second to jerkaway from him. "Think. Somebody ispulling the strings, trying to force us out in the open, to make a stupid move."

She shook her head. "No."

"If we use the radio to patch to a phone line, that's just like calling over the radio. Whoever is listening would have thephone number where Lily is staying. It could reveal the location of the safe house where she's hiding."

Rosie bent her head, her hair grazing his shirt. For an instant he wondered if she might rest her head against him. Her reply,when it came, sounded muffled. "I hate it when you're right. Okay."

He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze and brushed his lips against her soft hair, then moved away from her while he still had the will to do so.

"And, let's suppose for a minute that Marco and company have enough manpower to be monitoring radio transmissions from more than three different locations."

"Triangulation," she interrupted, looking up. "They'd have a very good idea of where we are."

"And," he added, "these guys aren't stupid. It's obvious we have to get to a town to get to a phone."

"Unless we could use Kyle."

"Is that what you want to do?"

He didn't realize he was holding his breath until she shook her head.

"No, I need to talk to Lily on my own." She glanced out thewindow. "They can't be everywhere."

"So, Rosie, this is where you get to choose. Where do we go?"

"You're the expert," she returned, scowlingat him.

He grinned. "Who managedto get shot, remember?" Hissmile faded. "Marco first caught up with us in Ketchikan."

"Too far," she said, looking around the bridge. "It'll take most of the day to get there. We've got to call Lily way before then. Where are the charts?"

"I wasn't suggesting that we go there." He pulled open a drawer and handed her the book.

"Every place around here has just one dock, which means it's just as easy to keep an eye out in Ketchikan or Wrangall or someplace smaller." She flipped open the book, turned to the page with the island charts for the area where they were anchored. "And, if I were keeping an eye out, I'd stickto thelarger towns—it's more comfortable, easiertoblend in, and still only one dockto watch plus the airport."

He couldn't fault her logic, her thinking following down the same paths his own had.

"We should go backtoKanwau," she said a moment later.

"The bay?" he questioned.

"The town." She glanced at him. "There's a small town farther on up the bay."

He stared, tryingtoremember everything he and Kyle had talked about yesterday morning. "Your cousin told me that he sailed up the bay, and he didn't see anybody. He didn't say anything about a town."

She allowed a small grin. "It's not even as big as Lynx Point, but trust me … there's a town. More important, there's a phone at the lodge."

Until he cameto Alaska's panhandle, he wouldn't have calledLynx Point a town, which simply showed how small most communities were. He studied the map, noting that Kanwau was off the beaten path. A place not likelytohave many visitors this time of year. A place that would surely notice visitors this time of year. Ian agreed with Rosie—the sooner they called Lily the better. Stopping anywhere was a risk—this small village no more so than anywhere else.

"Okay."

Within an hour Rosie had pilotedMiss Pris past the island where they had first met her cousin the day before. Ahead of them, the channel became even more narrow, and the walls of the fjord became even higher. Here and there, stone cliffs jutted out of the surrounding forest. Clouds settled over the water for the first real rain they'd had since boarding the boat. The overcast was so dense, telling the time of day from the sky was impossible.

When they came around a sweeping curve, Ian could see a few buildings, a small harbor with a half dozen anchored boats and a float plane, and a weathered dock. The buildings had tin roofs and an ancient, weathered look. The clouds had settled deeply enough, a streetlight had come on, casting a yellowish beam of light across the dock and onto the water. The sprinkles of rain became a full-fledged downpour, pattering against the hull. Not a soul was in sight.

Putting on one of the bright yellow waterproof ponchos stored beneath one of the seats on the aft deck, Ian went outside and secured the boat to one of the cleats on the dock. The rain was just as cold and miserable as it looked.

Inside he watched Rosie talk with her niece. They gave each other a quick hug, and Rosie came outside and retrieved another slicker.

"I could go make the call," he said. "You stay here with Annmarie."

Rosie shook her head. "I know the people who own the lodge." She waved toward the shore. "They'll think I've been down this way delivering seedlings to the Kennebec Company."

"And if they've seen the news report?"

Rosie shrugged. "I'll be surprised." She pulled the poncho over her head, and Sly began wagging his tail in anticipation of a walk.

"You should take him with you," Ian said.

"He'll get muddy."

He grinned and glanced down at the deck that he had mopped then polishedto a high gleam the night before. "I don't mindswabbing the deck again, Rosie, and I'll feel better knowing you're not completely alone."

"Okay." She nodded, then turned back around to touchhim—the first time she had voluntarily done so except for nursing him that firstday. "Promise me something."

"Anything I can."

Her gaze met his with fierce directness. "Annmarie's first, last and most important. If anything happensto me, you takeher and leave."

The request didn't surprise him—it was the same thing he would have demanded of her. But he didn't like it.

"That's a tall order."

"Promise."

"You're gonna be just fine," he said, hedging. "Like you said, you know these people."

"Promise," she repeated. "And if I'm not back here in a half hour, you go. Without me. Got it?"

"You always this stubborn?"

"I'm not stubborn. Promise."

"Okay." He reached for her before she stepped out from under the awning. "Be safe, Rosie Jensen," he murmured the instant before he caught her mouth with his.

Her surprise that formed a soft, whooshing "Oh" allowed him access inside and held her motionless, but he felt her fingers flex into his arms. And her mouth … was just as silky and lush as he had known it would be. He somehow resisted the urgetowrap her close, simply savoring each electric touch of her mouth beneath his, wishing he had all the time in the worldtoexplore her instead of this stolen second.

Her ragged sigh washed through him and, impossibly, her mouth softened even more and her lips clung. He felt as though he had just been handed the most precious of gifts. Gently he cupped his hands around her face, slowly ending the kiss.

He lifted his head and gazed into her wide eyes, so filled with longing and wonder and surprise that she took his breath away. There were a dozen things he wanted to say to her. Instead he released her and held out a hand to steady her as she stepped onto the dock. She gave him one last, considering glance and hurried up the muddy road to the lodge, Sly closeat her heels.
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Chapter 9

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"Well, I'll be damned," Bobby Lombard said by way of greeting as Rosie came through the door of the lodge. The man was a grizzled old-timer with a perpetual three-day stubble. "Lookat what the cat dragged in. It's a miserable day to beout."

"That it is," Rosie responded. Conversations with Bobby always began with the weather. She pulled the poncho over her head and put it on a hook near the front door. "How are youand Bobbie?" The couple were affectionately known as the Bobs, jovial owners of Bobs Bed, Breakfast and Brew.

"She's ornery," he said, taking her with a gnarled hand and leading her through a wide doorway into an old-fashioned kitchen that also served as the dining area for their guests—mostly fishermen who came later in the season for the salmon.

"Iheard that," Bobbie said, turning around from the stove and wiping her hands on a white towel wrapped around her ample waist. Just as gray and old as Bobby, she opened her arms and gave Rosie a quick hug. "What brings you down this way. You're not making deliveries already are you?"

"It's that time of year," Rosie said. She smiled, then added,"Actually, I hadn't planned to stop at all, but seeing the weatheris going to slow me down, I neededto use the phone."

He wavedtoward another open doorway. "Well,just help yourself. And don't tellmeyoucan't stay for a cup of coffee."

"Maybe a short one after I make my call,"she said, goinginto the back room, which they used as their private living room. As usual, Bobby's desk was piled high with papers, in contrastto the rest of the room, which was tidy. Every available surfacewas covered withdoilies and bric-a-brac.

Rosie went to the phone and dialed the number. As before, a ring was followed by a series of clicks, then another ring, as though the call was being forwarded from one lineto another.Finally a man answered, and as before, Rosie provided the required proof thatshe was,indeed, Lily's sister.

"You've been reading my mind again," Lily said by way of greeting. "How's Annmarie?"

"Missing you and being an angel about it," Rosie responded.

"I miss her, too," Lily said. "More than I imagined. Do you remember Mr. Bowman—our science teacher in junior high school?"

"Yeah." The response was automatic, but, truthfully, Rosie didn't remember much about the manatall.

"He's the reason why I wantedtogo into science," Lily said. "He loved it so much that he made his students love it, too. When I first wenttocollege, that's what I wantedtodo—come back and teach kids how magical science is. Instead…"

"You became a research scientist who makes important discoveries every day."

Lily chuckled. "Not quite every day. Rarely, if I'm lucky andthe research is on the right track. Most of the time the work is full of dead ends so it's more a process of elimination."

"What does this have to do with Mr. Bowman?"

"Spending my life in a lab. I can't doit anymore, Rosie."

"So quit."

"I've already submitted my resignation."

That surprised Rosie. Her sister took forevertomake decisions. "You've been thinking aboutthis for awhile."

"Yeah. To be truthful, since John died.I've already calledthe folks and told them I'm coming home. We'll see what pops up with one of the community colleges. Or, I could get my teaching certificate and teach high school."

"You're sure, Lily?"

"Yeah. You know what? It feels like a huge weight has been taken off my shoulders." Another pause followed. "I think I'm finally understanding why you couldn't stay here."

Rosie didn't know how to respond. At the time, she had felt as though she was running away.

"Anyway," Lily said. "Enough about me. Why'd you call?"

Rosie stared through the window to the rain that was falling harder outside. Since they were talking, Lily would know they were okay, regardless of what any news reports said. "I just wanted to let you know that we're not at home."

"Ian talked you into going to see whales and glaciers, hmm?"

"He did." She hadn't known he was interested in either one, but that certainly provided a good reason. It simply wouldn't have occurred to Lily there would be any nefarious reason to have left home. Rosie was content to let her assume their trip was entertainment for Annmarie and Ian.

"Annmarie will love it, too. And Ian…"

"Sis, are you in love with him?" The question came out sounding so bald that Rosie cringed.

"God, no," came Lily's immediate answer.

Somehow, that relieved Rosie.

"He's a great guy," Lily added. "The best, in fact. He's been such a good friend. Do you know why I asked him to bring Annmarie to you?"

"Why?"

"John told me once that if you ever wanted somebody to cover your back, you'd want somebody like Ian." Lily chuckled. "He's such a gentle man, but when I was trying to decide what to do, I kept hearing John's voice in my head that I should ask Ian. And so I did."

A gentle man.He'd broken a man's arm, and he'd cradled Annmarie when she cried. He'd pinned her—twice—and he'd kissed her with such tenderness she could still feel the caress.

"I wish I were there."

"Me, too, sis," Rosie said. "After you've testified, just let Mom and Dad or Hilda know. They'll get word to us. In the meantime, though, just know that we're all okay."

"I will. It shouldn't be much longer—by this time next week, at the latest."

"However long it takes, you just do what you need to do," Rosie said. "And Lily?"

"Yes?"

"No matter what you hear, we're all safe."

"I know you are. And, Rosie?"

"Yeah?"

"I know Ian's kind of … well … what I'm trying to say is—"

"That I can trust him?"

Lily's voice brightened. "Exactly. From the first time I met him, I wished that you could meet him. He needs somebody like you."

Rosie couldn't imagine him needing anyone. "Have a good time."

"We will."

"Give Annmarie hugs and kisses from me."

"I will."

"And Rosie…? I love you."

A lump formed in her throat. "Me, too, sis." And she broke the connection.

The call to her parents was easier but not by much. She needed to hear her dad's voice, to know firsthand that he was as fine as Kyle had said. As Kyle had promised, the state police had arrived. There was a lot of speculation in town about what was going on, which her mom related, adding that she was anxious to see Annmarie. Her dad, never quite convinced that his little girls could handle things on their own, was reassured that somebody like Ian was around to take care of Rosie.

She finished the call and, after a moment's hesitation, dialed Hilda's number. Mama Sarah answered the phone, and Rosie simply related that she was checking in. Mama Sarah assured her everything was fine. They had boarded up the broken window on her back door, and they had made sure everything else was secured—Rosie wasn't to worry about a thing. Mama Sarah didn't ask where she was calling from, and she didn't volunteer. Rosie hung up the phone and sat a moment longer in the old-fashioned room, gathering her composure before she faced Bobbie and the cheerful trading of gossip that would be expected. The conversation with Lily had taken longer than she anticipated. She toyed with the idea of Lily moving close—maybe even as close as Lynx Point. To have her sister and Annmarie that close… She shook her head, reminding herself to not hope for things she might not be able to have.

She should have told Ian that she'd be an hour instead of a half hour.

Ian. Why had he kissed her? She brought her hands to her face and pressed the heels against her eyes. Worse, why had she kissed him back? Had she completely lost her mind?

"Is everything okay?" Bobbie asked from the doorway. Rosie lifted her head. "Yes. Just fine." She stood and moved toward the kitchen, managing a smile. "Whatever you're baking smells wonderful."

"You know how Bobby is about his pie," Bobbie replied, allowing herself to be drawn into conversation. "Can't have dinner without it." She waved toward the table where a steaming cup of coffee sat.

Rosie picked it up, wrapping her hands around the warm mug, watching the older woman efficiently clean up the minimal mess on the counter.

"I don't know how you do it. Making pie is always an all-day project for me, and I get flour everywhere."

"Practice, my girl," Bobbie responded with a chuckle. "Only been doing this for forty years."

The back door opened, and Bobby came through with an armload of firewood. "Feels like winter this mornin'," he said. "Where's your boat, gal? All I see down at the dock is a fine-lookin' yacht. Looks like Mike Eriksen's new boat."

"It is," she said. There was no point in denying the obvious. "I'm traveling in style today."

"Well, hot damn, I'll say. And he can't say howdy?"

"He's not with me, Bobby," Rosie said. "I've … borrowed it. Mine has a leak in the hull." All of that was the truth, so far as it went

Bobby nodded. "Well, that's damn nice of him. I'll have to revise my opinion a little … always figured him for a stingy son of a gun."

Rosie chuckled. Bobby had pegged Mike right on, but he could also be generous when the occasion suited him. When all of this was over, she had a lot of explaining to do. She could only hope Mike would be in a particularly generous mood.

"Too bad it's pouring cats and dogs," Bobby said, looking out the window. "Otherwise, I'd ask you to give me a tour."

"It's anice boat," Rosie said, and couldn't resist teasing him. "It might be worth a walk in a cold rain.

"Nothin's worth a walk in the cold rain," he said, then added, "You just missed your cousin."

She slanted him a glance. "Which one? I only have about fifty."

"Kyle. He was here yesterday, and today he was back."

"I saw him yesterday, too." Apprehension niggled through Rosie's stomach. Kyle hadn't said anything yesterday about coming here, Rosie thought, but then it made sense that he would have. "He must be rounding up a fishing crew. It won't be long before the first salmon run."

"Could be," Bobbie interjected, "but that fella with him don't look much like a fisherman. If I was watching a movie, I would have figured this guy for a gangster."

Rosie glanced up, the niggle becoming sharper.

"Now, don't be judging a man just because he's got a scar," Bobby said.

"A scar," Rosie said. The niggle became a chill that chased down her spine.

"A big one," Bobbie said, motioning with her hand. "Ran across his face like this."

Rosie succinctly remembered Ian describing just such a scar on one of the men who attacked him. Even if Rosie had been willing to believe Kyle's being with such a man was a coincidence, this was stretching it way too far.

"When was this?" she asked.

"Like I said, I'm surprised that you didn't run into him. He just left here not more'n five minutes before you got here." Bobby scratched the stubble on his chin. "Kyle met the fella here yesterday morning."

Rosie stood up, carefully setting the mug back on the table. "I didn't see Kyle's trawler."

"They came by plane," Bobbie said.

"I see. Well, maybe I can still catch him. Thanks for the coffee," Rosie said, nearly running back to the front door of the lodge. She threw on the slicker and opened the door.

"Stay longer next time, gal," Bobby called.

"I will."

On the wide porch at the front of the lodge, Rosie paused just for a moment, scanning everything she could see. A few boats bobbed in the small bay around the dock as did a couple of float planes. But, if Kyle had come in one … with a man who had a scar … it should have been near the dock. Unless it was around the bend, close to the warehouse. The rain continued to fall, harder than the usual mist but not quite a downpour.

Next to her, Sly sat up from where she'd told him to stay when she first arrived. She patted him on the head.

"Come on, boy." She took off at a brisk walk, the dog at her side. Instead of heading back to the dock where Ian and Annmarie waited in the boat, Rosie turned in the opposite direction at the bottom of the hill and headed for the warehouse. What was Kyle doing with a man with a scar?

She rounded the bend and came to an abrupt halt. There, in the water and docked next to the warehouse was the plane, just as Bobby had described it. She studied it, chilled more than she cared to admit, both from the rain and from the striking green and red color of the plane—the Santa Claus plane that Annmarie had commented on yesterday. A plane they had seen before their rendezvous with Kyle.

Her gaze fastened on the warehouse. Standing in an open doorway of the warehouse, a couple of men stood smoking. Even from this distance, she recognized her cousin. The man with him, though, could have been anyone.

Rosie glanced back to where the boat was docked, a pristine white against the gray clouds wrapped around the hills. From where Kyle stood, it would have been in plain view, and he'd have to be blind not to see it. Rosie stood indecisively a moment longer. Knowledge was power, she finally concluded. So, she headed for the warehouse.

"Twice in two days," she said to him when she got closer. She skirted a puddle and stepped onto the planking that separated the warehouse from the cove where the plane was tethered. "Am I lucky or what?"

"Depends on your definition, I guess," Kyle said noncommittally. "What brings you out on a day like today?"

"I've got a contract with Kennebec," she said, telling him something he already knew and noticing that be hadn't called her by name. In fact, his expression was an impassive one that completely hid what he was thinking.

Rosie gave the man with her cousin a quick, assessing glance, comparing him to Ian's description of a wiry man with a scar that ran from his cheekbone to his chin. This had to be the same person. His returning stare was just as thorough.

She looked back at Kyle and saw nothing in his expression. Nothing. And that chilled her to the bone.

"And I stopped off to have coffee with the Bobs," she said, wishing she knew what was going on, seized with an awful sense of danger. She glanced back toward the dock and the boat, which suddenly looked much too far away. "They told me you were here, so figured I should say hi before taking off." She glanced at the sky, then down at her dog, who had remained at her side. Sly's posture was rigid, the hair on the back of his neck raised. "And I need to get going before this weather gets any worse."

"Good idea," Kyle said. "You don't want to get soaked."

"You haven't introduced us," the man next to him said.

Kyle looked at the man, then glanced at Rosie. "Get goin', gal."

There was still nothing in his eyes, and Rosie knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. "See you soon."

"Yeah," he returned, his voice flat.

"Let's go, boy," she said, briefly touching the dog's shoulder. She hurried onto the rocky path that led toward the dock. The rain began to fall harder, blowing cold against her face. As soon as she was a hundred feet away from the warehouse, she looked back.

The two men were arguing, and to her horror, the man with the scar pulled a gun from inside his coat and aimed it at her.

"Run!" Kyle yelled at her.

And run she did. A second later she heard a gunshot and had to look over her shoulder. Kyle and the man were struggling, their arms extended above their heads. Another shot broke the silence. This time she saw Kyle slump, then fall.

"No!" She ran faster toward the boat, blood pumping through her head and her heart, making it pound until she thought she would split open. "Oh, God, Kyle."

Ahead of her, she saw that Ian was untying the boat with one hand, his gun in the other, his movements looking leisurely compared to her own panic. She heard the engines running.

"Hurry up!" he shouted.

She watched him climb to the flying bridge as she ran the last few yards up the dock. She and Sly jumped on board. He steered the boat away from the dock. The instant they were clear, he revved the engine, and the boat shot away from the dock in a wide curve. They headed back the way they had come.

Panting, Rosie rested her hands on her knees and looked back toward the village and the warehouse. At first she didn't see anyone, then as she glanced toward the float plane, she saw two men boarding. Neither of them was as big as Kyle. She looked up the hill toward the lodge and wondered if either of the Bobs had heard the shot. Oh, God, was Kyle dead? Dying?

The float plane moved away from the dock and began its takeoff run.

She opened the door. Sly slipped in ahead of her.

"Ohhh, you're wet!" Annmarie exclaimed, patting the dog's head.

"You okay?" Rosie asked.

"You're wet, too, Aunt Rosie."

Unable to speak for a second over another rush of emotion, Rosie took the child's response as an affirmative. She was okay.

"I'm going to get a towel from the bathroom—the head." Annmarie glanced up with an impish grin. "That's what Mr. Ian said it's called. And I'm going to dry off Sly. Okay?"

"Okay. You stay in here where it's all warm and dry. I'll go up and see if I can help Ian."

Rosie let herself out, making sure the door was firmly closed behind her. She took a breath and climbed to the flying bridge. Ian stood with his legs braced, the wind and rain whipping against him. He wasn't wearing his poncho or a jacket, and he was already soaked.

"What the hell happened?" he asked loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the engine and the wind and rain.

"Kyle was there," she said. "And they shot him." Tears sprang to her eyes. "Dammit, they shot him." She wanted to rest her head in her hands and cry her eyes out. "And, they have a float plane. We're going to be seeing it any second now. It's the one we saw yesterday, the Santa Claus plane."

"I saw it," he responded, his voice tight. "Drive." The ever-present weapon appeared in his hands.

Automatically Rosie stepped to the wheel.

"You checked on Annmarie?" he asked.

"Yeah. She's busy drying off the dog."

"Good." He went down the ladder to the aft deck.

Their cover had been blown to smithereens, she thought. For the moment the whole world might know where they were, so using the radio wouldn't matter. She picked up the mike and switched to the emergency channel where she reported that a man had been shot at the warehouse in Kanwau and was in need of medical attention. Please let it be only that, she prayed. Everyone monitored the channel, so at least the Bobs would know to go check on him.

What in the world was Kyle doing here? She steered the boat straight down the channel. Fierce tears burned at the back of her eyes. She had trusted him with their lives. Damn him!

Pieces clicked into place that she didn't like a bit. The odd sightings of the plane yesterday. Enough, she realized, that they were being watched and had been well before Kyle returned with supplies. And to think she thought she had been clever enough to keep Annmarie from harm's way.

Out of her peripheral vision, the float plane suddenly appeared, flying alongside them, barely thirty feet above the water. It surged ahead, and then made a wide turn before coming back toward them.

A second later Ian came back up the ladder, carrying the flare gun and several flares.

"I want you down below," he said. "You can drive from down there."

"No." She watched the plane come toward them. "I don't know what you have planned, but you need me up here."

"Go below! Dammit!"

"No," she shouted.

"Rosie go!"

"There's no time."

"Ah, hell! Then at least take off the damn poncho so you're not so vivid a target."

She let go of the wheel long enough to strip off the slicker. The rain pouring over her felt even colder.

The plane swooped lower and came straight at them. She steered the boat closer to the steep wall of the fjord. Her move didn't provide them any additional cover, but as low as the plane flew, it couldn't get as close to the fjord's edge as they were.

"Perfect," Ian muttered next to her.

The plane suddenly rose, and something dropped from it, straight toward them.

Rosie opened the throttle and swerved the boat back into the middle of the channel.

"Damn—dynamite," Ian said.

The stick hit the water scant feet from them. An instant later it exploded and shot up a spray of water behind the boat.

"Two can play that game, baby." Ian picked up the flare gun, briefly touching Rosie's shoulder. "You're doing just fine."

His hand felt warm through her wet clothes. She wiped the rain from her face and concentrated on the channel in front of them. She knew the plane had turned and was headed back toward them when Ian began to croon next to her, as though he was calling to a lover.

The hair on the back of her neck rose.

"That's it, baby. Keep coming." He raised his arm, holding the flare gun steady with both fists, the rain pouring against his face. He fired.

The flare hit one of the wings. Instantly it tore off the plane like ripped paper. On fire, the wing fell toward the water faster than the plane.

It was so close to them she could see the faces of the two men in the cockpit, their faces filled with horror.

The plane somehow hit the water on one of the pontoons before leaning drunkenly in slow motion on the side of the remaining wing. A second later they climbed out of the cockpit.

"You got them!" Until then she hadn't been aware that she'd held her breath.

One of the men threw a huge bundle into the water—an inflatable raft. They managed to climb onboard just before their plane sank.

Just as suddenly as they had surfaced, the feelings of elation vanished, and she returned her attention to the water in front of them. Thanks to Ian's skill, they were okay. Again. For the moment, anyway. But how much longer until this happened again? What about next time? And if she was sure of anything, it was there would be a next time.

She began to shake.

"And don't ever tell me again that you're not stubborn," he said from behind her. "You could write a book on the subject."

"There was no time to go below," she returned. She didn't look at him, though she could feel him standing behind her.

"Like hell. But that isn't what I was talking about. Going up to that warehouse—that was a damn fool stunt."

"You don't have to swear at me." Never mind that she agreed with him. The rain seeped through her clothes and ran down her face and cheeks. She shivered harder.

"And you don't have to scare six years off my life." His arms came around her, crossed at her waist, his jaw against her temple. She felt his warmth through her soaked clothes.

She stood rigid for a moment, but the realization that she didn't have to stand alone was too alluring. She relaxed into him, his strength and his protective arms around her feeling better than they had any right to. Ahead of them the channel widened, signaling they were close to the mouth and would soon be in Clarence Straight.

Despite the rain and the cold and being miserably uncomfortable, she liked standing with him like this, feeling as though they were two against the world instead of just herself.

"It's time for you to go below." Keeping one arm around her waist, he adjusted the throttle to a lower speed.

"I'm fine," she whispered, steering the boat into the wider channel. Ahead of them, the clouds grazed the water, and she could see whitecaps instead of the usual calm surface.

"You're trembling."

She chuckled. "That's called shivering. We're both soaked to the skin."

"I'd noticed."

Gently he turned her around to face him, his arms coming around her in a comforting hug unlike any other she'd had from a man. No teasing smile lit his face as it sometimes did, nor was there the implacable command she often saw there. His eyes, though, were bright and so, so intent.

"I'm fine," she insisted, even as everything that had happened over the last few minutes washed over her. It was all so overwhelming. To her complete mortification, tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. Still, he just held her as though the rain and her tears were both okay. Surrounded by him, so close she could feel him breathe, a surprising realization flowed through her. She felt safe … more than she ever had in her life. And cherished … more than ever before.

At long last he kissed her cheek. Nothing had ever been sweeter, and she longed to turn her head just enough to feel his lips against hers.

She closed her eyes, absorbing his warmth and thinking about the kiss. It had been too short to really savor.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go check on Annmarie and Sly. Find out how much deck swabbing I have to do."

She laughed softly, realizing the moment for that deep kiss she had imagined had passed. He tightened the hug for an instant before letting her go.

He shivered suddenly as he stepped away from her. "And get into some dry clothes."

She climbed down the ladder thinking about that. What getting into dry clothes might have involved if they hadn't had a five-year-old chaperone onboard.
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Chapter 10

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The rain didn't let up, and as they moved into Clarence Straight the wind picked up, reminding Rosie of the fierce winter storms that gripped the inside passage for days. Accustomed as she was to sailing in weather, this was as bad a storm as she had been through in a long time. Rain slashed against the boat. Visibility was terrible. Ahead of them, rank after rank of whitecaps swelled.

They should be anchored somewhere safe, waiting for the storm to pass.

Without a bit of coaching on her part, Ian kept the boat headed straight into the wind, even when waves began to splash over the bow.

"My tummy hurts," Annmarie said.

"I have some medicine that will help." Rosie touched Annmarie's hair, then asked Ian, "Did you catch any of the forecast while I was clinging my clothes?"

"Rainy and windy," he returned.

"Are you talking about current conditions or the forecast?" She retrieved the medicine from a cupboard in the galley along with some soda crackers. Annmarie dutifully took the medicine and expressed her doubt that crackers would help her feel better. Rosie picked her up and joined Ian at the bridge.

"The forecast indicated this could go on until the day after tomorrow. I didn't figure ten-foot seas to be that bad."

"That's what the forecast called for?"

"Yep."

"We can't stay out here. We've got to get into the shelter of a fjord." She handed him the small vial of motion-sickness tablets. "You probably need one of these, too."

"I'm fine." He didn't take his hands off the wheel. He, too, had changed into dry clothes.

"Well, your face says otherwise." She shifted Annmarie to one side and pulled the open chart book to her, comparing their heading and current location to the map. "This inlet is closest and would give us some protection against the storm." She pointed at one of the narrow fjords, only a couple of nautical miles away. "With the tide and this wind, this could be tricky, so—"

"I think you'd better drive," he interrupted, his color more pasty now than even a few seconds before.

Rosie set Annmarie down on the couch near the wheel and took over the second Ian let go of it.

"I think I'll go outside now," he added.

"I don't feel good, and I don't want to sit here," Annmarie whined. "I'm tired of sitting." She jutted out her chin. "Make these bumps go away."

"I would if I could."

"I want Mr. Ian to hold me," she added.

"He can't just now." Rosie glanced toward the back of the boat where she could see Ian lean over the rail. No wonder he hadn't wanted to take the medicine. "He's busy, sweetie."

Annmarie curled up, looking thoroughly miserable. Rosie wanted to comfort her, but that would have to wait. Navigating these seas required every bit of her concentration. She divided her attention between the GPS monitor, the chart, and the white-capped water ahead of her. The rain beat against the windshield relentlessly, and the visibility was as bad as she ever remembered being in.

She kept listening for Ian. She knew just how wretched seasickness could be, though it had been years since she'd had much trouble with it. Somehow his susceptibility made him seem more human. Superman had his problems with kryptonite, and Ian had his with seasickness. A stupid comparison, she decided, even as she acknowledged that she really did think of him as a hero, and she really was glad that he'd turned out to be as good a man as her sister had promised.

"Are we there yet?" Annmarie asked.

"Soon," Rosie promised.

"And then these bumps will stop?"

"It will be like it was this morning."

"Okay."

When the GPS monitor revealed the wide-funneled opening of the fjord, Rosie adjusted direction. A few minutes later, steep walls of the island appeared out of the mist, solid and dark as an ancient fortress. They blocked the wind. Almost at once the waves stopped crashing over the bow. The farther inland they sailed, the smoother the water became. The mist settled like a gray blanket, shrouding the surrounding hills. Rosie glanced over to Annmarie, who had fallen asleep.

Rosie kept a close eye on the tides and the depth and the wind, wishing Ian would come back inside. Fortunately, he had stayed in view, so she didn't have the added worry of wondering if he'd fallen overboard.

The mist grew even more dense, reducing their visibility to yards. She slowed the boat, looking for a likely place to drop anchor. At last she found it—a cove where a freshwater stream dropped out of a steep crevice. The center of the channel, less than a quarter mile away, was barely visible, and the other side of the fjord was completely hidden by the rain-laden clouds that hovered only a few yards above the water.

The door to the rear deck opened, and Ian came inside. His color looked a little better to her, but that look of the hunter was back in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I keep thinking I hear another boat."

She glanced at the chart, her heart suddenly constricted. She wanted to offer a logical explanation, but too much had happened today. She wouldn't forget a plane falling out of the sky for a long, long time.

"There's one small village farther on up." She looked back at him, wishing that they knew for sure if the boat he heard was as simple as her explanation—somebody on their way home.

"I want you to turn us around so we can make a run back toward the sea if—"

"Okay," she responded, her imagination kicking in. She raised the anchor and gently maneuvered the boat around so the rear deck nearly touched the shoreline and the bow was pointed back in the direction they had come from.

When Sly began whining, Ian took him out, and they jumped off the back of the boat. He had put on the yellow slicker, which made him more visible than he might have been otherwise. Even so, he disappeared a second later within the mist and dense forest of the steep slope.

Rosie stood on the back deck a moment, listening. She heard it … the steady drone of an engine. Ian was right. Somebody was headed up the fjord. The way sounds carried in the fog and the falling rain, she couldn't tell how far away they were.

What mattered in the meantime was being invisible. Whoever was behind them might have seen their wake, but if they hadn't, there was no point in advertising where they were.

She went back inside, turned off the lights and muted the radio. In the mist and dense fog, they had a chance of not being seen at all.

Thankful that Annmarie was asleep, Rosie stepped back outside, listening, both for the boat making its way ever closer and for Ian and Sly.

Seconds later Sly and Ian appeared out of the mist and came back onboard.

"Good job," Ian said, shedding the slicker, "turning off the radio and the lights. I damn near walked past the boat."

"That was the whole idea," she returned softly.

"Trying to lose me?"

She met his gaze, intending a teasing retort. None came. "Not today," she finally said.

His expression softened ever so slightly. "Good."

The drone of the other motor changed, and Rosie knew the other boat was immediately across the water from them—less than fifty yards away. She peered through the fog.

"There," Ian whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder and pointing.

The running lights of the other craft could be seen then. The boat wasn't any bigger than their own, but it was dark, midnight-blue or deep-green. Silently they watched the boat until it disappeared into the mist.

Next to her Ian rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "We need to get out of here," he said, his eyes dark, worried.

"The water is going to be rough out there."

"Compared to the other things that can go wrong, that's okay."

So far his instincts had been right. She figured now wasn't the time to second-guess him. She went back inside to the bridge and a second later had them underway.

She couldn't decide whether to make an all-out run or proceed at the slower pace prudent for the weather conditions. Finally she settled on a pace just a tad faster than she would have normally chosen, but far slower than the breakneck speed her morbid imagination demanded. There should have been nothing sinister about the dark colors of the other boat, but pirate ships with black sails filled her imagination.

Little by little the height of the waves increased with the wind and soon were churning rhythmically against the boat, harder with each passing minute. On the couch next to her Annmarie moaned, but didn't wake up.

Ian came back inside, once again soaked and windblown from his watch from the flying bridge.

"What I want you to do is go straight out another half mile or so. Then cut the engine again, so I can hear."

"Okay." She didn't have to ask why—she knew. He wanted to determine if they really were being followed.

As before, the wind increased in intensity as they sailed farther away from the island. Rain poured from the dark churning clouds, reducing visibility to yards. Her worry increased with every dip the bow made into the oncoming waves.

A second later she heard Ian clatter down the ladder from the flying bridge. He flung open the door and rushed inside. He was soaked to the skin.

"That boat… It's here?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"No." He glanced around the galley. "There's gotta be a transmitter on board. Did you unpack everything that your cousin brought onboard?"

"Yes."

A wave crashed against the boat. Rosie instantly adjusted their direction as she realized she'd let the boat drift.

Ian rapidly searched through the cupboards, muttering under his breath.

She wanted to leave the wheel and help him search, but the oncoming waves were much too high to risk leaving the wheel.

"What would it look like?" she asked.

"That," he answered, "we'll know when I find it." He glanced at his watch. "Call me in exactly one minute if I'm not back." And he disappeared down the steps to the stateroom he was using. Moments later he cursed, then came back up the steps. He held out a small black plastic box with a blinking light, no bigger than a book of matches. "Got a hammer?"

"In the cabinet on the rear deck," she said. "But I've got a better idea."

"I'm all ears."

"I'm pretty sure there's an inflatable buoy—the kind used to track currents. We could launch it—"

"And head in some other direction." His eyes lit. He pressed the transmitter into her hand and a casual kiss against her cheek before he took the wheel. "I'll drive."

Rosie ran to the back of the boat and flung open the cabinet where she had found the buoy when they were first onboard. She wrestled the unit out of its storage bag.

In that moment she looked up.

The dark boat appeared out of the mist, looking like the pirate ship she had imagined earlier. Her heart stopped.

She pushed open the door. "Ian, the boat. It's right behind us."

"How far away?" he asked as he eased the throttle forward. The boat remained motionless only for an instant before jerking through the oncoming waves.

"Less than a quarter mile."

"Damn!"

The other boat seemed suddenly much closer. "It's gaining."

"I know. Just get rid of the transmitter, okay?"

"Okay." Beneath her feet, she felt the motor's vibrations as Ian increased their speed. She taped the transmitter to the buoy with duct tape she found in one of the cabinets. Then she pulled the rip chord. Instantly the buoy inflated. The transmitter's light continued to blink, as if taunting her.

For an instant the other boat was obscured by a veil of clouds that skimmed along the top of the water.

She threw the buoy overboard. Without anything to hold it down, it bounced across the water, driven by the wind.

"Done!" she called to Ian.

"Which way's it going?" he asked.

She told him, and he steered them in a direction that angled away from the buoy.

She watched, expecting to see the dark shape of the other boat emerge out of the mist in any second. When she finally spotted it, it was no longer directly behind them, but following in the general direction the buoy had followed. But, if anyone onboard looked in their direction, the deception would be for nothing. Little by little the other boat moved farther away, and the distance between the two widened to a half mile. In and out of the mist it appeared, then disappeared, finally out of sight, swallowed up by the rain-laden clouds.

She kept watch for long moments, convinced at any moment the boat would appear as it had done once before. She had just turned to go back inside when her gaze lit on the fishing net at her feet. It had come from Kyle, as well. And they had seen the float plane before Kyle had returned with the supplies.

Methodically she searched through the heavy strands of hemp, figuring it would be the perfect place to hide another transmitter. When she didn't find one, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried. If there was one transmitter onboard, there could be two or more.

She went back inside. "It worked." She came to stand beside him at the bridge, worrying about the fishing net.

"You might as well spit out whatever's bothering you," Ian said, glancing at her.

"That plane found us yesterday before we met up with Kyle." She tried to remember the places on the boat Kyle had been yesterday when they first met up with him. He'd been on deck, and they had sat at the table across from the galley.

"I've been thinking about that, too."

"I think we should get rid of the fishing net," she said, moving to the table looking beneath it.

"We can dump it overboard just like the transmitter."

"We could. But I won't do that." There was nothing anywhere around the table or the benches on either side. "It's too dangerous for whales and seals and—"

"Okay." Ian glanced at the chart. "Let's head for the nearest shore and get rid of it."

Fifteen minutes later a steep cliff rose out of the mist. A few hundred yards away, they found a ledge above tide line. Rosie knew from firsthand experience just how heavy fishing nets were. Even so, Ian manhandled the net with ease, giving her another demonstration of his strength. While she held the boat steady against the waves crashing against the shore, he piled the net in an untidy heap on the rocky ground well above the tide line. The whole time, her heart hammered in her chest while she watched for the other boat, which, mercifully, never appeared.

When they were again underway, Ian went to change while Rosie chose a course that she hoped was away from the other boat. Rosie heard the hum of the clothes dryer, and a second later he returned to the bridge.

He sat down on a chair near the wheel. As before, his color was none too good. On the bench next to him Annmarie still lay asleep, though she stirred fitfully.

He looked back at the rough water outside the window. "The seas are rougher, aren't they?"

"Yeah. And these aren't as high as the weather forecast said."

"So we need to find another inlet."

"We do," she agreed, catching his glance, then pointed at the chart and a ragged peninsula on the opposite side of the straight. "If you can stand this for a couple of hours, there are several inlets and fjords we could choose from."

He studied the chart with her for a moment. "I bate being in these waves, but I agree with you. It puts a lot of distance between where we dumped the transmitter and the fishing net." He rubbed a hand across his jaw, then shook his head.

"Want to take over the wheel for a while?" she asked. "When I've been seasick, that somehow helps."

He managed a smile. "Rosie Jensen. Seasick? That's hard to imagine."

"It's been known to happen." She shrugged. "Or, you could try to sleep like Annmarie."

"Not hardly, much as I'd like to." He came to the wheel and braced his feet.

She brought him crackers from the galley, which he munched on while he steered the boat into the heading they had chosen. Rosie admitted that he'd made a pretty good sailor so far. He seemed to have an instinctive feel for keeping the boat guided directly into the waves, which, though rough, minimized the pitch. For a novice he was doing okay—a lot better than okay, if she was honest with herself.

She sat down on the upholstered bench next to the wheel and gathered Annmarie into her arms. The child opened her eyes briefly, then snuggled closer with a contented sigh. Rosie's arms tightened around her—this child of her womb, this child of her heart who was her sister's daughter.

Suddenly near tears, Rosie studied each feature, from the small hands that rested so trustingly on her chest to the fine spray of freckles that kissed her cheeks and nose.

"What do you think about when you look at her?" Ian's voice was so low that Rosie wasn't sure he had really spoken.

She glanced briefly at him before returning to her study of Annmarie's features. One day Annmarie would return to her mother, and before that happened, Rosie wanted to memorize everything about her.

"My uncle Ross always talks about balance," she finally said. "An orca can be a harbinger of evil or a benefactor." Lightly she touched Annmarie's soft hair. "I don't like the circumstances, but I'm glad to have her with me."

"A silver lining in every cloud," Ian commented.

Rosie chuckled. "Yeah. Something like that." She stared through the window, where the waves broke over the bow. "If my uncle were here, he'd be praying to the storm and the water to allow us safe passage and hide us from our enemies."

This time Ian laughed. "That pretty much sums up what I've been thinking, though I wouldn't have called it a prayer."

Gradually her attention shifted from the child sleeping with so much trust in her lap to Ian. From where she sat, he was in profile to her, his weight shifting slightly as the boat moved through the waves. He wore one of the long-sleeved knit shirts that Kyle had delivered, the dark-navy color emphasizing his size. She easily remembered him without the shirt. The dark whorls of hair. The heavy ropes of muscle across his chest, shoulders and long arms. Not once had the man been any more forceful than necessary, she realized. He had bruises from their first encounter—she did not.

The memory of his kiss danced at the edge of her mind, though she was determined to hold it at bay. She found she could not. The kiss, like the man, was a contradiction. Strength cloaked in gentleness, passion shimmering beneath his restraint. Invitation. Oh, did she dare accept what he had offered?

As if aware of her study, he turned his head enough to look at her. "You doing okay over there?"

She nodded.

The corner of his mouth lifted in his easy smile. "More to the point, am I doing okay?"

"Perfect," she said, voicing the first thought that came to her.

He laughed. "Oh, ho! Perfect."

"Don't let it go to your head."

Still chuckling Ian returned his attention to the heavy seas. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. Like you told me before, I could be doomed for disappointment."

"You could," she agreed. "So, where did you find the transmitter?"

"I hadn't unpacked everything," he lied, remembering his stunned surprise when he'd discovered a box of condoms—that hadn't been on his list to Kyle—when he unpacked clothes and toiletries Kyle had bought for him. Annoyed with Kyle's assumption, Ian had thrown the box into the nightstand drawer without even looking in it. A box that contained the transmitter was hidden by a few foil packets. A damn near fatal mistake.

"At least you found it."

"Yeah."

The silence stretched out between them, and Ian found himself once again feeling the effects of the rolling waves. "Talk to me, Rosie."

"About what?"

"Anything that will take my mind off my stomach. Tell me about fishing with your dad when you were a kid. Was it like this?"

"Worse," she returned. "Why, this is a fair-weather day compared to some."

He stuck a leg out toward her. "Okay, keep pulling. I asked for it."

She grinned. "Yeah, you did." And she launched into the stories of fishing for halibut and salmon that were part of her family's lore. Whether the time passed quickly or not, he couldn't have said. He liked the things she told him about her family, but then he always liked those stories, though he always felt like the little kid peering through the pet shop window with no hope of having that puppy he wanted.

"Your turn," she said sometime later. "What about your family, your parents?"

"There's not much to tell," he responded, realizing he should have foreseen this. He didn't talk about his family. Even his best friend, Jack Trahern, didn't know the details. If anybody would have understood, it would have been him.

"There's always something—even if you're an only child."

"I have four brothers and a sister."Had, he mentally corrected.

"They must be proud of you."

"Not hardly."

"I can't believe that. You have a military record that would make any parent proud—"

"Medals don't mean a thing," he interrupted, wishing he had foreseen this particular turn in the conversation. He flexed his hands around the wheel.

"That's not what Hilda found out."

"Then she didn't get the whole story." Of course, she wouldn't have. That had been part of the deal. He kept his nose clean, and his juvenile record would be expunged. Too bad it hadn't also erased the memories. He couldn't blame Hilda for checking up on him—in her shoes he would have done the same thing.

"Big, bad Ian Stearne. Cut from the same cloth as our friendly neighborhood thug, Marco." Rosie's voice was casual, and he knew she was referring to what he'd told her earlier.

"You've got it, baby. I'm exactly the kind of guy your daddy would have chased off with a shotgun, and he would have been right." He turned to glare at her.

"I've come face-to-face with the worst that men can be," she countered.

He doubted that she had. "Ever hear about Cain—the evil brother?"

"Of course."

"You're looking at him. I used to have four brothers—and I still would if I hadn't killed one of them." He looked at her to make sure she understood.

The boat strayed, and Ian fought to bring it back on course. Memories he didn't want were at the surface, churning like the storm they were fighting their way through.

"I used to run with a gang," he added, without being completely sure that he spoke aloud. "I thought I was hot stuff, but I was nothing but a punk who lived by The Code. Hurt one of us, and we'd hurt one of you… And one night they came looking for me. Only they found my sister and one of my brothers instead." The memories sprayed over him like the waves over the bow. "She lived. He didn't."

Through wave after wave the boat heaved forward. Ian kept waiting for Rosie to say something, anything. She didn't.

He remembered that hour in the judge's chambers as though it was yesterday. It was the first time in his sorry life that somebody had made crystal clear the consequences of his actions. Then he was given a glimpse of another kind of life—the kind he had once dreamed of as a small boy. "In a conversation—lecture—that was strictly off the record, I was given a choice," he finally added. "Enlist and learn some discipline. Or be assured the next time I was arrested I'd be looking at hard time. I took the coward's way out. My mother and my sister and my brothers—they don't think I've paid my debt for Aaron's death." He watched the waves march relentlessly toward them, making subtle adjustments in the steering. "They're right."

"And so you founded Lucky's Third Chance."

He looked over his shoulder. "How the hell do you know about that?" The foundation provided him with purpose in his life. The idea was simple and based on his training experiences in the service. Show people how to be successful in spite of their fear, show them how to do things they thought they couldn't. And build, small step by small step, on those successes. His vision—but staffed with people who had the right training to make a difference.

"A newspaper clipping that Hilda gave me."

He returned his attention to steering the boat. Much as he wanted Rosie to think he was a hero, he wasn't, even though the article she referred to painted him that way.

"What happened to your brothers and sisters?" Rosie finally asked.

"I don't see them much." His mother hadn't turned down the house he bought for her, but he wasn't welcome there. When his sister mentioned she was starting a business, Ian had made sure she had the start-up capital she needed. Then she accused him of trying to buy her forgiveness, which wouldn't happen—not in this life. Micah, his youngest brother, had thanked him for the money that ensured he could go to school without working. He was about to finish his graduate studies. They traded e-mails occasionally, which was all Ian had come to expect. Adam and Eric—they wanted nothing to do with him at all. And he couldn't fault their reasons for hating him.

"And, just in case you're tempted to think that I've got it together, my ex-wife thinks I'm pond scum." He wasn't sure why he was so driven to show her these parts of his life that he'd hidden from others.

Five more waves sluiced over the bow before Rosie said, "You're just determined to make me think the worst of you."

"Damn straight, baby."

"Then you might as well tell me about her."

"She showed back up about a year ago," he said, his chest feeling as tight as it had the day he opened the door and found her on his porch. He hadn't seen her in seven years … and he hadn't thought of her in almost as long. "When we first got married, I was so sure she was the one." Bittersweet memories swamped him—the magic first months of marriage, the bitter months after he returned home from a stint in theMiddle Eastand soon found out that somebody else was sleeping in his bed with his wife.

"The one?" Rosie finally prompted.

Ian glanced at her. "The woman who would be the mother of my children." He shrugged. "She wanted somebody who could give her an easier life than the one I had to offer."

"A woman who came back for the kind of easier life that she'd have as the wife of a millionaire."

Rosie's conclusion was dead-on.

"Shame on her," Rosie added.

The matter-of-fact statement cracked through his strange mood, and Ian laughed. A second later Rosie laughed, too. In her lap Annmarie stirred sleepily.

And it hit Ian square in the middle of his chest—he wanted this. Despite the storm and feeling seasick, he wanted to be right here. He glanced at Rosie, who sheltered Annmarie from the storm. Here was a forever kind of woman—a woman by her own admission who wasn't impressed by his money.

The laughter faded into silence, and Ian relaxed. Every so often he would look over at Rosie. Each time, she glanced away, making him think that she'd been staring. He studied her from the corner of his eye for a moment as another realization washed over him. Her stories of her family hadn't told him anything about Rosie he hadn't already known. She'd do anything for her sisters and Annmarie, but he'd known that before. She cared about her parents and her large extended family … and that wasn't new, either. She lived alone when she clearly didn't have to. What he didn't know was why she'd stayed away from Annmarie and Lily when she clearly cared so deeply for them.

Ahead of them the dark silhouette of land appeared, and Ian glanced at the chart. "Do you have any particular inlet in mind?"

She shook her head.

"Time for a scientific method, then," he said.

"Which would be?"

"Well," he drawled. "You start with your age. Divide by three. Add nine, then divide by four, then subtract one and round up to the nearest whole number."

She laughed. "And you do this in your head?"

"No." He grinned, pleased that he'd made her laugh. "That's why it's scientific."

"I see."

"How about the fourth inlet?" he asked.

Rosie glanced at the chart, the name of his chosen destination immediately catching her attention.HolidayCove.

"It's as good as any. I could use a vacation." She traced the fjord beyond Holiday Cove. "There's a glacier farther on up the fjord. Have you ever seen one?"

"Nope."

"It's something to see."

"Want to hang out there?"

She checked the map again. "No. We're better off in the cove. Besides, being next to the glacier would probably drive you nuts."

He glanced over his shoulder. "How so?"

"As the ice moves, it pops sometimes. Sounds like gunfire."

He grinned. "You're right. That I don't need." He chuckled, then asked, "Do you want to drive?"

She shook her head. "You're doing fine."

As had happened before, the island blocked much of the wind, and the waves subsided. Rosie kept a close eye on the chart, making sure there were no hidden reefs or rock formations that would tear the bottom of the boat as they sailed toward their destination.

By the time they reached their chosen fjord, the waves had settled, and the mist and fog surrounded them in a protective shroud. As long as there were no more transmitters onboard, they would be nearly impossible to find.

The three of them were at last alone.

Ian should terrify her. He was, by his own admission, exactly the kind of man who most frightened her. Except that he—Ian—didn't. It was as though by opening the closet wide and turning on the light, she could see the skeleton was really only a shadow. A less decent man would have kept the closet door firmly closed.

The feeling that curled through her stomach wasn't dread—it was anticipation.
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Chapter 11

«^»

"Go fish," Annmarie announced, grinning at Rosie.

Rosie began drawing cards from the deck in the middle of the table, adding to the six she already held in her hand. With each card she drew, Annmarie's smile became bigger. She held only two cards, and Ian could see they were a pair of kings. Chances were good that Rosie would have the card required to give her three-of-a-kind and end the game. At last she stopped drawing and set her three-of-a-kind on the table, which still left her with a dozen cards in her hand.

"Your turn," Rosie said.

Annmarie grinned. "Do you have … a king?"

Rosie handed over the king, and Annmarie set her cards down. "I win again!" She glanced at Ian, who divided his attention between the fog that shrouded the boat and their card game. Outside, rain pattered against the boat as it had for the entire three days they had been here. "Did you see that, Mr. Ian?"

"I did."

"Aunt Rosie's not very good at this game."

"Hey, don't talk about me like I'm not here," Rosie said.

"Oh," Annmarie said, patting her hand. "You don't have to feel bad. With a little more practice, you'll get better."

Ian laughed at Annmarie's inflection, which sounded exactly like Rosie.

"Are yousure you don't want to play with us?" Annmarie asked Ian.

"Nope." He caught Rosie's glance and grinned. "You know the saying, 'Lucky in love, unlucky in cards.'"

"You could be in for a disappointment," she returned.

He remembered the first time she said that to him, and there had been heat in her voice that she didn't have now. During the three days they had been anchored in this cove, he'd repeatedly tested the waters with her, inviting her to flirt back. She didn't, but her "keep away" signals had dissolved into a certain wariness, almost as though she wanted to flirt but wasn't sure how to.

If she had been Lily, he would have believed she was naive enough not to understand his intent. Rosie was many things—naive wasn't one of them, as she had proven when the two of them searched the entire boat for another transmitter. Thankfully they hadn't found one, but there wasn't an inch that had gone unchecked. The events leading up to their thorough search had somehow cemented things between them. They were allies—albeit reluctant ones, at least on Rosie's part. They made a good team … as long as he remembered she didn't like taking orders.

Since then the fog and the ongoing rain provided them with a cover. Ian knew from his own experience that as long as they stayed put, they were unlikely to be discovered. The days had fallen into a routine that was surprisingly comfortable despite the circumstances that brought them here. They monitored the radio traffic and watched the news, which hadn't let them know much of anything—especially not a bit of news about her cousin and whether he was okay.

So they spent the time inventing games for Annmarie, watching movies from the Eriksens' collection and watching the rain fall as though it might never stop.

During the evenings, he and Rosie talked—mostly he talked, and she listened to his dreams and plans for Lucky's Third Chance. When he told her about his search for a place for an Outward Bound program, she responded that he had described the island where she lived. That suggestion took root, tantalizing him with possibilities—not only about his dream, but about Rosie.

And each night after she went to bed, he kept watch over their safe haven and quietly tortured himself by imagining how Rosie's body would fit intimately with his.

She looked up suddenly, and he realized he was staring. "You're pretty," he murmured, and then could have kicked himself when she frowned.

"I'm not. Annmarie is, but…"

"What about Annmarie makes her pretty?" he asked, wondering why Rosie denied the obvious.

"Yeah," Annmarie piped in, clearly enjoying the attention.

"Well," Rosie said, looking at Annmarie. "Your freckles, and your brown eyes and your shiny hair."

"If that's the recipe," Ian said, "you're pretty, too."

"I think so, too," Annmarie said, and grinned at Ian. "She's got all the same stuff as me."

"She does."

"Plus boobies." She glanced down at her own flat chest. "Mommy says I won't have any for years."

Ian's gaze fastened on Rosie's pink cheeks, and he couldn't wait to hear how she responded. Much as he wanted to look at the rounded curve of her breasts, he didn't.

"Your mother is right," she said, getting up.

The answer must have been exactly on target because Annmarie abandoned the topic of anatomy when she said to Ian, "Since you don't want to play cards, how about we color?"

"I think I'll take Sly outside," Rosie said.

The dog, who had been asleep in the middle of the aisle next to the galley, lifted his head at the mention of his name.

"It's still raining hard," Annmarie called after her. "You're gonna get all wet, Aunt Rosie."

"Need a cold shower?" Ian teased.

At that Rosie laughed. "In your dreams."

"Every single night," he responded.

She opened the door, letting in the distinct smell of the rain. "Come on, Sly."

She opened the gate and put the ramp across to the rocky bench next to where they were anchored. Sly dutifully went across while she stood under the shelter of the canopy.

"Cold shower," Rosie muttered under her breath, staring at the deep water next to the boat. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, but he'd hit too close to home. She kept attributing the byplay between them to their close quarters. But the man looked too darn good, and on top of that, he'd been surprisingly easy company. In a dozen nonthreatening ways, he made it clear that he found her attractive and that he was waiting for her to invite him closer. She didn't dare.

Did she?

Even though she was out here, she knew he was watching, knew that he'd see any movement in the mist long before she did. The first morning, she found him at dawn on the flying bridge, watching the approach of something through the heavy rain. Topaz-blue crystalline icebergs from the glacier at the head of the fjord more than twenty miles away had been reduced to fanciful ice sculptures by the wind and the rain. Thankfully, the occasional iceberg was the only thing they had seen in the channel. But he was always watching.

Just this morning he'd pointed out a pair of deer barely within the timber, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder. She had wanted to lean into his strength and his warmth, and she had stepped away from him just to prove to herself that she could.

How many days had she known him? Five or six now? Too few for any sensible woman to be thinking about letting the man come as close as she was beginning to dream about. Too few, given his confession about his misspent youth and his too-evident familiarity with violence.

The warrior in him couldn't be disguised. No matter how absorbed he seemed in the games they played with Annmarie, there was a part of him ever on guard. However disturbing she personally found his strength and his constant watchfulness, she also admitted that she had never felt safer or more cared for. That realization kept surprising her.

Each time she experienced one of his casual, intentional touches, she wondered what kissing him again would be like without the awful distractions they'd had the other day. Kissing him … and more.

Her only salvation was Annmarie and thinking of ways to keep her entertained. Staying away from Ian was impossible, especially since he was included in their games and played readily, his competitive steak brushing off on Annmarie. This afternoon, when they played cards, was the first time he hadn't wanted to be included.

At last Sly returned to the boat, and Rosie went back inside, immediately catching Ian's eye. She'd bet he knew that she hadn't been off the boat. She wished she could make some flip comment about showers that would put him in his place. None came to mind. As if he somehow knew that, he winked.

"I think it's time for popcorn and movies," he said. "Annmarie, what do you want to watch?"

* * *

Long after she went to bed, feeling Annmarie breathe softly next to her, Rosie stared at the ceiling and listened to the rain patter gently against the hull. The movie had been an adventure, but when the hero's romantic interest had been put in jeopardy, he risked life and limb to save her, showing her the depth of his feeling through his actions, though he never confessed his love. Rosie found herself comparing the movie script to their situation. Ian had put his life on the line several times to keep them safe … actions even more heroic than in the movie they had watched. Then he had kissed her with such gentleness and restrained passion.

Images of everything that had happened over the past week flowed through her mind, Ian at the center of her thoughts. The way he had looked that first breakfast they shared and her discovery of a steely resolve just beneath his easy smile. The sensual invitation in his eyes every time he looked at her. The massage he'd given her the first night on the boat, almost as though he'd known she was afraid to be touched. And his kiss. Added all together, how in the world was she to resist the feelings blossoming inside her?

Too restless to sleep, she climbed from bed and went to the galley. She opened the refrigerator door and stared inside. She didn't want food or drink or a boring book, all designed to make her sleep. What she wanted was to—

"Make love," she whispered. Her heart pounded, but admitting it out loud hadn't been so bad.

"I've been thinking about that, too," he said.

Her breath caught. She whirled around and found him sitting on the couch next to the helm. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"Not much." He stood and moved toward her. "What are you doing up, Rosie?"

"I—" Lord, she felt as though she might strangle"—couldn't sleep."

His chuckle was soft. "That's a relief. You're not sleepwalking, then."

"No."

He was close enough that she could see his eyes. He was dressed only in jeans, his chest bare and looking better than she remembered, even in the dim light from the inside of the refrigerator. She pushed closed the door, and the darkness, broken only by a light marking the location of one of the steps, seemed much too intimate.

"And you're thinking about making love."

"Oh. Um. Ah, I was, uh … talking to myself."

He reached for her hand. "Don't let me stop you." He placed her palm against his chest. "Now, you were saying?"

Beneath the hair that curled around her fingers, the skin of his chest was hot. No thought coherent enough to express out loud surfaced. She felt the thudding of his heart, and somehow hers caught the same tempo.

He moved closer and rested one of his hands at her waist, and with his other lifted her chin. "I can't get that kiss out of my mind, Rosie." He lowered his head, and his mouth brushed against her temple, then touched her cheek. "I'm going to kiss you again," he said. "Okay?"

"Okay." Her reply came out on a sigh, and she lifted her face toward him, wanting that kiss more than she'd ever wanted anything. Instead of kissing her mouth, his lips strayed over her face as though he had nothing better to do than sprinkle soft leisurely caresses all over her cheeks and nose and temple. Finally he kissed the corner of her mouth, and she turned into him, determined to have the kiss she wanted. He stilled, as if he, too, were waiting. She stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth, then touched his jaw, pulling it down, feeling the rasp of his whiskers beneath her fingers.

"Kiss me, please," she whispered.

"My pleasure," he murmured, his mouth against hers. Then he brushed her lips with his, softly, just as the kisses on her cheek had been. Long moments after she thought she'd burn alive from the wanting, he opened his mouth and gave her the hot, seeking kiss she had wanted.

Tears sprang to her eyes, the sensation everything she remembered and more, swallowing her within a vortex of swirling brilliant sensations that left her shaking. She greedily devoured him right back. If she had ever felt … quite like this … she couldn't remember.

She eased her hands into his hair, her senses heightened to his scent, the touch of his tongue gliding against hers, the pressure of his chest against her sensitive breasts.

His hands cupped her bottom, and as if sensing she could no longer support her own weight, he lifted her onto the narrow counter, then stepped between her legs. She wrapped them around him, the denim of his jeans abrasive against her bare skin of her inner thighs. His hands eased beneath the cotton of her oversize T-shirt and left a scorching path across the bare skin of her back. He grazed the side of her breasts, and she pressed closer, wanting, needing a more intimate touch.

He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, his breath ragged.

"We're making love," he murmured.

"Yes," she whispered.

"I want to take you downstairs." He drew back and looked in her eyes.

He was, she realized, giving her a moment of sanity in which she could say no. Despite the twinge of apprehension that slithered through her, she felt as though she was at the brink of some wonderful discovery that she'd forever regret if she didn't face her fear.

"Yes."

He stepped back and held out his hand. She took it and slipped off the counter. He led her down the steps to his stateroom where a night-light revealed his mussed sheets—an indication that at least at some point he'd gone to bed.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face against her stomach, his breath hot, even through her T-shirt. He cupped her bottom beneath her panties, his hands as hot as his breath. An instant later he pulled the panties down her legs, and she stepped out of them, trembling so badly that she sank onto the bed. He followed her down, lying beside her, running a long finger down the center of her body.

"I love the way you smell," he whispered. "Roses, but better."

She scooted closer, then kneaded the muscles of his back, absorbing everything about him. The smooth feel of his skin, the taut muscles of his shoulders, his murmurs of reassurance and praise as he pulled the T-shirt over her head.

"Open your eyes, Rosie," he whispered. "Look at me."

She did, and his eyes burned into hers. His hands were hot on her breasts. She glanced down, and against the pale skin of her breasts, his hands looked impossibly large and beautifully masculine. The approval in his expression when he at last looked at her made another flare of heat burn through her, leaving her achy and empty and needy as she had never been. He brushed his hands over the curve of her breasts, teasing and caressing and making her ache for more.

His breath felt so hot against her skin. The attention he lavished on her breasts was an imitation of the kisses he'd given her earlier, a teasing sprinkle designed to make her lose her mind. When he at last pulled a nipple into his mouth, she arched into him. He showered caresses on one, then the other, that left her begging for him to finish it.

She opened her legs for him at the touch of his fingers against the inside of her thigh, sure that he'd carry her over the pinnacle soon. His touch intensified each wave of sensation without satisfying it

She explored him just as greedily, reassured by his carefully controlled strength, his ragged breathing and his muttering of her name.

Suddenly he rolled away from her and pushed down his jeans and sheathed himself in a condom that he took from a drawer next to the bed, his hands sweeping up her legs the instant he came back to her.

As if he couldn't stand another second of being separate from her, he eased her onto her back and spread her knees wide with his own. His breath ragged, he stared down at her, looking huge and strong and so, oh male. She reached for him, and he captured her hands with his. In one smooth stroke he entered her, pinning her beneath him.

She cried out and bucked against him, no longer in this moment but caught in an old one filled with unbearable pain and humiliation. She fought to escape, as though her very life were in jeopardy. Suddenly her hands were free, and she swung with all her might, connecting a solid blow to his jaw.

"Rosie, what the hell?"

He rolled away from her, and she scooted to the far side of the bed and stood up, looking wildly around, holding her arms braced in front of her as if to ward off an attacker.

A chill crawled up Ian's scalp as he looked at her. She was positively terrified. He reached for her, needing to reassure her. He'd been so sure she was ready.

She jerked away and ran from the room.

Ian caught her at the bottom of the steps that led up to the salon. Again she swung at him. He let her go and backed away. Breathing hard, she braced her arms against the wall, her head bowed.

"Rosie, what happened? I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear I didn't."

"Go away."

"No." He took her hand, but she snatched it away and stepped beyond his reach, reminding him of that very first morning in her house.

She turned around and looked at him, and he could have sworn that she was surprised to see him. "Oh, God." Her gaze swept down the length of his body, lingering a long moment on his groin. A minute earlier he'd been hard as stone, but he no longer was. Her chin quivered, and she closed her eyes.

"Rosie, talk to me."

She shook her head. "Stay right there."

He went back to the stateroom, pulled on his jeans and disposed of the condom. When he couldn't find her T-shirt, he retrieved a clean one from the dresser. When he returned to her, she had wrapped her arms around herself, and no one had ever looked more forlorn or vulnerable to him. He held the bottom of the T-shirt toward her.

"Here," he said, intending to help her. Instead she took the shirt from him and pulled it over her head.

When she turned back to him, she raised her chin and cleared her throat, tears tracking down her face. "I'm really sorry," she said. "Good night."

"Good night, hell!" He raked a hand through his hair. "If anyone's sorry— I didn't mean to hurt you."

Suddenly she bent her head and wept, sobs shaking her shoulders. When he touched her shoulder, she bolted up the steps. He followed her, guilt riding him hard. She'd been hot and ready for him—he knew it. He didn't have a clue what had happened or what he could have or should have done differently.

Once again he extended a hand to her. "Rosie, please talk to me."

This time she didn't pull away. Keeping his grip loose, he led her to the couch in the salon. She didn't sit as much as collapse, sobs again shaking her shoulders. Ignoring her protests, he gathered her close and held her while she cried, hard bitter tears as though whatever was within her had been bottled away forever.

Confused and feeling guilty and distressed at the depth of her unhappiness, he simply held her.

When she finally stopped crying, she rested against him for a moment and then sat up. She glanced at him before turning to stare out the window to an utterly black night.

"I've never been so embarrassed," she whispered. "And, I'm so sorry."

"You said that already," he returned.

"Yes … well." She pulled the blanket that Annmarie snuggled under nearly every afternoon and draped it over her. Even with the blanket covering her, he could see that she continued to shiver. "I thought I was ready."

He'd thought so, too. A gnawing pain settled in his gut—the one that came when something terrible was about to happen.

"Five years ago I was working in San Jose," she said, her voice soft.

What that had to do with right now, he didn't have a clue, but he watched her without responding, his instincts on full alert to the danger he sensed.

"And, I believed, really believed that nothing could hurt me. And so, one Friday night when a guy I knew from the gym where I worked out showed up with one of his buddies, I let them into my apartment."

Ian knew at once where this was going. He wanted her to stop. He didn't want to hear what had happened, didn't want the terrible images of someone hurting her blistering through his mind.

She told him, anyway, her voice flat and controlled. "They tied me to my own bed," she whispered. "With my favorite silk scarf." She stared right at him, but he was sure that she didn't see him. "And, I kept thinking—hoping, praying—they were finished, but then they'd come back, the two of them taking turns and… Do you know who finally found me? Lily's husband. I'd borrowed his laptop, and he came to get it. I lived in a building where there were forty other apartments, and nobody heard me. Two days … and nobody came." A tear appeared at the corner of her eye. "I might as well have been alone on a deserted island."

Her voice became husky as though her throat was dry, and she licked her lips. Figuring she was thirsty, Ian left only long enough to get her a glass of water. She took it from him and drained the glass. Without a word he sat back down and watched her, sure that anything he said or did would be the wrong thing to make things better for her.

"I followed the rules—did all the things you're supposed to do. I would have killed for a bath, but instead I called the cops."

This time when she met his gaze, he knew she saw him.

"It was like being raped all over again." She laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "It was a threesome that I invited—that's what they said. You're not supposed to fight your attacker, did you know that? But, if you don't have any bruises to prove that you weren't willing…" She wrapped the blanket more closely around her. "Like the D.A. told me, damned if you do, and damned if you don't."

Ian sat and listened, his own features just as controlled as hers, his shock and fury at what had happened to her more intense than anything he'd ever felt in his life. Over something that had happened years ago. Her panic every time she felt cornered made sense … and if he'd known, he would have done things so, so differently. She'd trusted him to help her regain a normal part of her life … and instead he'd shattered it. He wasn't sure he could live with that.

"I was so afraid to be by myself, and John and Lily were so great, letting me stay with them—even driving me to work when I couldn't face getting into my car alone. When I found out I was pregnant… Did you know that Lily had been trying to get pregnant for years?" Rosie stared into space long minutes. "How could I get an abortion when she couldn't get pregnant? How fair is that?" She took a deep breath. "And since there wasn't enough evidence to prove I was raped … we didn't tell anyone."

Ian took Rosie's hand, clasping her cold fingers within his, the best he could do right now. Making sure not one iota of the rage he felt was transferred to her, he caressed the soft palm of her hand with his thumb.

"And Annmarie was so perfect, so beautiful that it seemed impossible that she'd been conceived … that way. God help me, but I loved her."

From the first instant he saw her with Annmarie, he'd known that she did.

Her chin quivered. "That first night, I held her all night—my baby girl, and I didn't know how to give her up. Only, I'd promised Lily, you see. And she loved her, too. It was best. She'd have a mother and a father, and I'd be her favorite aunt." Rosie closed her eyes, and a wash of tears seeped from beneath her lids. "It was best. So Lily and John adopted Annmarie when she was a day old."

The silence was so complete that Ian could hear the faint slosh of water against the hull. When Rosie shivered again, he lifted her, blanket and all, onto his lap. Then he held her, having nothing else to offer her. His heart pounded … he had the rest of the story, and he wished to God he'd never wanted to know why she'd never visited Lily and Annmarie in California.

He'd do whatever it took to keep Rosie safe. As long as he drew breath no one would ever hurt her again. Finding those two men— He had the resources to do just that plus make sure they could never hurt anyone else. He could take care of that in a heartbeat. He knew he wouldn't, but he liked thinking about it.

Delivering Rosie back to her home and making any repairs on her house and plant nursery that might be needed—that he could also do. She wouldn't even have to ask. He was good at figuring out what had to be done and then making sure it was. He could do that for her—figure out what she needed, then put to use his resources to make it happen.

Showing her how to be healed of this great gaping wound that she carried—that was beyond him. He leaned his cheek against her soft hair, wishing he were a different kind of man.

As she relaxed little by little against him, his heart broke for her … and for him … and for the crushed dreams he hadn't even known he had.
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Chapter 12

«^»

Rosie awakened to the aroma of coffee and bacon. She inhaled and snuggled more deeply under the covers, loath to give up the fog that enveloped her. When she heard Annmarie's giggle, Rosie smiled. There was nothing in the world better than that child's laugh. Ian's deep chuckle joined Annmarie's, a sound just as inviting.

She let her eyes drift open, and the first thing she noticed was a brilliant stream of sunlight coming through the window. The rain was over … at last. She stretched, and lifted herself to look out the porthole above the bed, then frowned when she realized she was on the couch in the salon rather than the queen-size bed she shared with Annmarie. The big windows across the bow and along each side of the boat gave her a full view of the cove where they were anchored and the steep rise of an island on the other side of the fjord a mile away.

From the galley and adjoining dinette, Annmarie's childish voice floated to her, though the words were indistinguishable. Ian laughed, and the sound feathered through Rosie's chest.

In a flash she remembered. Thinking she was ready to make love … with Ian. The heady desire that had rushed through her veins. The anticipation.

The instant he entered her.

The flashback.

She closed eyes, turning her head into the pillow. Dear God, she had honestly thought she was ready.

And Ian. Despite the kindness he'd shown in the aftermath, would he think she'd been a tease? Or would he think she was ready for a straitjacket? How could she have led him on like that?Get a grip, Jensen. The point was a whole lot more basic than worrying about what Ian thought of her. How could she have believed that she could ever, ever have a normal relationship with a man. It wasn't going to happen.

With a mutter of disgust she swung her feet to the floor and stood. She stared down at Ian's T-shirt, which fell to midthigh, remembering the instant she put it on. Never had she felt more vulnerable than when she had run from Ian's bed—not even the morning John had found her in the apartment after the rape. Hopefully she could make it to the shower before Ian or Annmarie noticed she was awake.

Fate wasn't with her. Annmarie poked her head over the top of the dinette, and a huge grin split her face.

"Aunt Rosie!" She slid off the bench and skipped toward Rosie. "Lookit outside. The sun is shining. And don't you hear the birds singing? And you promised me that we'd hunt for seashells again as soon as there was a nice day." She jumped up to her with the complete confidence that she'd be caught … and she was. "It's anice day. No more yucky rain."

"I can see that." Rosie hugged her.

"So, it's a good idea, right?" Annmarie hugged her back, then leaned back to stare earnestly into Rosie's eyes. "And we could have a picnic—not a real one because we don't have any hot dogs, but we've got peanut butter for sandwiches. And we can play Frisbee with Sly and everything."

"Maybe she'd like to get dressed first," came Ian's bland interjection from the direction of the galley.

"I know that." Annmarie's grin stayed in place. "As soon as you put on shoes—"

"And have breakfast," Ian said.

"And have breakfast," Annmarie repeated with an exaggerated sigh, "then, we can go. Okay?"

"Okay." Rosie let Annmarie slide down, then wished she still held her when Ian came toward them carrying a cup of coffee. She had no idea what to say to him, so she looked away.

"Morning," he said, holding the cup toward her.

She carefully took it, dreading what she might see in his expression. When she glanced up, his easy smile was in place—the one that hid his thoughts. His cheek was swollen near his eye and discolored. Once again, he had bruises from an encounter with her … and she'd had only consideration from him. Without thinking, she touched his face.

"Mr. Ian, he's going to take me fishing," Annmarie said. "And he's going to show me how to find bears and lions by following their tracks."

"I'm sorry," Rosie whispered.

"Don't be," he returned.

"Did you hear me?" Annmarie interrupted.

Rosie glanced down at her.

Annmarie spread her arms wide. "This is going to be the best day."

"Want to take a shower before breakfast?" Ian asked. When she glanced back at him, his smile widened, and he nodded toward Annmarie. "She has plans, and this could be your only chance."

"Sounds like." Rosie moved toward the stern.

"And hurry," Annmarie called after her.

What could have been an awkward and awful morning after was mitigated by Annmarie, who seemed blissfully unaware of any tension. Ian's sharp gaze caught every movement beyond the window though he responded to Annmarie's chatter with his usual easygoing aplomb. By now Rosie knew him well enough to recognize that his focus was elsewhere—if she were in his shoes, she'd be counting the hours until he was away from her.

She allowed herself to be drawn into the child's enthusiasm, and within an hour they were exploring along the shoreline. They found a dead tree where several bald eagles kept watch, while another soared above the water.

"The last time I saw a bald eagle was when we were training in the desert in southern New Mexico," Ian said. "Never saw so many together. I thought they were solitary."

"Maybe they are when the food supply is scarce," Rosie responded.

"I never saw one except in a picture," Annmarie said. "They don't look bald to me, not like Mr. Potter." She grinned at Rosie, taking the Frisbee from her. "His head is very shiny. Mr. Ian, throw this for Sly, okay?"

Ian took the disk from her and threw it, and Sly immediately chased it. Annmarie giggled and ran after him, calling him to her when he retrieved it. Dutifully he dropped it at her feet. She brought the disk to Ian.

"Throw it again," she commanded, then pointed toward the eagles. "So why are they called bald?"

"Because of the white feathers on their head," Rosie said.

"Oh." Annmarie thought a minute. "I don't think bald is a good name. They should be white-headed eagles."

He laughed, throwing the Frisbee. "Can't argue with that."

"Wait until you see them fish," Rosie said, watching Sly jump into the air for a perfect catch.

"Birds can't fish," Annmarie said. "Can they, Mr. Ian?"

"I've heard they can," he responded.

Rosie took Annmarie's hand. "When we get back to my house, maybe you'll have a chance to see that. Your mom, too."

"Mommy's coming?"

"Soon," Rosie promised. How much longer could it be until Lily testified?

"Yay!" The child skipped away, taking the Frisbee from Sly when he brought it back. This time she threw it, and Sly easily caught it a scant ten feet away from her. He returned it to her, and she threw it again.

Moments later Rosie became aware that Ian was watching her. Without Annmarie as a buffer, the silence became almost palpable. Rosie hated knowing that she had failed herself … failed him. Most of all, she hated the expression in his eyes—pity. It made her the victim she had fought so hard not to be.

"When I called Lily from the Bobs', she told me that she's quitting her job," Rosie said, putting her hands in the pocket of her knit jacket. "And she's put her house up for sale. And … she's decided to move back to Alaska."

"I'm not surprised." He followed Rosie as she wandered away from the meadow and meandered up the rocky shoreline littered with driftwood. "She's been thinking about it since shortly after John died."

In all their conversations, Lily had never mentioned that to Rosie, an omission that again punctuated how little she really knew of her sister's life. "There's nothing here for her."

"Maybe she doesn't see it that way. She'll be closer to you, to your folks."

"She'll also be giving everything up as a research scientist. She needs a university for that. In her line of work, it's publish or perish." Rosie shook her head. "She's talking about teaching high school or community college. This from a scientist who is one of the best in her field." Though Rosie hadn't voiced her concerns to Lily, she didn't understand it. Lily had worked for years to get to this point in her career, complete with a staff of graduate students, post docs, and million-dollar grants.

"I figured you'd be happy. Annmarie would be closer."

"Yeah." Rosie glanced back toward the grassy knoll where Annmarie played with Sly. "That will be nice."

"Nice?"

"Sure."

"But you'll still be on your island, and she'll be somewhere else."

The bite in his voice made her turn around and look at him. "What are you getting at?"

The easy smile was gone. He stared at her with the same intensity as the eagles watching from their tree, and there was no disguising the angry jut to his chin.

"That you're hiding."

That simple comment sliced her open as though it was somehow the truth. It couldn't be the truth. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" His eyes took on a sudden glitter. "I wrote the book on hiding. Why do you think I live as far away from my family as I can get?"

She shook her head.

"Because they don't want me. Because they have cause. Because some things really are unforgivable. Because it's easier to hide than to ask for something I don't deserve." He took a step toward her. "But you … do you know how much your sister loves you, needs you? Wants you to be part of hers and Annmarie's lives?" He waved an arm toward the water. "You're an island, Rosie Jensen, and it's by your own choosing."

"I'm not."

"Sure you are. Alone with your fortress walls in place. Well, lady, the invasion has begun, and you're going to have to deal with it." He waved toward Annmarie. "I've met your folks because they come to visit their granddaughter. And I've met your sister Dahlia, who spent a month with Lily after John died. Where were you, Rosie?" Without waiting for an answer, he added, "On your island—separate and apart and doing nothing to help yourself to move on."

"How dare you!" She remembered that spring vividly. It was the first year she had contracts of any size to provide seedlings to the forest service and a major timber company. If she had left her business for even a week, she wouldn't have had a business. It had killed her not to be able to go to Lily. The only thing that had made it bearable was knowing that Dahlia and her folks were there.It had been like that, hadn't it? She closed her eyes against the niggle of doubt.

"I dare a lot." He stepped closer. "After last night I figure I'm entitled."

"This is about last night?" She lifted her chin. "I knew it. You're mad."

"I'm not mad." He sounded mad. "This is about you running away from your problems."

"I don't run away." She prided herself on that.

"Which is why you had a flashback last night."

"You don't know that."

"The hell I don't." He pointed toward the bruise on his cheekbone. "If yon think I believe for one minute that you were hittingme, think again."

She shook her head.

"You're not the only one who has them, Rosie." The anger drained out of his voice. "Ask any soldier who's seen serious combat. What happened to you was serious combat. You think you were the only one hurt last night?"

Her gaze flew to the bruise. She didn't remember hitting him but knew that she had. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"That's not what I'm talking about. If you'd been straight with me, I could have—Iwould have done things differently."

Fierce anger burned through her, and she attacked. "And just how was I supposed to do that? Confess that I'd been raped and watch the pity in your expression and then ask you for another of those good deeds you're always so willing to perform—"

"I don't pity you." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I thought I'd hurt you, dammit. If I'd known—"

"I couldn't tell you." Unable to stand the tension a second longer, she ran.

"Rosie, wait!"

"Leave me alone," she called over her shoulder. "Just leave me the hell alone."

She climbed the slope, returning to Annmarie and Sly. When she glanced back at Ian, she was relieved to see that he hadn't followed, but stood watching her.

Annmarie brought her the Frisbee, and Rosie threw it, only half listening as the child laughingly urged Sly on. The next time Rosie looked at Ian, he was walking toward the point, picking his way through the driftwood that littered the shore. She had the oddest feeling that he was walking out of her life.

The man had a life away from here, not to mention his own family problems. That didn't mean he was right about hers.

As Rosie played with Annmarie, Ian's accusations rang in her ears. He couldn't be right. She'd done all the things she was supposed to do to take control of her life again.

Press charges … which were dropped when there wasn't enough evidence to prosecute.

Get therapy, which she had done until it seemed nothing more could be said.

Enroll in a self-defense class to help her feel empowered and less a victim.

Take charge of her life. Lily had invited her to move in with her and John, but Rosie knew that would have kept her stuck in the old habits, unable to open the door without fearing who she'd see on the other side. When she had found the newspaper ad for a small nursery on a tiny island less than a hundred miles from her folks' home, she had packed up and moved. She hadn't missed anything about the Silicon Valley … except for her sister. As children, they'd been so close, often excluding Dahlia who wanted to be like her oldest sister and who battled Rosie for Lily's attention. Rosie had moved to the Silicon Valley to be close to Lily, and leaving was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

In the solitude and safety of her beloved island home, Rosie had built a new life where fear no longer ruled her. Uncle Ross had carved a totem and blessed it with an ancient ceremony that invited prosperity and warded off evil. The totem had become a talisman for her work, which she loved. She gave back to the community by volunteering with the search-and-rescue team and teaching first aid at the community college.

She hadn't been running. She had been healing.

Ian … he couldn't possibly be right.

"Come on, Aunt Rosie," Annmarie called from farther up the slope. She clambered across one of the boulders and put her arms in the air. "I'm way high, aren't I?"

Rosie swung her off the rock and laughed when Annmarie squealed with delight. The instant the child was on the ground, she was off and running again, expending all the energy she had stored up on their long rainy days. Rosie gave herself to the play even as she was aware of Ian walking away from her.

He was wrong, she thought. If she spent her time mostly alone, it was because she liked it that way. Not because she was hiding. She had stayed away from California because she couldn't deal with the endless traffic and the constant bustle and the not-so-benign strangers that were part of living there. If not for that, she would have been part of Annmarie's and Lily's life.

Ian's harsh assessment seeped through her, though, feeding doubts that she hadn't even realized she had. She had been so sure her fear after the rape was what kept her away from California. Being away from Lily, not seeing Annmarie grow—that wasn't how she had wanted things to be.

And as she played with Annmarie, Rosie ached for all that she had lost, remembering that she had planned to be the favorite aunt. If she wasn't, she had no one to blame but herself. They played hide-and-seek around the large boulders that dotted the sloping meadow, their laughter ringing out.

"You can't catch me," Annmarie challenged, disappearing behind a rock.

Rosie came around the opposite side, laughing with her. "Here I come."

She stumbled across an exposed root and lost her balance. She threw out her hands to catch her balance but fell, anyway.

Dumbly she stared at the soggy opening beneath the tree root, which looked ever more red. She couldn't believe that she'd been stupid enough or clumsy enough to fall.

Her scalp felt sticky and warm, and she reached up to touch it. Excruciating pain shot through her arm and shoulder…

She cried out.

Annmarie screamed.

The red haze in front of Rosie's eyes turned to black as she struggled to reassure Annmarie. Vaguely Rosie wondered who would rescue her, when she was the rescuer.

* * *

At first, the scream didn't register with Ian, who had leaned against a boulder as he watched the water lap against the shore. The vistas ahead of him looked more like a mountain lake than the ocean. Except in the distance, he had watched a pod of killer whales swim past.

When he realized the depth and distress of Annmarie's cry, he ran back up the shoreline. He didn't see her … or Rosie … anywhere, and his alarm increased.

He called to Annmarie, but she didn't answer.

Finally he saw her behind one of the boulders. Giant sobs shook her shoulders, and she continued to scream.

And then he saw Rosie. She lay on the ground, caught in a tangle of roots from one of the trees that grew farther up the slope. Her arm was thrust out at an awkward angle. Blood trailed down the side of her head. Sly stood over her, sniffing.

Ian felt his heart stop, then resume double-time.

"My God." He knelt, pressing his fingers to the artery just below her jaw. A rush of relief flowed through him when he finally found her pulse. He leaned over her and saw that her eyes were open. "Rosie, can you hear me?"

She blinked but didn't respond.

His first instinct was to simply pick her up and return to the boat as fast as he could. But what if her back was injured? And where the hell was all this blood coming from?

The next few seconds blurred together. He found the wound on her head, a deep jagged cut behind her ear. It seeped blood with every beat of her heart. Head wounds were always the worst—so much blood.

Annmarie continued to cry. Ian cupped her cheek with his palm. "Rosie is gonna be okay," he said. She had to be. Nothing else was acceptable.

He rummaged through the pockets of the jacket, wanting anything to make a pressure bandage. Nothing. The blood kept pooling, then trickling down her neck. He tore off his jacket and pulled off the long-sleeved T-shirt he wore and made a pressure bandage out of it, using the sleeves to secure it firmly around her head.

The instant he touched her arm, she groaned. Getting her untangled from the roots—he didn't know how he was going to do that without moving her. And before he did that he knew he had to make sure she didn't have a spinal injury.Think!

He glanced down at Annmarie, who had plopped onto the ground next to Sly, running her fingers through his ruff, huge tears soaking her face, sobs shaking her shoulders.

"C'mere," he said gruffly, scooping her up and hugging her tight. "Rosie is going to be okay."

Annmarie shook her head.

"I wouldn't lie to you." He pressed a kiss against her silky curls, then lifted her face. "Honest, petunia. We're a team, you and me. We'll figure this out, too."

He set Annmarie down next to Rosie. She was so pale. He touched her cheek to reassure her, and his hand trembled. He'd been in combat situations that were much more grim, much more dangerous—had even been wounded in one. But he'd never felt this helpless.

Deciding the roots were small enough he could hack through them with blades from his Leatherman, he pulled it out of his pocket and opened it to the blade he wanted.

"You're my partner, right, petunia?" he said to Annmarie.

"I keep telling you," she said, hiccupping. "I'm not a flower."

"But you are my partner."

She nodded.

"While I'm getting her arm loose, I need you to talk to her. Okay?"

Annmarie looked up at him. "I don't know what to say."

"Anything, petunia." The accident was his fault. If he hadn't yelled at Rosie, taking his own frustrations out on her in a misguided attempt to help, he would have been there playing with her and Annmarie. She wouldn't have run from him.

Annmarie wiped her eyes and took Rosie's hand. "Once upon a time," she began, "there were three bears." She sniffed, but with each sentence her voice grew stronger. Ian couldn't determine if Rosie was listening or not, but his objective was accomplished—Annmarie was no longer screaming, and she felt as if she was helping.

"You're doing great, petunia," he said when she paused.

The roots imprisoning Rosie's arm were tough. He began to wonder if he shouldn't have returned to the boat to look for a hacksaw, when he finally cut through the largest one.

"…and then baby bear said—" Annmarie sniffed. "I think I'm going to cry again," she whispered.

Ian touched her head. "Okay. But I still need your help."

"Okay," she sniffed. "Aunt Rosie's hand is cold."

Shock.He draped his jacket over her, then checked his makeshift bandage, which looked as if it was doing the job. She was still bleeding, but not as much.

A breeze swept off the water, feeling cold against Ian's bare chest and carrying the scent of rain. He glanced up and saw their sunshiny day had been short-lived. Rain was indeed on its way once again.

He began cutting through the root holding Rosie's wrist. She cried out. Ian stopped and knelt next to her. Her eyes were closed, but tears welled from beneath them.

"Rosie?"

She tried to move.

"Stay still," Ian commanded

"Hurts." she said. "Rock … digging into my cheek."

Ian slipped a finger between her face and the unforgiving stone. Beneath her cheek, he found the sharp rock and swept it away.

Rosie shuddered suddenly, and her teeth began to chatter.

"I'll have you out of here in just a minute," he promised.

"You and what army?" she returned. Her whisper broke.

It was a pitiful attempt at humor, but he squeezed her hand. "Rangers lead the way."

"I really want to get up," she whispered.

"In a minute." Each cut at the roots made her wince. Finally one gave way, and her arm flopped to the ground.

Rosie cried out. The pain of it cut Ian to the quick. Her shoulder protruded. Dislocated. He couldn't do anything about it with her lying on the ground in so awkward a place.

"Can you move your feet?" he asked.

She flexed them, then her fingers and toes, each move offering reassurance that she didn't have a spinal injury.

Beads of sweat popped out on Rosie's forehead, even as her teeth continued to chatter. "D-d-don't mind me. It's just shock."

"Just," Ian muttered. He remembered enough from his own first aid training in the army to know that shock could kill.

Gently he eased her into a sitting position. When she saw Annmarie, she tried to smile.

"It's okay, sweetie."

"It's not." Annmarie shook her head, and her lower lip trembled while huge tears continued to well from her eyes. "But, Mr. Ian is going to make it better. He promised."

Now that Rosie was sitting up, the angle of her arm worried him even more. Again, improvising, he pulled her good arm out of the sleeve of her knit jacket and used the sleeve to tie her other arm against her torso and hold it immobile. Each movement clearly caused her pain, and with each groan Annmarie cried and squeezed Rosie's hand and told her things would be okay.

When he was finished, Rosie slumped against him. He rested his cheek against the top of her head for a second and contemplated the quarter mile of rocky beach that had to be covered to get back to the boat.

"Ready to go?" he asked, once again wrapping his jacket around her.

She nodded.

He put one hand beneath her knees and the other hand under her back and lifted her across his lap. Then he stood and anchored her more firmly against his chest.

"I can walk, macho man," she whispered, her breath hot against the bare skin of his neck.

"I'm sure you can." He didn't put her down, though. Who knew how much blood she had lost? At least she was conscious. He couldn't deny the boulder-size lump that rose in his throat. Somehow he dredged up a smile. "I'm going to take you back to the boat, and then we're going to play doctor."

She raised that eyebrow, the way she did when she was sometimes angry. "You could be in for a disappointment."

He swallowed the lump. "A man can live in hope." He looked back at Annmarie. "Come on, petunia. I'm going to need a nurse, and you're it."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 13

«^»

The instant they were onboard, Annmarie ran through the boat heading for the galley, while the dog stayed close to Ian. He took Rosie to the salon and set her on the couch next to the helm. Sly crowded close, reassured only after Rosie patted his head.

Ian had no doubt they'd be needing far more skilled medical help than he could provide, and he wanted her where he could keep an eye on her, which he couldn't do if he took her down to her bed. The dog moved out of the way only when Ian wrapped the blanket that Rosie had slept under the night before around her.

"Here, Mr. Ian." Annmarie came back toward him, lugging a large case with the bright logo of a first aid kit. "Aunt Rosie showed me this. It has bandages and all kinds of stuff."

"Good job, petunia"

Ian opened the case, and a fast inventory showed it to be as nearly complete as anything a medic carried.

Blood had begun to trickle from beneath his makeshift bandage. The instant he pulled it away, the trickle increased to a flow, running down her neck. Cursing under his breath that he hadn't done better, he tore the wrapping off a gauze pad and pressed it against the wound.

She didn't resist as he anchored her head against his chest, though her breathing remained ragged. In that same moment he realized he was trembling.

"Are you cold, Mr. Ian?" Annmarie asked. "I can get you a shirt."

As much to reassure himself as her, he tousled her hair. "You think of everything, don't you?"

She cast her aunt a worried glance. "Aunt Rosie fell because she was chasing me." Annmarie's lip trembled. "But we were playing. I didn't mean for anything bad to happen."

"Hey, you." He waited until she raised her tear-filled eyes toward him. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was an accident. That's all."

She took a step closer, looking small and fragile and hitting him in the gut with how good she had been no matter what happened. She wasn't even five yet, and today's accident should have been the absolute worst that she experienced as a child. If he had the power, when this was over, he'd make sure the biggest worry she had for the next year was whether to play inside or out.

He gathered her close with his free arm. "You've been very brave. Your mom would be so proud of you."

"Rosie, she's not going to—" Annmarie's voice faded to a whisper "—die. Like my daddy."

"I promise you, she's not." He held the two of them a moment longer, child and woman. Deep, fierce longing stole through him, clogging his throat. He knew to the depths of his soul this was what family felt like … and the magnitude with which he wanted it in a forever kind of way shook him. With sudden clarity, he understood how Lily felt despite the optimistic face she portrayed to the world. She had trusted him to keep her family safe, and so far he had barely passed muster.

He cleared his throat. "There are shirts in the top drawer of the dresser."

Annmarie drew back, then planted a kiss on her aunt's cheek. "I can get that." She headed toward the doorway that led to the stairs going down to his berth. "Come on, Sly," she called. "You can help me look."

Tail wagging, the dog followed her.

Against his chest, Rosie muttered something about her shoulder.

"One thing at a time." He stuffed a cushion behind her to give her back additional support. "Let's get the bleeding stopped first."

This time, when he lifted the pressure bandage to peek underneath, the bleeding had slowed. He lowered the bandage back down and pressed again. A second later Annmarie returned with a black T-shirt and handed it to him before crawling onto the couch on the other side. He pulled the shirt over his head and was vaguely surprised when he felt warmer, since he hadn't been aware of being cold at all.

"I want to help, too," she announced.

"Water," Rosie whispered.

"Good idea," Ian said.

"I can get it." Annmarie slipped off the couch and ran toward the galley.

"Mike will kill me if I get blood all over his couch."

"I'll buy him a new one if you do." When Annmarie returned with a glass of water, Ian said, "Remember how I told you we were partners?"

She nodded as Ian held the glass against Rosie's lips. She took only a few sips before laying her head back.

"Well, I need a washcloth and a towel and a bowl of warm water."

"Soap, too?" Annmarie asked.

"Sure."

Her small face pursed in concentration, she made three trips, bringing Ian everything he asked for. With the last trip, she walked slowly, carrying a bowl of water filled to the brim.

He set the bowl on the table with a murmured thanks.

She climbed up next to Rosie, intently watching every move he made. He explained everything he was doing, and in turn she repeated what he said to Rosie, adding her own interpretations that would have made him smile under any other circumstances. He washed away the blood around the wound and pulled it together with butterfly bandages, surprised they worked so well.

Carefully he cleaned as much blood from Rosie's hair and neck as he could reach, noticing details he hadn't taken the time to appreciate in his haze of desire last night. The silky texture of her hair and the way the curls feathered at her hairline. The satiny softness of her skin. The fragile curve of her neck at her nape.

And he would have given everything he owned to be touching her in the act of love instead of taking care of injuries that he blamed himself for. When he was finished, he gently set her head against the couch, rearranging the pillow so it better supported her.

From the set of her mouth, he knew that she was in a lot of pain. Based on his observations from the one other time he'd seen a shoulder dislocated, he knew it wouldn't get better until the bone of her upper arm was returned to its proper alignment in the shoulder socket.

He sat back on his heels in front of the couch and glanced at Rosie. "We're about at the end of my expertise. What do we need to do about your shoulder?"

"Did you ever reduce one?"

"Put it back in, you mean?" He shook his head. "I watched our medic do one once." He couldn't imagine laying Rosie down and putting the heel of his foot into her armpit and then pulling on her arm. Somehow that seemed worse than the injury.

Annmarie retrieved the first aid book out of the kit and thrust it into his hands. "What does the book say about broken shoulders?"

She leaned over his knee, looking at the pictures while he read a brief description, which warned about the dangers of reducing dislocated joints and the necessity for immediate medical treatment.

Which meant he had to get her to a hospital. He retrieved the chart book from the drawer by the wheel and flipped through it, discovering what he already knew—they weren't close to anywhere. Juneau was closest. Based on his experience with their travel so far, he figured they were a good eight or twelve hours away. He could only imagine the swelling that would take place around the joint in that length of time.

Rosie didn't say anything more, and she had closed her eyes. Ian glanced at the radio, knowing that he had put off calling for help long enough. He picked up the transmitter, pressed the send button and put a call out to Hilda.

At that, Rosie's eyes opened."…hiding. Remember?"

"I remember."

She shook her head. "I'll tell you what to do."

"And I'd like a second opinion," he returned.

The radio crackled to life, Hilda's voice coming over the air. Concisely Ian explained what had happened. Hilda asked a few other questions about Rosie's condition-whether her arm was obviously broken, if she had a concussion, what her coloring was like. Hilda came to the same conclusion that he had—they needed to get to a hospital. Any one of the injuries was enough to be a worry. Despite the risks, Hilda told him that he needed to reduce the shoulder.

"The key," Hilda instructed, "is constant, gentle pressure. No jerky movements."

Ian described how he'd seen a medic do the procedure, and Hilda offered a couple of minor refinements. She signed off, and Ian promised to call her later.

He unwrapped the blanket from around Rosie, then untied the sleeves of her jacket that had formed a makeshift sling. So much blood was soaked into her shirt that he worried she had some other injury he hadn't yet seen. Reminding himself to focus on one thing at a time, he gently laid her on the floor after she insisted they put a blanket down first to protect the carpet from her blood. Each time she flinched, he felt as if her spasms of pain were his own. He took off his shoes and knelt next to her.

"Ready?"

She opened her eyes, and the trust he saw there humbled him.

"You can do this," she whispered. With her good hand, she reached for Annmarie. "If I cry out, it's not because Ian's doing anything wrong. Okay, sweetie?"

Solemnly Annmarie nodded her head. "I'll make sure Sly doesn't worry," she promised.

"Maybe you should go color," Ian said.

Annmarie's eyebrows rose in an expression that looked like Rosie. "You think I'm going to be scared."

He couldn't deny that.

"I promise I'll be good. Just don't make me go away. Please?"

"You don't have to promise me anything, petunia."

He stood, then straightened Rosie's arm and pulled it out at the angle that Hilda had instructed, then pressed the heel of his foot into her armpit. Hilda warned him the whole thing could take five minutes or more. Never had the seconds ticked by so slowly.

Her gaze locked with his, and he wondered if she imagined other endless seconds as he did. Old memories poured through him of other drawn-out moments that formed the journey that had brought him to this point.

The night his brother was shot and the long wait at the hospital when his other brothers and his sister had huddled around their mother in a tight circle that had excluded him. The family that had disowned him—with good reason. The day his unit had been ambushed in Kosovo and he had been hit by mortar fire while covering Jack Trahern's escort of refugees across an exposed field.

The memories marched closer to the present, including Lily and her family, who had also become part of the fabric of his life, including him as a brother for the first time in too many years. Which brought him to this point, to this woman.

She was in his blood as no one else ever had been. He wanted to please her and throttle her. He wanted to make endless love to her and to kill the men who had raped her. He wanted to spend the rest of his life discovering everything about her, and he wanted to run from her. Somehow he knew that no matter how far he ran, she'd always be right here with him. He wanted to be the kind of man she could turn to in the middle of a cold night and take walks with on summer afternoons. If there was one thing he knew for sure—she needed a man far more gentle than he would ever be.

Little by little he pulled her arm across her body, worried with each passing moment that he was causing her further injury. She cried out, and in the next instant the bone slipped into the socket with an audible click.

Ian dropped to his knees and gently rested her arm against her body.

"Rosie?" he whispered.

She opened her eyes. "That feels much better. Thank you." Shaking with relief, he rested his own head close to hers, she turned her head toward his. To his complete surprise, she kissed his cheek. Without conscious thought he turned his face toward hers and kissed her with all the longing and apology and heartache that had flowed through him during the past twelve hours. Beneath him her mouth felt so soft, so sweet, and he would have been content to have the next hour lying here on the floor with her just like this.

"You're kissing," Annmarie announced, stating the very obvious.

Ian lifted his head and grinned. "Yes, we are."

Annmarie plopped down on the floor next to them. "That's what Mommy always does, too. Kiss it and make it better." She peered into Rosie's eyes. "Do you feel better, Aunt Rosie?"

"I do."

"We haven't ruled out a concussion," Ian said. He peered into her eyes, her dark pupils huge. He found it impossible to think of anything except how beautiful she was.

"I think you have to shine a light into my eyes to find out if they're reactive to light and if the pupils are the same size."

He brushed a hand against her cheek. "If you can think clearly enough to tell me that, it must not be too bad. You ready to get up?"

She nodded, and he eased her into a sitting position. She flexed her shoulder experimentally. When she glanced up at him, he helped her stand, then fingered the neckline of her shirt as soon as she was steady on her feet.

"Next order of business is to get you out of this bloody shirt and cleaned up."

She nodded.

He had already figured out she wasn't wearing a bra, and she couldn't get out of the shirt without his help.

"You keep Sly company for a minute, okay, Annmarie?" He glanced at the child. "I'm going to help Rosie get a clean shirt and then we'll be back."

"Okay," she said, sitting on the floor next to the dog. "Can we color now?"

"Sure." As far as he was concerned, that kid was nearly perfect. If she had asked him if she could fingerpaint a happy face in the middle of the carpet, he probably would have said yes.

Ian followed Rosie to the stateroom. Kissing her had been a mistake, he decided. Instead of helper or protector, he was remembering her the way a man remembers a woman he likes touching. Without warning he was hard, and the timing couldn't be worse.

In the stateroom she opened a drawer and pulled out a clean shirt, one that buttoned up. The shirt she had on, though, was a pullover with a crew neck.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded without looking at him.

He figured she was embarrassed and remembering the disaster from the last night. He had no doubt that if she were feeling better, she would have argued with him about needing his help. Feeling just as uncomfortable, Ian lifted her good arm and drew it out of the sleeve. He pulled the neckline wide and was able to get it over her head without dislodging the bandage. Then, the shirt slipped easily down her other arm. To his relief the smooth skin around her shoulder looked completely normal except for a smudge that he assumed was the beginning of a bruise.

He'd promised himself he wouldn't look further, but he did. Last night he hadn't seen her breasts—he had only touched them. To him, her breasts were perfect, exactly the size and shape to fuel his hottest fantasies, pale like the rest of her, beautiful like the rest of her. He went to the head and brought her a towel. She draped it over the front of her, and he stepped back inside the compact bathroom to fill the sink with warm water. Dried blood was tracked down her neck and across her chest and back.

He glanced at her and found her watching him from the open doorway.

He nodded toward the toilet. "Turnabout is fair play, Rosie," he said, his voice huskier than he had intended, remembering that first day when she had cleaned his wounds. He had liked her hands on him then. Enduring that was easy, compared to doing the same for her. He could only hope he was disciplined enough to remember why he was touching her—and it sure as hell wasn't to cop a feel when she was injured. "Sit down, and I'll clean you up."

Gingerly Rosie sat down on the toilet seat lid. She knew she wasn't thinking clearly, especially when her strongest urge was to drop the towel and encourage Ian to take up where they had left off last night. A sure path to disaster, even if her head hadn't been pounding and her shoulder didn't burn.

When the warm washcloth touched her skin, she flinched.

"Sorry," he muttered. His touch became even more gentle. "God, but you lost a lot of blood."

She remembered when she'd said something similar to him.

He rinsed out the cloth and began washing her back and upperarm.

"Tell me about your tattoo," he said.

She glanced down at the vine that wound around her forearm. "I needed some tangible reminder than I'm the owner of my own body," she said. "No one else." At the time four years ago, the decision had seemed so important to her. A week ago she would have thought it still was. Somehow, today, it didn't seem to matter nearly so much.

"I can understand that." He grinned, catching her gaze. "The ranger logo would have looked nice about right here." He touched her upper arm.

"In your dreams."

He laughed. Deep. Sexy. It rumbled through her bones to her toes, making her remember everything about why she had wanted him last night. She was terrified that she might have another flashback and equally terrified with the depth of her longing for him.

"I'm so sorry about last night," she whispered.

The silence stretched without him saying anything. He just continued to wash her, intent on the task. Feeling almost as uncertain as she had been last night, she watched him. His usual smile was nowhere in sight, despite the laugh he'd had only moments before. Nor did he have that look of "do it my way or else" that had so often grated. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and when his gaze touched hers for a split second, the uncertainty there tore her open.

"Ian?"

"I know you're sorry," he said gruffly. His touch against the curve of her breast as he washed her was impersonal. When he was finished, he tucked the towel more firmly around her and continued to wash her as though nothing else was more important.

She looked away and felt another ache settle into her. Her head hurt. Her shoulder hurt. Her heart hurt. She was pretty sure aspirin wouldn't help the last one.

* * *

Eleven hours later Ian sailed up Gastineau Channel, the lights from Juneau at last visible. Despite it being well after midnight, the boat traffic seemed excessive, though he knew a lone fishing boat chugging through the channel could hardly be considered heavy. Despite that, he worried that Franklin Lawrence's men would show up before they could disappear again.

A large cruise ship, brightly lit and looking huge against the black silhouette of night, was anchored several hundred yards away from the dock. The mist-shrouded lights of Juneau looked bright, though they were a fraction of what he had been used to in San Jose.

Ian supposed that was because they had been alone all these days. When a jet appeared on its approach to the airport, he felt as though he had suddenly reappeared from an alternate universe—the change more abrupt even than when he'd returned to the United States from an overseas assignment.

He glanced at Rosie, who was more asleep than awake. Hilda had told him to try to keep her awake, and if he couldn't do that, to wake her up every couple of hours. After he had washed her and she had put on a clean shirt, Annmarie had helped him with the sling she had found in the first aid kit.

Rosie protested when she'd realized where he intended to go, but she lacked her usual determination. That alone scared him. Despite his promises to Annmarie, he worried that some life-threatening complication lurked beneath the surface of her injuries.

For a while Rosie had watched him, her eyes sad and filled with longing. The sadness he understood, but the longing—that surprised him. Admit it, he thought. That scared him spitless. That he might fail this woman again … he wasn't sure he could live with himself. He was damn sure that he didn't have what it took to help her.

Annmarie was curled up next to her, out like a light. He watched them a long moment, stowing away the memory of how they looked. This little girl who had stolen into his heart the first day she had shown up in his driveway and wanted to know why he had taken apart his motorcycle. This woman who not only had stolen into his heart, but who could steal it right from his body if he stayed around her much longer.

He looked ahead and saw one of the landmarks he'd been watching for—lights along a road following the shoreline. He doubled-checked his bearings with the chart, then headed for the marine park where he could tie up the boat.

He hadn't told Hilda where they were heading, and he hoped Franklin Lawrence's men, assuming they had overhead his conversation with her, figured they would have been closer to Wrangall or Ketchikan. If they hadn't, they still had to figure out where they'd tie up. The downside was that hospitals were few and far between, and there were fewer than a half dozen on the entire inside passage.

His plan was simple—straightforward. Take Rosie to the hospital. Call her parents. Find out if Lily had testified yet. Keep a close eye out until he could disappear with them again.

He pulled into a deserted slip close to the dock. The marina was dark and isolated despite the streetlights less than a hundred yards away. A good place for an ambush.

That in mind, Ian picked up the radio, asked for a land line and called for a cab. He spent the five-minute wait pacing the dock and letting Sly have a last run. When the cab arrived, Ian bundled Rosie into it and slid in after her and Annmarie, then asked to be taken to the hospital.

"Your wife had an accident, looks like," the driver said, offering a congenial smile that matched his picture on the visor.

Ian didn't bother correcting him about his relationship to Rosie. "Yep."

"We were playing, and she fell down and hit her head," Annmarie offered.

"Ouch," the man said in sympathy. On the drive to the hospital, he commented on the early tourist season and talked about things going on around town, including some new construction near the hospital, and pointing out a couple of salmon processing plants along the route. If he noticed Ian's lack of response, he didn't comment.

The staff inside the hospital were just as friendly and just as efficient as the talkative cab driver. Ian expected to find himself cooling his heels in an impersonal waiting room. To his relief he and Annmarie were allowed into the examining room. His surprising realization was that Rosie hadn't been out of his sight, except to sleep, since they had been together. He didn't want to start now.

"Not a bad field dressing," the doctor said, inspecting the wound behind Rosie's ear. "How long ago did this happen?"

Ian glanced at his watch. "Yesterday morning."

The doctor continued his examination, talking in acronyms and medical jargon to the nurse, ordering tests and asking a few questions of Rosie. Finally he turned back to Ian, "We need to rule out that your wife didn't fracture her arm, so I want an X-ray of that, and given the severity of her head wound, I want a CT-scan just to make sure everything is okay. Nothing to worry about. Just a precaution."

"Okay." Ian glanced at Rosie. When she didn't contradict the doctor about their marital status, he ignored the comment, as well. Based on what the doctor had said so far, Ian hoped that she'd be released as soon as she got a clean bill of health. "Whatever it takes to make sure she'sfine."

The nurse touched Annmarie's hair, then gave Ian a reassuring pat on the arm. "You look like you could use a cup of coffee. There's a machine in the waiting room."

Ian nodded, but made no move to leave Rosie. She caught his eye and reached a hand toward him.

"Promise me," she whispered.

"Name it."

"You won't let Annmarie out of your sight."

"I promise," he said instantly. That had never been in question. If she had asked him to leave her behind the way she had the day her cousin was shot, he would have argued with her.

"I'll be right here, Rosie." He nodded toward Annmarie. "The two of us. We'll be right here waiting as soon as you're done."

"And then we can go home."

"The boat, you mean?"

She nodded.

He squeezed her hand. "Absolutely."

A moment later a nurse wheeled her down the hall toward a door marked Radiology, and Ian resisted the urge to follow. When the door closed behind her and the nurse, he decided that now was as good a time as any to call her folks.

"Want a candy bar?" he asked Annmarie.

She shook her head. "I want to go to sleep."

He scooped her up and carried her toward the pay phone. "Hopefully we can do that pretty soon."

She rested her head against his shoulder, and he dialed the number to Rosie's parents. Her dad, Dane, answered the phone, sounding groggy.

Ian glanced at his watch, then groaned. He might have at least waited until morning.

"Dane, it's Ian Stearne," he said.

"Everything okay with my girls?" Dane asked without a trace of sleepiness in his voice.

"We're in Juneau," Ian said, then went on to explain the accident and the extent of Rosie's injuries as best he knew them.

Dane promised that he and Rosie's mother would be on their way to Juneau just as soon as it was light enough to get a float plane in the air.

"What about your police protection?"

Dane made a sound that could have been a laugh. "John Lindquist is assigned, and he'll be with us."

"Has Lily testified yet?" Ian asked.

"She goes on the stand tomorrow."

At last, they were nearly at the end of it.

Dane signed off by telling Ian that he'd meet him at the hospital in a few hours.

In his arms Annmarie grew steadily heavier, and when Ian twisted his head to look down at her, he saw that she'd fallen asleep again.

"Ian Stearne?" someone called to him from the vicinity of the admissions desk.

"Yeah."

Ian turned toward the voice, expecting to see the security officer who had been at the receptionist desk when they came in.

A pair of uniformed police officers strode toward him, their shields and insignia identifying them as members of the Juneau Police Force. It had been a long time, but he remembered the look and the stance officers had when they were approaching someone they considered armed and dangerous. These men acted as though he carried a bazooka instead of a sleeping child.
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Chapter 14

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"Ineed to see your ID, sir," one of the officers said, while the other hung back just slightly, his legs spread, his arms folded across his chest.

"What's this about?" Ian shifted Annmarie in his arms, who stirred with a soft protest, then snuggled more deeply against his neck. He fished his wallet out of his pocket, pulled out his driver's license and handed it over.

The officer examined the license without answering Ian's question, then gave it to his partner who got on the radio, spelling his name out. Ian studied the two policemen. He figured that if Rosie's dad had called them to provide her with extra protection, they wouldn't be clearing his ID as though he was a suspect for something.

"You been in Alaska long?" the officer asked, A. Jones, according to his nameplate.

Ian did a quick count in his head. "A little more than a week." He glanced at the second officer, wondering if his old arrest record would show up—surely not, as that had been fifteen years ago and in Michigan.

Finally the second officer met his gaze. "Sir, you need to come with us."

Ian shook his head and gestured toward the emergency room doors behind him. "I can't leave Rosie—"

"Jensen?" he asked.

"That's right. She's getting X-rays."

"And the kid?"

Ian's arms tightened fractionally around Annmarie. "What about her?"

"Who is she?"

"Rosie's niece."

"You still need to come with us, Mr. Stearne." Jones moved as if to lift Annmarie from his arms. "We can leave the kid with her aunt."

"I'm not going anywhere," Ian stated. "Not without Rosie and not without Annmarie."

She stirred at the mention of her name, muttering softly.

"They'll both be fine right here. Leave the kid with one of the nurses…"

Raw alarm surged through Ian. His experience with cops was they got things the way they wanted—with force or without it. No way was he going to be separated from Annmarie and Rosie.

"Maybe you didn't understand me." Ian looked from one man to the other, sifting through possibilities. These officers were imposters; they were the genuine article and somehow on a mob payroll; they were the genuine article and somebody had reported their arrival, and Ian could almost imagine the report—a man accused days ago of abducting Rosie and her niece was seen at the hospital. That made sense. As soon as Rosie was able to talk to these men, they'd understand. "Rosie will be done in a minute—"

"And you're not leaving," the second officer finished. His nameplate identified him as J.D. Sawyer.

Ian met his gaze. "That's right."

Sawyer stepped forward to take Annmarie out of Ian's arms. "Come along with us, Mr. Stearne, and we'll discuss it at the station."

Ian twisted away, shielding Annmarie. "We can discuss it here. I'm not leaving Rosie."

"You're concerned that she'll be worried." Jones nodded in a gesture intended to be placating. It wasn't. "We don't want that, either." He glanced toward the desk where the late-night watchman had returned to his post and watched them with avid interest. To the watchman Jones said, "You can take care of that for us, right? Tell Rosie Jensen that we've taken her boyfriend down to the station."

"That will be real damn reassuring," Ian muttered. He thought about simply running from these guys—surely they wouldn't shoot at a kid. Never mind that he was a much bigger target. It was the first of many stupid ideas that raced through his mind, each of them filled with pitfalls that would bring down a whole platoon, much less one man. Getting in deeper would only endanger Annmarie and make things worse for Rosie.

"You do have a nurse or someone who can watch the child, don't you?" Jones added.

"Sure," the security officer said, standing up and ambling toward them.

"I am not going anywhere," Ian repeated, stepping backward.

Sawyer followed. "Look, buddy. We can do this the hard way or the easy way—your choice—but you're coming with us." He shrugged as though the choice meant nothing to him. "It all pays the same."

"And you've not given me one good reason why I should go anywhere."

"You giving us attitude, sir?" Sawyer demanded. "Hand over the kid, and let's go."

"No."

When Sawyer reached for Annmarie, Ian gave him a hard shove. Sawyer neatly clamped a handcuff around his wrist, and Jones pulled Annmarie from Ian's arms. Sawyer pressed Ian against the wall, and kicked his legs apart, all the while keeping pressure on his arm and digging his fingers into a nerve that shot a spasm of pain clear to his neck. He swore. In fifteen damn years, some things never changed.

Annmarie began to scream.

"You're under arrest, Mr. Stearne," Sawyer said, pulling Ian's other arm down and clamping the handcuff around it.

"What are the charges?" Despite asking, Ian knew from experience it didn't matter.

"Interference, for starters." He pulled Ian's weapon from the holster at the back of his waist. "Carrying a concealed weapon. You have a permit for this?"

"In my wallet," Ian said tightly.

Annmarie continued to scream, crying out Ian's name and reaching for him. Furious at the situation and at these officers, Ian clamped down on his temper and decided it was probably a good thing he was handcuffed. Otherwise he would have hit somebody.

"I'm not taking any screaming kid. She's your problem," the security officer said, and strode through the swinging door that led back to the emergency room.

Ian shook off Sawyer's restraining hand and walked toward Jones and Annmarie, who struggled with all her might to be let go.

"Annmarie," Ian said.

She practically leaped from Jones's arms and ran toward Ian. He dropped to one knee, and when she reached him, she clasped him tightly around the neck, her face awash in tears and her cries nearly deafening in his ear. He would have given everything he ever hoped to own to put his arms around her and reassure her.

"Annmarie, look at me."

She continued to sob.

"Petunia, come on, we're partners, right?"

She shook her head, her crying not abated a bit.

He glanced up, looking from one officer to the other, then pressed his cheek against the top of Annmarie's head. "We have to go for a little while. We'll go talk to these men, and then we'll come back for your aunt."

"Don't be making promises you can't keep," Sawyer said.

"I don't want to go!" she cried.

"You don't have to go, little miss," Jones said to her. "You can stay here."

"No!" She stamped her foot. "Nonononononono. I want Mr. Ian. You're bad." She lifted her face to Ian. "Make them go away!"

"I wish I could, petunia."

Above him, he could hear the two men talking, evidently deciding to take Annmarie with them.

"Okay, miss, you get to go with us." Jones picked up Annmarie, who instantly began bawling at the top of her lungs again, her face soaked with tears.

Ian wondered if Rosie heard her. She'd be terrified if she did. He shook his head in disgust. If she knew the cops had them both, then maybe she'd know to be on her guard. Or maybe one of these guys would at least agree to stay after talking to her. Acting on the thought, he stood and headed toward the emergency room door.

Sawyer caught him by the arm and swung him in the opposite direction. "This way."

"If you'll just take a damn second and talk to Rosie, you'll know this is a mistake."

"We'll talk to her. In due time." Sawyer steered him outside to the cruiser, where he opened the back door and pushed Ian inside. Jones put Annmarie in the back seat with Ian and fastened the seat belt around her. She promptly slipped out of it and crawled onto Ian's lap, sobbing as though her heart would break. Ian was sure his would.

If that weren't enough, he knew without a doubt that leaving Rosie here alone was the absolute worst thing they could do.

"She really is in danger," he said to Jones, who was again trying to fasten Annmarie into the seat.

"The kid?"

"Her, too, but I'm talking about Rosie." He waited for Jones to look at him. "Her sister is in protective custody until she can testify in a mob case down in California. When they sent guys up here to use her family as leverage, they came after Rosie and after her folks. The state police sent somebody to keep an eye on her parents—Dane and Patty Jensen in Peterburg. Just call them. Call the state police. Please."

From the front seat Sawyer responded, "We'll check everything out, Mr. Stearne." He glanced over his shoulder. "Including the report that you're the one who abducted this little girl and Rosie Jensen."

Ian made a point of glancing at Annmarie, who still cried and still reached for him.

Sawyer shook his head. "She wouldn't be the first kid to identify more with her captor than her rescuer."

Annmarie's cries became louder.

"Can't you see she's scared?" Ian demanded.

The instant the officer let go of her, she again scrambled into Ian's lap. "Leave her alone." He held Jones's glance for a long moment while Annmarie continued to cry. "Please."

Damn, but he hated begging, hated the suspicions of him that made him feel like the punk he had once been and had worked so hard to leave behind. Finally Jones nodded and closed the door.

She snuggled closer when Jones got into the car and it began moving. She tucked her head beneath Ian's chin, her sobs accompanied by a torrent of tears that soaked into his shirt.

"Shhh," he murmured. "You're okay."

She shook her head. "Aunt Rosie is all alone. You promised we'd be there. Make them take us back."

Ian remembered the promise, and the knot in his middle tightened another painful notch.

"I don't like these policemens," Annmarie stated with a sniff, giving up crying in favor of talking. "They're not helping, and Mommy told me they would. And they're supposed to be nice." When Jones turned around to look at them, she glared at him. "You're not nice," she repeated. "And I don't like you."

To his credit Jones ignored that. "I have a little girl who is about your age. Are you four?"

Annmarie turned her face toward Ian's chest and said, "I'm not talking to him. Okay?"

Ian hoped someday he'd smile about this as he brushed a kiss against the top of her head. "It's fine with me, petunia."

She sighed, a ragged catch that rattled through her small body. "I keep telling you and telling you. I am not a flower."

They pulled in front of the police station, which was scant blocks away from where Ian had left the boat

"Jones, make me a promise." Ian waited for the man to acknowledge him, which he did only by meeting his gaze. "Don't let her out of your sight. Her grandparents are on the way to Juneau—Dane and Patty Jensen. Don't let anyone else take her." He swallowed. "Please."

Jones nodded. "You have my word."

The minute he picked her up, Annmarie began to scream again. Each cry stabbed through Ian as Sawyer ushered him through a narrow hallway and into a small holding cell. The building wasn't that large, Ian realized, when he could still hear Annmarie's cries in the lockup. Sawyer locked him in the cell after taking off the handcuffs. He came back to the door a moment later with a manila envelope.

"Time to empty your pockets."

Ian remembered this too well. The last time, he'd carried a switchblade that he'd thought made him a tough guy. Then he'd been nothing more than a hoodlum with a chip on his shoulder. Sawyer wrote down each of the items without comment, and Ian bit against his old resentments of the police. He had a lifetime of experiences between then and now. The feeling was the same. Anger that made him want to hit someone. Fear that threatened his control and made him sweat. Last time he'd picked a fight with anyone who got close, punk behavior that kept him in jail while his brother was buried, while his mother disowned him, while others decided his fate. This time he'd hang on to his temper if it killed him. This time he'd be out in hours—minutes if he had his way—instead of days. Getting back to Rosie … that was all that mattered.

She'd be worried, then scared. And finding out that he had been hauled off to jail—Ian closed his eyes and wrapped his hands around the bars.

"You really do need to send someone back to check on Rosie."

Sawyer didn't even spare him a glance. "So you keep saying." He opened Ian's wallet and listed out loud each of the items as he wrote them down, beginning with the permit for Ian's gun. He counted out the money, one bill at a time. Twelve hundred and forty-seven dollars. "That's a lot of cash for a guy who used to be a punk in Detroit."

Ian bit back the first retort that came to mind."Used to be."

"Need your belt, too," the officer said.

Ian took it off, hoping the officer wouldn't examine it closely at all. Hidden inside was another ten thousand dollars. Sawyer coiled it up and put it in the envelope with everything else.

In the far background Annmarie continued to cry, her sobs more and more upset. The sound tore through Ian. He was exactly where he'd sworn never to be again for as long as he lived, just as helpless to assist the people he loved as he was the last time. The stupidity of this situation and his impotence to do a damn thing about it gnawed a hole right through him.

At least, he reasoned, as long as he could hear Annmarie crying, he knew she was in the building. Still, he would have rather endured a beating than listen to her cry.

Sawyer had just obtained his signature on a sheet of paper with the Miranda warning when the door burst open and another officer came through the door.

"The desk sergeant wants this man in an interrogation room."

"He can be questioned right here." Sawyer motioned toward the holding cell.

The other officer headed back toward the door. "He's tired of that kid screaming for Mr. Ian. You really want to tell the captain you put a little girl in a holding cell?"

Two minutes later Ian was ushered into a room with a table and a couple of chairs, where a female officer sat. Next to her was an empty box, and toys were scattered around the room as though Annmarie had thrown them. She stood in a corner as far from the officer as she could get, crying so loudly she didn't notice him come in. Sawyer greeted the officer, warned Ian to be cooperative, then left.

He knelt and held out his arms."C'mere, petunia."

"No, nononononono!" she wailed."I want Mr. Ian."

"Annmarie."

Suddenly she looked at him. Instantly she stopped crying and marched toward him. A foot away she crossed her arms over her chest and scowled.

"I'm mad at you," she stated, thrusting out her lower lip. Her chin quivered, and she pressed against it with her hand to make it stop. "You left me, and you promised Rosie that you wouldn't."

"I know." He dropped his arms. "Does this mean we're not partners anymore?"

She bent her head, then shook it.

"Need a hug?" In truth, he needed one.

She nodded and put her arms tight around his neck when he reached for her. The female officer sitting at the table caught his glance over the top of Annmarie's head. She smiled slightly.

"There's two things you need to do," he said to Annmarie.

She loosened her hold on his neck and leaned back to look at him, her eyes as suspicious as Rosie's had been that very first morning. "What?"

"Well, first you need to apologize to this nice lady for all your screaming."

She glanced at the officer. "Sorry," she whispered.

"And you need to pick up these toys you threw all over.

The scowl returned. "I didn't throw them."

"Did she?" He nodded toward the woman.

"Um…"

"You pick up one, and I'll pick up one, okay?"

Just then the door opened and another woman came in, this one not in uniform, carrying another box, little mewling noises coming from it. She smiled and held it toward Annmarie.

"I think you'll want to see what one of the men found." She set the box down.

Inside, there was a tiny kitten with a plump little body and a tail that stood straight up.

"Oh," Annmarie breathed, squatting next to the box. She touched the kitten, the last of her tears vanishing within a wide smile. She looked up at Ian, who grinned back at her. "Can I hold it?"

"Sure."

She sat down on the floor and picked up the kitten carefully with soft little murmurs of reassurance. The kitten clambered out of her arms and gamboled away, its tiny legs wobbly. "Ohhh, aren't you just the sweetest little thing," she cooed. "A little sweetie pie." She picked up the kitten again, a tiny ball of mewling calico fur and milky blue eyes. "See how it looks like she spilled milk on her nose?"

"I do."

The kitten batted at Annmarie's finger, and she giggled.

"I'm glad that worked," the woman said, giving the uniformed officer a brief wave as she left. "Hated to see that little one crying so hard."

The officer extended her hand to Ian. "I'm Officer Higgins."

Ian shook her hand. "I'm not going to say, 'Nice to meet you.' I'd rather not be here."

Her faint smile returned. "That's honest, at least."

"Did Jones and Sawyer head back to the hospital?"

"I don't know."

Ian glanced down, then back at the officer. "Somebody needs to go. Rosie needs protection."

"Why?"

"Because there are bad mens all over," Annmarie said as she continued to play with the kitten.

Officer Higgins looked down at Annmarie, then back to Ian. "She sounds pretty sure about that."

"Yep." Annmarie picked up the kitten and petted it. "They shot Mr. Ian, and that's when he hid me. It was very scary, but I promised I wouldn't cry, and I didn't." She looked at Ian. "Did I?"

"You were very brave." Until her tantrum of the last hour, she had been perfect. Since her tears and screams had brought her here, the safest place she could be, she was still perfect.

"That's when Sly Devious Beast found me." Annmarie looked at Officer Higgins. "He's a very funny-looking dog, did you know that?"

The officer shook her head.

"And then we went to Aunt Rosie's house, and we had blueberry pancakes for breakfast."

"I see," the officer said. She nodded toward Ian and indicated a chair. "You were brought in because of a report you abducted this little girl and her aunt."

Ian nodded. "We saw the same report on the news. It's not true. Go back to the hospital and talk to Rosie, then stay with her."

"Why?"

"There's bad mens all over," Annmarie contributed from the floor. "They came to Aunt Rosie's house and broke a window and we went into her basement and through a scary tunnel and saw them because they had flashlights and we didn't."

"You didn't?"

"Nope." Annmarie shook her head, then smiled when she realized the kitten was purring. "But Mr. Ian did, and he found us."

"Why are these guys after you?" Officer Higgins asked, returning her attention to Ian.

"Annmarie's mother is testifying in a murder case in California. She's in protective custody—you can verify that, too. She's supposed to be testifying today."

"And these 'bad men' are after her relatives to stop her."

"That's right."

"But, they couldn't find us," Annmarie added. She continued to pet the kitten without looking up. "That's because we stole a boat."

Ian choked back a groan, and the officer glanced at him, clearly struggling not to smile.

Annmarie looked up. "Aunt Rosie said we were borrowing it, isn't that right, Mr. Ian?"

"That's right."

That faint smile on the officer's face grew a bit wider. "You're being held on a couple of charges—do I need to add stealing a boat to the list?"

"No." He intended to pay whatever rent Mike Eriksen asked. That couldn't be considered stealing.

"And then?"

"We hid out in a cove a day's sail from here."

"You left out the part about the Santa Claus airplane," Annmarie offered.

The officer raised an eyebrow.

"You might want to check on a man named Kyle Lamont," Ian said.

"One of the bad men?"

He shook his head. "He's Rosie's cousin, and he was shot in Kanwau."

"Did you kill him?"

"No. God, no. And I wasn't the one who shot him, either."

"But you did shoot at the Santa Claus plane," Annmarie said. "The plane, it swooped down like this." Annmarie motioned with her hand. "And then there was a big kaboom, and it fell down and made a very big splash in the water."

Ian hadn't known Annmarie had seen all that, and he would have worried if he had. Feeling as though he had failed to shelter her, he folded his arms across his chest.

"And then," she continued, looking at him, "that's when it started raining really, really hard, and the big waves splashed all around and you threw up, right?"

"Right," he agreed, his glance skittering away from Officer Higgins.

"Is what she said true?"

Ian nodded. "They were dropping dynamite on us."

"You make all this sound like something out of a movie." She pushed a yellow pad toward him. "Write everything down in the order it happened."

Ian stared down at the yellow pad, again swamped with memories. Finally he glanced back at the officer. "I'm not confessing to anything."

"I just want to understand everything that's happened and in what order," she said.

Ian knew from firsthand experience that if there were a way to put a negative spin on anything he wrote down, a prosecutor would find it. He pushed the pad back to the officer. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, but I'm not writing it down."

Concisely, he related everything that had happened from the day Lily told him that she was the prosecution's star witness in the Franklin Lawrence case, to being picked up at the hospital by Jones and Sawyer.

"You left out the part about collecting seashells," Annmarie said. She looked at the officer. "Maybe you could come with us sometime. My Aunt Rosie, she knows a lot about all that stuff. Except, she fell down and got hurted."

Annmarie's expression grew somber, and she looked at Ian. "She's at the hospital, and Mr. Ian, he promised that we'd stay. That's what he said. I think we should go now. Can I have this kitten?" Annmarie gazed at the officer. "I'll take real good care her and everything."

Officer Higgins brushed a hand over Annmarie's hair. "You'll have to ask Mr. Ian."

Annmarie beamed, and looked up at him. "I've named her. She is Sweetie Pie. And I bet she'll like Sly."

"Petunia—"

"Mr. Thistle." Annmarie gave him a big pretend frown, then giggled. "Mommy wants me to have a kitten."

"She does, huh?" He knew she was pulling a fast one, but he didn't care. She had been through so much, and if a kitten made her happy, then she could have it.

Officer Higgins promised that she'd contact the state police to verify their knowledge of the attack on Rosie's dad and see if Jones and Sawyer had gone back to the hospital.

With each minute that passed, Ian became increasingly antsy. To the bottom of his gut, he knew she wouldn't be at the hospital when he got back there. If Marco and his thugs stayed in Juneau, Ian would find them. If they took off by boat or plane … Ian shook his head against the possibility. The idea that he might not find Rosie was unacceptable.

Deliberately he pushed his morbid worry away and focused on what he would do, one step at a time, when he got out of here. Officer Higgins came and went a couple of times, and each time she returned, Ian asked if anyone had been to the hospital to check on Rosie. Her vague statements that they were checking out his story and not to worry only served to increase his worry.

Despite Officer Higgins assurance, there was no hurrying the process, and he didn't get a definitive answer about whether anyone had acted on his report.

When the kitten got tired of playing and fell asleep in its box, Annmarie again climbed into his lap. She, too, fell asleep, and Officer Higgins left. Alone with his own morbid thoughts, Ian's worry increased exponentially with the passage of every single second. He seethed with the knowledge that he could do nothing. Not until Rosie's parents and their police escort arrived and could take Annmarie. Officer Higgins continued to come and go, and Ian hoped that she was making the phone calls that would get him out of here.

Each minute felt like ten. Hours later she came back with a clipboard and the large manila envelope that held his possessions. "Everything checks out, and we're dropping all charges," she said. "You're free to go."

Ian shifted Annmarie, who slept soundly in his lap. "What about Rosie?"

"The officers who brought you in did return to the hospital." He couldn't decide if that was double-talk or if she really didn't know whether Rosie was still there.

"Someone is here to see you," she added, going to the door. For an instant he imagined Rosie coming through the door. Instead her parents, Dane and Patty, came in. Dane looked haggard and angry. Patty's usually serene expression was hidden by worry.

"You've been to the hospital?" Ian asked.

"How the hell did you manage to get yourself arrested?" Dane advanced toward him, his big hands clenched into loose fists.

"Rosie—"

"Is gone, dammit."

"How? When?" The news didn't surprise Ian, but it stabbed through him, anyway.

Patty reached for Annmarie. "Oh, sweetie, look at how you've grown since I last saw you."

"Hi, Gram," she said sleepily, and wrapped her arms around her grandmother.

"How the hell could you leave her?" Dane swung at Ian.

The blow caught Ian square across the jaw, and he stumbled back. Dumfounded, he stared at Rosie's father who bore down on him ready to take a second swing.

"Dane, stop it." Patty stepped in front of her husband and handed him Annmarie. "Say hello to your granddaughter."

Automatically he took the child, his anger softening into a certain bewilderment as he looked at her.

"Now, then." Patty came toward Ian, absently brushing her long, nearly white hair over her shoulder, her long broom skirt swirling around her legs. She looked every bit the earth mother who had named her three daughters after flowers. "The only question is what do we do next."

Ian straightened and rubbed his jaw. He couldn't fault Dane for blaming him—not when the man had cause. Ian glanced from Dane to Patty. "You two still have your police escort?"

Patty nodded. "John Lindquist is right outside."

"You need to take Annmarie, and I'll look for Rosie."

"Where?" Dane wanted to know. "You don't know the town, the people or one other damn—"

"Dane," Patty warned.

Ian nodded. "I can't argue with you, but I do have a search-and-rescue dog."

Annmarie turned her grandfather's chin so he would look at her. "He's talking about Sly Devious Beast." She looked at Ian, then her grandmother. "He found me just by sniffing with his nose like this." She demonstrated. "And I bet he can find Aunt Rosie, too."

"I bet he can," Patty agreed.

Annmarie looked at Ian. "You should go right now."
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Chapter 15

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"Right now" turned out to be two hours later. When Ian pushed open the door to the police station and followed Rosie's parents outside, the sun was up and the streets around them had the bustle of weekday activity. A couple of small, covered boats were hauling passengers between the huge cruise ship in the middle of Gastineau Channel and the Welcome Center next to the dock. As always the scent of rain was in the air. Ian had no doubt the streamers of clouds caught in the steep hills on the other side of the channel would thicken until it rained.

Annmarie held her grandmother's hand, and in her other arm was the kitten, Sweetie Pie. As usual, she was accepting of the moment. Having her leave with her grandparents was best, but letting her go was surprisingly hard. He had the fleeting thought that being a parent must feel like this.

At the bottom step, Dane turned toward Ian, his thick hair looking more white than blond in the sunlight. The man looked years older than he had the last time Ian had seen him—no doubt the result of his worry about Lily and Rosie, which was as evident in his dark eyes that were so like Rosie's.

"Lindquist says we should go back home. Nothing we cando to help find my girl." A muscle in Dane's jaw bulged as he glanced toward the large cruise ship. "I suppose he's right, but I don't like it."

There was no point in stating the obvious, so Ian merely nodded his agreement.

"You're going to look for her—even though the cops told you to stay out of it." He said it as if it was a fact.

"You and Lindquist and his backup can keep Annmarie under wraps." Ian met Dane's gaze. "You take care of your granddaughter, and I'll do everything I can to find your daughter."

The older man's eyes glinted. "Then, we'll talk later."

"Count on it."

Ian thrust his fingertips into the front pockets of his jeans and watched them head for the car where Lindquist stood waiting. Just when he was sure that Annmarie would leave without saying goodbye, she suddenly turned around and looked for him. She gave her grandmother the kitten and flew the five yards back toward him. He knelt and hugged her tight when Annmarie threw her arms around him.

"You're not coming with me to Grandma's house?"

"Somebody's gotta take care of your aunt Rosie," he said gruffly.

She leaned back to look at him. "I can help you. We're partners."

He smiled. "That we are, petunia. But right now the thing you can do to help me most is go with your grandma and grandpa."

She hugged him again, her little arms fierce around his neck. He scooped her up and carried her to the car. "Don't you be dressing that kitten in doll clothes, now."

"You're being silly."

"I'll see you in a day or so." When he set her down, her eyes were bright, and her chin wobbled with the effort to hold back the tears. He tousled her hair and winked at her, then turned away before anyone noticed that his own eyes were just as bright.

He got his bearings and headed back toward the marina where he had left the yacht moored, a scant half mile away. According to Sawyer and Jones, he was supposed to wait there, cooling his heels and trusting somebody else to find Rosie. Not real damn likely.

In a conversation that almost sounded like an apology for arresting him, the two officers had reminded Ian that he was a civilian and they were the police. They'd find Rosie, and he was to stay out of the way. At the time Ian had made agreeable noises though he was pretty sure that Sawyer, at least, knew there was no way he was going to sit and wait.

By the time Ian reached the boat, he had a plan, which began with getting some wheels and beginning his search at the hospital. When he unlocked the door at the stern of the boat, Sly greeted him like a long-lost relative. Ian found the dog's leash and headed back toward the middle of town, intending to take a taxi to the airport, the most likely place to find a car to rent. When he passed a tiny storefront with a sign "Motor Scooters for rent, day or weekly rates," he came to a halt, remembering that first morning at Rosie's house. One of the boys had ridden a scooter with Sly, and the dog seemed to like it. A scooter might give him better mobility, Ian decided, if the dog would be as cooperative with him as he was with Hilda's kid. After a test run around the block to make sure Sly would ride okay with him, Ian paid the rental for a couple of days, then took off for the hospital.

To his relief the dog sat perched between his legs and leaned his tailbone against the seat, his ears flapping in the wind and his mouth open in a wide, doggy smile.

Ian had just turned onto the road leading to the hospital when he caught the flash of police lights in the mirror. Jones and Sawyer. He pulled to the side of the road and shut off the motor.

"You're supposed to be at your boat," Sawyer said. "How are we going to get news to you if you're running all over town?"

Ian met his gaze without standing up, bracing one foot against the ground. "You have news?" They both knew the answer to that one. A flat no.

After an almost imperceptible pause, Sawyer shook his head.

"Don't you guys ever go home?" Ian figured their shift had to have been over hours ago.

The two officers glanced at each other, then Jones laughed. "It's past time."

Ian made a point of checking his watch. "Don't let me keep you."

"We could cite you for reckless driving," Sawyer said, nodding to the dog.

Ian scratched Sly's ears. "Might as well get it over with then."

Unexpectedly the officer grinned. "In other words, 'get out of my face so I can go.'"

Ian returned the smile, deciding that under other circumstances he might like the man. "Something like that."

"Hang on." He went back to the cruiser, popped the trunk and returned a moment later with a handheld radio. "If you don't have sense enough to do as you're told…" He held it toward Ian. "It's my off-duty radio, so it's set to the right frequency. If anything comes up, you'll know as quick as we do." He motioned toward a button on the side of the radio. "And I know you're not the kind of guy who goes looking for trouble. But, if you find any … just press the button to talk."

Surprised, Ian took the radio from him. "Thanks."

"And you didn't get the radio from me."

"Found it on the sidewalk."

"That would be just like acheechako."

"Are you insulting me, man?"

"Yep." Sawyer laughed, then explained, "It's what the newcomers call themselves—their way of pointing out the obvious and trying to sound like a native. Keep your nose clean, buddy." He motioned to Jones, and the two of them got back into their car.

Jan clipped the radio to his belt, started the motor, checked traffic, then eased back onto the road and finished the short distance to the hospital.

Everyone who had staffed the emergency room in the middle of the night was long gone, so Ian didn't come away with a bit of information about where Rosie might have gone or with whom. He knew only three things for sure. She had been released at about5:15 a.m., she had a mild concussion, and she had been issued a sling to support her arm and shoulder.

And he knew one more thing. Since nobody had noticed her leave, she had either gone under her own steam alone or appeared to have left willingly with her escort.

When he came back outside where he had left Sly tied to a bicycle rack, he scratched the dog's ears and unlooped the leash from the metal bar. "Time to do your thing, Sly Devious Beast." He pulled one of the shirts Rosie had worn from his jacket pocket. The dog sniffed it and whined. "Find Rosie."

The dog merely looked at him.

"Search, boy."

The dog sniffed at the shirt again, then raised his nose into the air. He then put his nose to the ground, sniffing all around the open doorway and completely ignoring the people who came and went, his leash dragging behind him. Without any warning the dog suddenly took off at a lope, following an invisible trail to the parking lot. Ian ran to catch up, belatedly deciding that he probably should have been holding the leash. By the time he reached the motor scooter, Sly was casting around one of the parking spaces. The dog took off again, this time at a slower pace. Ian caught up with him, grabbed the leash and followed along behind the dog, who left the parking lot and headed down the drive toward the four-lane road that led back to Juneau.

When Sly would have headed directly into the traffic, Ian hauled him up. They waited impatiently for the traffic to clear, Sly pulling at the leash and Ian hoping the dog was able to keep the scent, no matter where it led.

They crossed the road, and Sly cast again for the scent, then took off again, back toward Juneau. When they reached the bridge that crossed over Gastineau Channel, the dog chose that direction. They reached the other side, and Ian glanced over his shoulder. Behind him he could see that Juneau was nestled between the steep, high mountains behind it and the deep water in front of it. It was as pretty a city as he'd ever seen. The streamers of clouds from earlier had thickened into a misty blanket that alternately hid and revealed the mountain above the city.

The dog led the way along the Douglas Highway, keeping a brisk pace that Ian wouldn't have been able to keep up with if he had been on foot. They turned off the main thoroughfare at some point, following roads whose names Ian didn't take time to notice. At each intersection Sly led the way, sometimes turning, sometimes continuing on, and usually without much pause. Rain began to fall, thankfully more of a mist than a downpour.

They left the shoreline and began to climb, the houses becoming farther apart and more hidden within the trees. With each turn in the road, Ian was glad he had rented the scooter—if he had been on foot, he would have had to hold the dog to a much slower pace, and the search would have taken much longer.

They crossed over a small stream that tumbled down the mountain, and Ian pulled the dog to a halt. He got off the bike and encouraged Sly to drink from the stream. Around them the air was still, and far below them he could hear the traffic, both from cars and boats. Up here, within the clouds, even the birds were silent, except for an occasional call that echoed through him.

After Sly drank his fill, they were on the way again, and they turned onto an even more narrow road, clearly a driveway. At each turn, Ian kept expecting a house to come into view. None did for the first five turns, which took them half a mile from the road. The dog pulled harder on the leash as Ian slowed the bike even more.

Ahead the driveway took another turn and opened into a sheltered bowl where much of the foliage had been cut away. A totem, reminding him of the one in Rosie's yard, sat square in the middle of the clearing. On the other side was another incline, this one not so steep, where the driveway ended and several vehicles were parked in front of a dilapidated building. Next to that was a house, badly in need of painting.

Ian got off the bike and rolled it into the brush next to the road. He stood hidden in the brush for a moment, trying to decide whether to let Sly go. If the dog showed up, whoever was in there might be willing to think that he'd come alone. At least then Ian would know exactly where Rosie was.

He took off the leash and stuffed it in his pocket Sly glanced at him, and Ian whispered, "Search. Find Rosie."

He could have sworn the dog smiled before he took off at a fast lope, his nose to the ground. He came to a stop at one of the vehicles, a pickup truck, and bayed. Then he ran, following the scent to the back door of the house. Ian followed, keeping as close to the trees as he could. He was still farther away than he would have liked when the dog barked and jumped on the door.

A second later the door opened, and Sly disappeared inside. Ian remained hidden within the brush, his senses on full alert. A short, plump woman with dark hair stepped onto the stoop, looked around, then went back inside, shutting the door behind her.

Ian glided out of the brush and ran toward the house, trying to stay low enough so he wouldn't be seen from any of the windows. When he reached the house, he crept toward the first window, his back against the wall. He peeked inside.

A small feminine-looking bedroom met his gaze. At the next window he found another bedroom, this one with an unmade rumpled bed. He came to the corner of the house, checked to make sure no one was outside and silently crept toward the next window. This one was covered with café curtains, too high for him to see in. Inside he heard voices, one of them Rosie's who was praising Sly for being such a good boy.

Ian had been so sure she had been kidnapped that the ordinary sounds coming from inside the house almost didn't make sense. He moved toward the next window—the kitchen, which was as empty as the two bedrooms.

Just as he was about to come around the last corner of the house, he heard a twig snap. Without thought he pulled his weapon from the holster at the small of his back. He flattened himself against the wall of the house and waited. One second. Then two. The long barrel of a shotgun appeared at the corner of the house.

Ian grabbed the barrel of the weapon and pulled hard on it, then shoved it back into the chest of whoever held it. A man grunted. In a single move Ian came around the corner of the building and barreled into the man with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The shotgun came free, and Ian wrenched it away and tossed it to the ground behind him. He straightened and pointed his gun at the man.

Kyle Lamont. Rosie's traitor cousin.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Kyle sat up and pressed a hand against his shoulder. "Trying to make sure that the man prowling around my sister's house isn't one of Marco's friends."

"Leading the way with your weapon is a sure way to be spotted," Ian replied as the man got to his feet. "You don't look too bad for a man who was shot."

Kyle, his color pastier than Ian remembered, returned, "It's an experience I don't care to repeat." He motioned toward the door. "Come on in."

"Oh, I'll come in. But first you're going to tell me exactly who's in there—"

"As in, Marco and company?" Kyle shook his head. "Hell, if I never see that bastard again—"

"That didn't keep you from helping him," Ian returned. "We found the bugs you left behind."

"Nobody was supposed to get hurt," he said.

"Says the man who brought Rosie the news that they had assaulted her dad." Ian motioned with his gun. "If you're so squeaky clean why is Rosie here?"

"My sister, Eva, works at the hospital, and she was on duty. When she saw Rosie's name on the admittance list, she went looking for her, then brought her home after she got off work. This is her place." He took a couple of steps toward the house. "Rosie's not my prisoner, believe it or not."

Or notwas Ian's gut reaction, but the story at least explained why Rosie had left the hospital without anyone noticing anything strange. What it didn't explain was why she hadn't called the police to find out what had happened to him and Annmarie or why she hadn't called her folks. "So what are you doing here? I thought you lived in Petersburg."

"I just got out of the hospital yesterday. My sis told me she'd take care of me for a couple of days before I headed home."

That seemed reasonable enough, but Ian didn't buy the answer. Somehow somebody had known he, Rosie and Annmarie had come to Juneau. Otherwise he wouldn't have been picked up by the police. "And Marco—"

"I haven't seen the bastard since he shot me."

Ian retrieved the shotgun from where he'd thrown it, automatically checking to see if the weapon was loaded. It was. Both barrels. He emptied the chamber and put the shells into his pocket. "Nobody's in there except your sister and Rosie?"

"That's all." Kyle motioned toward the door. "Rosie's going to be glad to see you."

"After you." Ian followed him into the house. The kitchen was just as small as it had appeared from outside. One doorway led to a bathroom, the other to the living room.

"Since you're back so quick, I take it nobody is out there," Kyle's sister said from the living room when Kyle stopped in the doorway.

"Not anymore." Kyle glanced back at Ian.

Ian leaned the shotgun against the wall next to the back door and reholstered his own weapon before coming to the doorway. He spared Kyle's sister a quick glance—the woman who had come to the door a few minutes ago. She was years younger than he'd first thought, probably not much older than Rosie.

"Oh," she said. "Who are you?"

"This is Ian—the friend Rosie's been talking about, sis," Kyle said.

"Nice to meet you," she said, standing up and offering her hand. "I'm Eva Lamont."

"Nice to meet you, too," he responded with a perfunctory handshake. But his attention had already shifted to Rosie. "Hi." The standard greeting, but it sounded stupid to him. After all they had been through together, she deserved more than just "hi."

"Hi," she returned without getting up.

The huge dressing that he'd wrapped around her head had been removed—he remembered that—and the bandage that covered her gash was partially hidden by her hair. She had one arm around Sly, who sat on the floor in front of her. A bright-blue sling supported her other arm.

Ian leaned against the doorjamb, putting a name to the huge feeling that erupted through his chest and made him want to cross the room and sweep her, literally, off her feet. He loved her.

He loved her.

Every annoying, stubborn, sweet, generous thing about her. Lust—he knew that feeling, and this wasn't it. Infatuation—he'd had that, too, and this was something deeper, more complex. Something that could make him crazy and could break his heart.

He loved her.

And that quite suddenly scared the hell out of him. He didn't have what it took to help her through the problems she had, and if he tried and failed…

A slow smile lit her face, filled with such welcome that it punched him in the middle of his abdomen. Blinding and irresistible. He crossed the room, knelt in front of her next to the dog and gathered her close.

"I'm so damn happy to see you," he whispered the instant before he kissed her.

She kissed him back, her mouth soft and yielding beneath his, inviting him in and then consuming him. He simply absorbed all he could, the antiseptic smells of the hospital sharp but not masking the aroma of roses that he would forever associate with her. The resilient strength of her body that was so much smaller than his. The feel of her fingertips against his neck. And her mouth—her sexy soft mouth that could make him lose his mind.

He loved her.

Again the thought nearly bowled him over, and he trembled. Beneath him, she sighed, and somehow he ended the kiss.

"So you two are only friends," came Eva's observation.

"Would you like some coffee?" Kyle asked.

"Are you okay?" Ian wanted to know, looking deeply into Rosie's eyes.

She nodded.

"Yeah," he said in response to Kyle's question. "Some coffee would be good."

Rosie touched his cheek. "You look like hell. Have you been staying up all night again?"

He covered her hand with his and held her palm against his face. "Jail isn't my favorite place to sleep."

Her smile faded. "Annmarie—"

"Is with your folks. I called them last night when you were getting X-rayed. They flew up, went to the hospital, couldn't find you—we've got to call them—and came to the police station. They've already gone back to Petersburg, probably on a plane belonging to the state police." He squeezed her hand. "And your sister was scheduled to testify today."

"Here you go," Kyle said.

Ian stood up and accepted the mug from him, still bothered by the knowledge that somebody had tipped off the police to their arrival in Juneau. He glanced from Kyle to his sister.

"Thanks for taking care of Rosie," he finally said.

"She's family. Of course, we took care of her," Eva responded.

Ian sat down next to Rosie. She kept petting Sly, who had pasted himself against her leg. Kyle retreated to his own chair, and the silence stretched awkwardly.

"Did you know that Ian is Lily's neighbor down in California?" Kyle asked, glancing at Eva.

At that same moment she was saying, "I suppose you're not too happy with my big brother."

Ian was long past being polite, and he met her gaze. "That's one way of putting it." Ian's attention slid to Kyle. "Every man has his price. What was yours?"

A fleeting smile chased across Kyle's face. "I'm not—"

"Going to defend yourself?" Eva interrupted. She stood and paced in front of the window. "Our mother has cancer. There's this experimental treatment that insurance doesn't cover and that costs the moon—"

"And you made your bargain with the devil," Ian said to Kyle. "Were you Marco's spy? Letting him know that Rosie and Annmarie were here?"

"No." Kyle surged to his feet. "No."

"You're scaring me," Rosie said, touching Ian's hand. "Kyle wouldn't—"

"Somebody told Marco when we got to the hospital," Ian said without taking his attention off Kyle. "Otherwise the police wouldn't have arrived at the hospital an hour after we did, and I wouldn't have been arrested for abducting her and Annmarie."

"You're kidding," Eva said, turning to face him.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Ian shook his head. "So, Kyle, you tell me, are you the one?"

Kyle shook his head. "I can see why you'd be thinking so, but no."

"I believe him," Rosie said.

Ian glanced down at her, his gaze softening. "And you said you'd trust him with your life, babe. Look where that got us."

"Looks like we have company," Eva said.

Kyle stood and joined his sister at the window. "A van. Who do you know with a van like that, sis?"

She shrugged. "It could belong to anybody."

When Rosie would have stood, Ian pushed her back on the couch. "You stay put."

He glided to the window and stood to one side looking out. The vehicle slowly made the last turn, then stopped directly in front of where Ian had hidden the motor scooter. At the time, he'd been concerned with it being seen from the house, so he hadn't given much thought to whether it would be visible to someone coming up the road.

A man got out, nodded and waved, then nearly disappeared into the underbrush.

Ian went to the kitchen where he'd have a better view. Kyle was already there, standing to one side of the window much as Ian had. "We've got at least two guys in the van and the one on foot," he said. "I haven't spotted Marco yet, but the guy walking—that's Sid. Where he goes, Marco goes."

The van came to a halt about thirty feet from the house.

Kyle flipped open the barrels of the shotgun. "I'm with you," he stated. He nodded toward outside. "Not them. You're gonna need all the help you can get in about two seconds flat."

Ian made his decision from the place where he made all the important ones. His gut. He tossed Kyle the shells.

"Do you have a cellar where you and Rosie could hide?" Ian asked Eva.

"No."

"You two climb into the closet in the front bedroom," Kyle said. He tossed his sister the cordless phone. "And call 911."

Rosie stood. "Are you sure you don't want help?"

Ian shook his head. What he wanted was to have her safe where nobody could ever harm her again.

"That's your cue to order me to stay or go or sit—" He met her glance, and instead of giving him that schoolmarm expression with her one eyebrow lifted, she grinned.

How could she smile at him like that when he was afraid that his luck had finally run out? "Go, Rosie." He didn't add the other important things on his mind. That her life was valuable, precious to him. That loving her was the most terrifying and exhilarating thing that had ever happened to him.

"Just go?"

"Yes, dammit."

The smile faded, almost as though he had the power to hurt her. But she did as he asked and followed Eva toward the bedroom.

The driver's door of the van opened, and a man stepped out. He had on a tan jacket and cap that looked like a repair uniform for almost any company. Ian wouldn't have bought the disguise even if the man hadn't had a scar that zigzagged across his face.

Ian unclipped the radio that Sawyer had given him and turned up the volume. Pressing the transmit button, Ian spoke into the radio. "Requesting backup at—" he released the button "—what's the address?"

"It's 2929 Crow Creek Lane," Kyle said. "Our guy's just about at the back door."

Ian repeated the address into the radio and added, "There are three men approaching the house who are armed and dangerous."

"Who is this?" came the response back.

"J.D. Sawyer," Ian lied. "I need backup, and I need it yesterday."

He turned off the radio and set it down just as Marco knocked on the back door.
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Chapter 16

«^»

The knock resounded through the house, and Sly barked his watchdog bark. From Eva's bedroom Rosie felt a clutch of fear, remembering too well other knocks at the door—the night she was raped, the night Marco and Josh had come to her house and their flight that had led to this moment.

She glanced back to the living room, feeling she should be doing something—anything instead of waiting like some helpless female. Despite the smile she had given Ian seconds earlier, she was terrified. She should have known better than to think this would somehow just fade away. When Eva had suggested she come here until Ian had things sorted out at the police station, it had made sense. Now Rosie wished she had made other choices, and she regretted bringing her troubles to her cousin's doorstep.

Eva sat down on her bed next to the nightstand and dialed the phone as though she had all the time in the world instead of reporting a life-threatening emergency.

"Hurry," Rosie urged.

Eva caught her glance, then looked away.

Sly continued to bark, and Rosie ventured to the doorway, wishing she could see what was happening in the kitchen. What if Ian was right and Kyle couldn't be trusted? What if the men outside somehow gained the upper hand? What if something happened to Ian?

The last thought brought tears to her eyes, surprising her.

"He's in the kitchen," Eva was saying into the receiver. "And Rosie's friend is with him."

Rosie turned around to look at Eva, her statements not sounding at all like a call to 911.

She pulled a gun from the open drawer and pointed it at Rosie.

"Oh, Eva. No."

"'Fraid so, cuz." She pushed the off button on the phone, stood and motioned for Rosie to go back into the living room.

Dumbfounded, Rosie didn't move. "Why? Is this for what you said earlier? Money for your mom's treatment?"

Eva shook her head. "That's Kyle's thing."

"Why then?"

"Let's just say that you and your sisters always had it all. Some of the rest of us weren't as lucky." She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound that wasn't like Eva at all. "Given a choice between spending my time on a tropical island and working third shift at the hospital for the next ten years … that's a no-brainer. Marco says he'll hang on to you for a few days—leverage to keep Lily in line. That's no skin off my back." She shrugged. "Let's go."

"You wouldn't really shoot me." This was her cousin, Rosie thought. They'd played together as children, and as teenagers they'd had sleepovers with her sisters and other cousins the same age—nights filled with experimenting with the latest makeup and giggling about boys and dreaming of a life beyond the one they all knew. But then they had been filled with the grand plans of youth and the even grander dreams.

Eva moved closer, pulled the hammer back on the gun and pressed it against Rosie's shoulder, which was still tender from yesterday's fall. "Are you really so sure? You go first."

Still baffled over the resentment in Eva's voice, Rosie moved back into the living room. Through the open doorway she could see into the kitchen where Ian and Kyle flanked the exterior door. Immediately in front of the door Sly stood barking, his ruff up.

"Call the dog." Eva jabbed the pistol's barrel in Rosie's back to emphasize her command.

"Sly, come," Rosie commanded.

The dog turned toward her, his lip curled back in a snarl that she would never have imagined from him.

"Come here, boy."

"Rosie, get the hell back," Ian ordered.

Sly trotted toward her. The gun in her back urged her forward until she reached the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room. In the kitchen Kyle and Ian were focused on the unseen man on the other side of the door. As if sensing their presence, Ian glanced suddenly at Eva and her.

Eva raised the gun to Rosie's head so Ian could see it. "Put the gun down on the floor. Now."

"Dammit all to hell." He looked from Rosie to Kyle.

"Put it down," Eva repeated.

Ian bent and set his weapon on the floor.

"Now, kick it over here."

"And to think I trusted you," Ian said, looking at Kyle, then swore again.

"Eva," Kyle said. "What—"

"Let the man in, big brother."

"Eva—"

She pushed the barrel of the gun against Rosie's cheek. Against her skin, the metal felt so cold. The weapon was different, but Rosie was still reminded of the last time she'd been sure she would die. Why do such stupid things fill your mind, she wondered, like seeing that the kitchen floor needed to be mopped. There were important things, like wanting to see Annmarie grow up. Like telling her sisters and her parents she loved them. Like telling Ian that he'd been the absolute best, and that she wasn't at all sure how she was going to live without him. Rosie swallowed and met Ian's gaze. He had never looked more fierce or more angry.

Beneath her fingertips Sly strained against her grip on his collar, a growl rumbling from his throat. Her docile dog who most days acted like a rug. Not now. Ian's gaze dropped to the dog, then met hers again.

Swearing under his breath, Kyle opened the door.

She wanted to glance at the man responsible for her flight from her home, but Ian held her stare. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and that predatory look she knew so well was back. His eyes held some message for her, but darned if she knew what.

"Well, Lamont, our paths cross again," Marco said to Kyle, stepping over the threshold, a huge pistol in his hand. The same man who had shot Kyle days ago. What could Eva be thinking of? She was a fool to think she could make a bargain with Marco.

"Some folks just keep turning up like a bad penny," Kyle said.

"I'll take this." Marco took the shotgun away from Kyle and, as Ian had earlier, emptied the shells out of it. Then he looked up and glanced around the room. "Eva, I knew I could count on you."

"Dammit, sis."

"Stay out of this." Eva took a step away from Rosie. "You wanted her. Here she is."

Marco's gaze shifted to Rosie. This close, he looked unremarkable except for the scar that slashed across his face and the big gun in his hand. A bully, just as Ian had described him. "Your sister shouldn't have testified," he said. He clucked his tongue. "Now, she … and you will pay the price of her foolishness."

Sly growled again.

Rosie looked again at Ian, and he nodded ever so slightly. Sudden understanding dawned, and she let go of Sly.

"Boom," she commanded, giving him their secret code word forattack.

Sly took a flying leap across the kitchen, his teeth bared. He knocked Marco to the floor. Marco's weapon slid across the floor toward Rosie. Marco struck the dog on the side of the head. Growling, Sly grabbed his arm.

Ian caught Marco with a sharp blow to the jaw that snapped his head back. The three of them rolled to the floor, Sly hanging on tightly to one arm. Ian turned Marco to his stomach and placed his knee in the small of the man's back, then wrenched Marco's other arm behind him.

Rosie whirled on her cousin, stomped on her foot and wrenched the gun from her hand. Shaking, Rosie swung and caught Eva across the face, a blow that knocked her to the floor. Eva's expression was stunned, and she made no move to get up.

By the time Rosie turned around, Ian had tied Marco's hands behind him—Sly's leash, she realized—and he'd retrieved Marco's weapon. As for Marco, he was out cold.

"On the floor," he ordered, motioning with the gun and advancing on Kyle.

"I'm on your side." Kyle reached his arms out. "Honest."

"Like I believe you." Ian motioned again. "On your stomach, arms behind your back."

"Rosie…"

She glanced at Eva who still was on the floor where she had landed. "Do what the man says, cuz," she said, imitating Eva's tone. "You, too, Eva."

"The gun's not loaded," Eva said without moving.

Ian finished tying up Kyle, this time using his own belt and casually aimed Marco's pistol at her. "This one is." He advanced on her. "Since I'm a nice guy, you can sit her on the couch—in front of the window, where you'll have a real good view of your buddies outside."

"We're not with them," Kyle said. "C'mon, man. The cops are gonna be here any minute."

"They'd better be," Ian replied.

"I can help you," he insisted.

Ian finished tying up Eva and ignored him. "You okay, babe?" he asked without looking at Rosie.

She set the pistol on the table. "Just as soon as I stop shaking, I'll be fine."

"Then just sit there with the dog. Promise him a T-bone steak. He's earned it." As he spoke, Ian moved from one window to the next, peering out the side and making sure he couldn't be seen from outside. Finally he pinned her with one of his penetrating looks. "You stay put. I don't want to worry about where you are."

She swallowed the smart retort that surfaced and merely nodded. He glided soundlessly toward the back of the house. A second later Rosie heard noises on the back porch, and she called to Ian.

"I hear them," he said, returning. Keeping away from a direct line in front of the door, he positioned himself against the wall by the door, every line of his body tense.

The door burst open, and a man came through the door.

"Drop your weapon," Ian shouted.

"Drop yours!" The man whirled on Ian, his stance with the weapon just as secure as Ian's. The word POLICE was emblazoned across his back in bright-yellow letters.

Two more men, also identified as cops, followed the first into the house, both aiming their weapons at Ian.

One of them lowered his. "Well, hell, can't you stay outta trouble, man?" He glanced at the other two officers. "This is Ian Stearne."

Ian lowered his weapon, then handed it butt first to the officers.

"You sure took your time," Ian said.

"Well, there was a little traffic outside that we had to handle." He nudged Marco. "Since he's tied up, guess it's safe to assume that he's not dead."

"Nope." Ian came toward Rosie, who shakily stood, though she was pretty sure her legs wouldn't support her.

"And this must be Rosie Jensen," the cop said. Ian wrapped an arm around her and drew her close, squeezing her shoulder as she leaned against him. "Meet J.D. Sawyer. We had the pleasure earlier in the day."

"Nice of you to say so, especially since you were in handcuffs then," Sawyer returned.

"You're the one who arrested him?" Rosie's shakes vanished beneath an onslaught of anger. One of the other officers was untying Kyle. "Are you crazy? Kyle—"

"Was helping us," Sawyer finished.

Ian swore.

Kyle stood up, rubbing his wrists. He glanced uneasily at Ian and, after a moment's hesitation, offered his hand. "In your shoes I would have done the same thing."

Rosie felt the tension radiating from Ian. Even after Eva came to stand next to her brother, Ian's posture remained rigid.

"Check my gun," Eva urged. "It's not loaded. I swear it."

"You didn't ask Eva if she was the spy," Kyle said.

Rosie looked at her cousin. "What you said earlier … that didn't sound like you."

"But you bought it." Eva looked up at her brother, her eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. "After Kyle was brought to the hospital, he told me about his involvement with Marco and how things had, well, gotten so out of hand. That very same day Marco contacted me—told me that Kyle still owed him, and now it was up to me to keep the bargain. And I can tell you I've never been so scared in all my life." She swallowed and glanced at Kyle. "And, since we knew the state police had somebody guarding your folks, we went to them."

"Told them everything," Kyle added.

"And when you arrived, I did everything that Marco ordered me to do." She smiled faintly. "And I made sure my contact with the state police knew everything, too."

"Which is why I let you see the damn shotgun," Kyle finished, cuffing Ian on the shoulder. "I sure as hell didn't want you to shoot me, and I figured you wouldn't buy me inviting you in for a beer."

Eva reached for Rosie's hand. "I'm a senior accounting manager, Rosie, in the administrative office. I haven't worked a night shift in years … and the rest of what I said, it wasn't true. None of it."

Rosie managed a smile, still surprisingly hurt by Eva's accusations about her and her sisters. "I just couldn't figure out what was going on. It was so great to see you, and when you showed up at the hospital, it was like you were an answer to my prayers."

Eva managed a laugh. "Trust me, Rosie, I was."

Ian reached for the pistol that Eva had used. He spun the cylinder, then showed Rosie. The gun wasn't loaded, hadn't been loaded when Eva used it to threaten Rosie. "The Juneau police—"

"Didn't know the whole story until about two hours after we picked you up," Sawyer said, joining them. "Everything you told us fit to a gnat's eye to what the state police told us, and that's when we learned about Eva's involvement. Surveillance was all set, and Jones and I were on our way here when we ran into you. You weren't supposed to get here until it was over."

Next to Rosie, Ian stiffened. "You used Rosie as bait?"

"She was in no real danger," Sawyer responded. "We had this baby covered six ways from Sunday. You always such a hardass?"

"And that explains how that bastard got in the house—"

Rosie squeezed Ian's hand. "It's okay."

His gaze fastened on hers, his expression bleak. "It's absolutely not okay."

"We hoped the whole thing would go down before you got here," Sawyer continued. "Only it didn't." He folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. "I hear there's somebody up here making unauthorized calls on a radio. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Ian gestured toward the kitchen sink. "Your radio is in there on the counter."

As Rosie watched the exchange between the two men, she realized this was the first of a lot of questions that she'd have for Ian. How had he spent the hours between when he'd left the hospital and his arrival here? She had been so terrified when she heard Annmarie crying. After Rosie learned that Annmarie had been taken to the police station with Ian, her imagination had kicked in. She worried that it was a ruse, and they'd really been taken away by Franklin Lawrence's thugs. After the security guard assured her the police were the genuine article, she began to be afraid for herself.

During that hour before Eva had arrived, Rosie felt more alone than she ever had in her life. Every sound made her jump, and she had been shocked at how much she wanted Ian with her. To stand beside her while she faced all those little things that scared her. She'd had too much time to think during that hour, comparing her hours in the emergency room this time with last. Her physical injuries this time were more serious, another surprise as she thought about it. The old memories didn't hurt as they once had—they'd just made her sad.

The surprising realization that had poured through her was how much she needed Ian. She, who had vowed never to need anyone again—want them, maybe, but never need them. Just as her world had shifted when Ian had arrived all those days ago with Annmarie, it did again as she admitted the man had somehow woven his way so tightly into her life that she knew she'd be missing him forever when he left.

"I'm ready to go home," she said to Ian.

"The boat?" he asked. "Or should I get a float plane and take you home—back to Lynx Point?"

"You'd do that?"

"In a heartbeat. Name it, and it's yours."

She searched his face, wondering if he really meant what he said and tempted to give him back some smart retort. His expression was a new one for her—not the warrior protecting his own and ordering her to do things his way, not the charming man trying to cajole her into doing what he wanted. His eyes took on a sheen that took her breath away.

Telling a small bit of her just discovered truth, she said, "My folks and Annmarie—I need to see them."

"Okay." He gave her a crisp nod as though it was already done.

* * *

"Rosie, oh, my girl," Patty said when Rosie and Ian came through the door to the house in Petersburg so many hours later that the sun had set and it was past bedtime. "We were so relieved to get the news that Ian had found you and that you're okay. You are okay, aren't you?" Then, without waiting for an answer, added, "I didn't expect to see you." She enveloped Rosie in a long hug and managed to pat Sly on the head at the same time.

Ian stood back, watching the reunion and feeling out of place. The warmth and the need between mother and daughter revealed to him yet another facet of Rosie—the woman wasn't afraid to need and be needed. To think he'd pegged her as a loner who didn't need or want anyone in her life.

Glad as he was for her, he found himself fiercely envious of her family. For the first time in years he felt like that kid wandering the mall at Christmastime, studying those shiny kids with their moms and sometimes their dads. And wanting his very own perfect family where he belonged the way Rosie would always belong.

A second later Patty turned to him, looking every bit the earth mother Rosie had claimed her to be, her brightly colored caftan flowing around her. "Thank you for bringing my girl home," she said the instant before she enveloped him in a long hug.

Surprised, he stood rigid, then hugged her back. She gathered him close, her much smaller frame somehow sheltering him as though a mere hug could make things better. He'd seen Rosie do the same time and again with Annmarie. Fleetingly he imagined how different his own life would have been if he'd ever once had the kind of acceptance from his mother that Rosie had from hers.

"Where's Annmarie?" Rosie asked.

Patty let go of Ian and smiled. "That little angel is finally in bed. It took a while for her to wind down."

Ian glanced around the well-lived-in living room that was cluttered with books and magazines and plants of every size and shape. A pile of brightly colored toys occupied one corner of the rug.

"She's in Dahlia's old bedroom," Patty added.

Rosie headed toward the back of the house, her faithful dog in tow, and Patty took Ian by the hand.

"Now, then, what do you need?" She led him into the kitchen. "Dinner? Coffee? A snack? I madelefse this morning. With a little butter and sugar and a glass of milk…"

He yawned, then managed a smile. "Nothing. I'm fine, thanks."

"You look beat."

He grinned. "It's a little hard to deny the obvious. I thought I might catch a couple of winks on the float plane, but the trip was a rough one." Now that the prospect of sleep was at hand, another wave of tiredness swept over him. "If I'd known we were going to be so late—"

"Don't even think it," she said, giving him that raised eyebrow he so recognized in Rosie. "That you wouldn't have come."

"Where's Dane?" Ian asked.

"Asleep." She grinned again. "Fisherman's hours. The man gets up about an hour from now when the season is on." She motioned toward some stairs beyond the eating area. "Lot's get you settled in."

Ian again found himself following Patty, all the while his mind on Rosie. Like him, she hadn't slept on the flight from Juneau, and the noise from the airplane engines of the small plane had made talking impossible. The disconnection between them—he didn't like that a bit, and at the rate things were going, he wouldn't be seeing Rosie until morning.

Patty pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, and Ian followed her into the room—a queen-size bed was pushed against one wall, and the decorations on the walls made him conclude this had once been the room of a teenager.

"Rosie and Lily shared this room," Patty explained as if answering the question he hadn't asked. She pulled back the bedspread. "The sheets are clean, and there's a bathroom through there."

Ian turned around to see another door.

Patty touched his arm. "You look a little befuddled. Are you sure there's nothing I can get for you?"

"Nothing," he lied. Just Rosie.

* * *

"Annmarie missed you," Patty said to Rosie at the bedroom door. "Both of you, actually. Her conversation has been all about Mr. Ian this and Aunt Rosie that."

Rosie reluctantly stood up from the edge of the bed where she had simply watched Annmarie sleep. Next to the bed Sly was plopped on the floor, once again looking like a rug instead of a fierce protector.

"It's been quite the time, these last couple of days."

Rosie managed a smile. "Things will return to normal soot enough." She followed her mom out of the bedroom and down the hallway that led back to the living room.

"Tell me about this sling," she said.

Rosie experimentally rolled her shoulder and wiggled her fingers. She was glad for the sling's support, but thanks to Ian's care, her shoulder felt surprisingly good. "Just a simple dislocation of my shoulder. This just helps things be more comfortable for a few days."

"And what about you and Ian Stearne?" Rosie's mom asked with her usual forthrightness, heading for the kitchen. Important conversations always took place there, usually over a cup of herbal tea and homemadelefse.

Rosie felt her face color as she continued to follow her mother—somehow she always followed, even when the topic was one that she didn't really want to talk about. "What about us? Lily sent him up here with Annmarie, and—"

"And the man is crazy about you."

"Mom."

"And it doesn't take a blind woman to see that you're in love with him."

"I—" Rosie stared at her mother, then past her to the mural on the kitchen wall, unable to finish the denial. Rosie remembered the days she and her sisters had helped their mom paint the mural—a lighthouse framed against a brilliant sunset. It was then Rosie and her sisters had learned about sex and love and being honest about what you feel—another of those important conversations disguised within the work project, that had kept them from realizing how much of themselves they had revealed to their mother.

Was sheinlove with him?Rosie finally met her mother's gaze. "It's complicated."

Her mom laughed. "It always is with you. You might try taking a page out of Lily's book for once. It's simple when it's the right man. Just like I knew with Dane. Just like Lily knew with John."

Rosie swept a hand over her forehead. "I'm way tired. You're making too much sense." Lily had the good fortune of meeting John during her very first day of college, and they had married during Christmas break. Her mom had long been telling the story of meeting Dane during a dazzling Seattle summer day where she had taken one look and known "her burly fisherman was her destiny." Rosie had never had that kind of luck, much less believed in destiny, and, for that matter, neither had Dahlia.

Recalling that first morning she met Ian, Rosie shook her head. Their paths crossed because of Annmarie. Soon Ian would be heading home. She liked him, respected him. Wanting him didn't mean he was her destiny. Not even close.

Her mom gathered her into another of her warm, dependable hugs. "Ah, my daughter. I love you. Now get some sleep." She let go of Rosie and pointed her toward the stairs leading to her old bedroom.

She stopped halfway up the stairs, intending to ask where Ian was, but her mother had already turned off the kitchen light. Rosie could hear her open, then shut the door of the bedroom at the back of the house. Rosie came to a stop at the closed door at the top of the stairs, suddenly sure she knew where Ian was. Inside.

She stood there long moments, torn between going in and going back downstairs and sleeping on the lumpy couch.Love? Was that the name of this terrible achy feeling that filled her chest and made her feel too small for her body?

Beneath her fingertips, she felt the doorknob move, and in the next instant the door opened. Ian stood framed in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his lean waist. He smelled of soap, and he looked better than she could have ever imagined.

"I thought I heard you." He stood to one side. "Are you going to stand there or come in?"

She went into the room, and he closed the door. She glanced at the bed—this bed that she and her sister used to tell secrets in—and then at Ian. In addition to showering, he'd shaved. She was so used to his three-day stubble, he looked almost strange to her without it.

"What are you doing here?" Ian finally asked.

She didn't look at him as she said, "My mother thinks we're lovers."

When Ian didn't answer, she crossed the room and pulled out a nightgown from the bureau drawer. He still hadn't said anything when she reached the bathroom door. Somehow, that made her mad. Surely the man would have something to say about that. She closed the door, then leaned against it.

God help her, she wanted him to make love to her—she wanted them to be lovers. After what happened the other night, she undoubtedly had as much appeal as a dead mackerel, which is why he'd just looked at her without saying one damn word.

Unbidden, the sensation of his kiss this afternoon at Eva's feathered across her lips. A lover's kiss. Not a simple lip-to-lip kiss of relief between friends. But since they'd left Eva's house, he had held her hand only to help her in and out of the plane.

Irritated with the train of her thoughts, she levered herself away from the door. Her quick shower didn't help her come to any conclusions. When she opened the door to the bedroom again, she felt as unsure of herself as she had the very first time she had made love.

Ian was sitting in bed, his chest bare and the sheet pulled up around his waist. From the doorway she could see the waistband of his shorts, and she didn't know whether she was relieved or disappointed that he was wearing them.

He pulled back the covers and patted the sheet next to him.

"Come on to bed," he said.

She turned off the light to the bathroom.

When she remained standing at the doorway, Ian frowned. "Just come to bed, Rosie. I'm too damn tired to—"

"You're tired?" She hated the question the instant it left her mouth.

"Yes, I'm tired. I've had maybe two hours of sleep during the last forty-eight. We can talk about what your mother thinks later."

She crossed the room and gingerly sat down on the bed. She remained there, near tears and wanting. What, she didn't know, but something…

"Oh, for pity's sake," Ian said, his voice rich with disgust. He got out of bed—sure enough, he was wearing shorts—and came around the end of the bed. He swung her feet onto the bed and gently pushed her down onto the mattress. Then he climbed back into bed and turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

He hauled her close to him, curling his warm body around hers.

"Is your arm okay? Or do you need to be on your other side?"

"This is fine," she whispered.

"This is about sleep," he said against her hair. "That's all, just sleep. Got it?"

"Yes." In truth, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

"And if you feel my erection, that's because all you have to do is walk into the room, and I get hard. I can't help it, but that doesn't mean I'm going to jump your bones after you've fallen asleep." He sighed. "I didn't think the day would ever come, but I'm too damn tired. You're safe, Rosie, I promise."

"I know," she whispered, not at all sure she wanted to be safe in the way he meant, feeling that very erection prod against her bottom. Heat flooded through her.

"Good."

And, between one breath and the next, she felt his body subtly relax and knew that he had fallen asleep. Within moments she fell asleep, too.

She felt as though she had just fallen asleep when she heard the crescendo from an opera. Her dad was up, and she was reminded why she liked the peace and solitude of her own house. As a child the loud opera music that reverberated through the house was comforting—a reminder that her dad was in the house rather than on his fishing boat, and that all was well. She pulled the pillow over her head.

"What the hell is that racket?" Ian asked.

"Some opera—I don't know which one." She rolled to her back and looked over at Ian, no longer sleepy. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and for the first time since she'd known him, he looked boyish. "My dad—he's in his workshop at the back of the kitchen—he plays it loud so he can hear."

"He's never heard of earphones?"

Rosie chuckled. "We tried that—it didn't work."

Ian settled back into bed, turning onto his side to face her. "Are you feeling better?"

"Almost human," she murmured.

He chuckled, and she reached out to brush his hair off his forehead, then touch his cheek. He covered her hand with his and turned his head to press a lingering kiss against her palm.

Her breath hitched.

Ian watched her eyes widen. They remained like that for a long moment, just staring at each other. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but not now. Now he just held her hand against his face and wondered how the hell not to screw things up. How did he make the first move without scaring her, without making her remember an act of violence instead of the love that he needed to show her. She sighed again and moved closer to him.

Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with so much longing and hunger he was lost.

"You want this?" he asked when they came up for air, doing his best to hang on to his sanity.

"This?" She nibbled against his chin, eased her fingers into his hair.

"Make love."

"Absolutely." She leaned back to look at him. "It's daylight, and I can see you." Her smile faltered. "Unless this is still about sleep."

He grinned. "This isn't—" he kissed her "—about sleep."

"Good." She sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it on the floor. Color stained her cheeks, but she faced him, and her expression became serious. "I know you have a life back in California—"

"Rosie—"

She pressed her fingers against his mouth. "Let me finish. You want me." She swallowed. "And I want you." She met his gaze. "I want to be normal again. That's all. I'm not asking for any long-term commitments or anything like that." She smiled and raised her hand to his cheek. "We'll have this, and then you can go back to your life in California."

He wanted to throttle her for thinking she had all the answers, for making it clear that sex was all she wanted from him when making love to her … for the rest of his life … was what he wanted from her.

His luck had finally run out.

"Okay," he said, reaching for her. "We'll have this." Then he kissed her, showing her all the love he had for her in the only way she seemed willing to accept.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 17

«^»

The instant before his mouth came down on hers, Ian had looked so fierce, so stern, Rosie felt a momentary clutch of fear despite her bravado. What if she did have another flashback?

His touch dissolved that thought. His kiss coaxed her to relax, to respond, to stop thinking. And she did. His big hands trailed down her arms, then up again. So featherlight, his touch was more imagined than felt. When he reached her hands, he clasped both of them in his. For the longest time they just sat like that, holding hands and kissing. Not even touching except for that. Time suspended within that endless moment.

Reassured, she relaxed and felt herself melt a little more inside. Somehow, the clasp of his callused hands around hers was just as erotic as his kiss.

Ian held on to her hands as though they were an anchor. If he held her hands he just might get through this without his self-control shattering into countless hurtful shards. Even though she melted a little more with each kiss, he wasn't sure he was ready for this—not deep in his heart, no matter how urgent the stirrings of his body. What if he failed her?

So he simply sat with her, absorbing the heat and texture of her mouth, the play of tongue against tongue that made him want to sink his body into hers.In time, he cautioned himself, reaching for a depth of control that he'd never once exercised.

On and on the kiss went, as though nothing else existed, as though nothing else was important. Beyond this room a wild crescendo of music rose, and a deep baritone voice resonated through his chest. Against his cheek, he felt tears. He broke the kiss long enough to look at Rosie. Tears streamed from beneath her eyelids.

"What is it?" he whispered. He couldn't have hurt her already.

She opened her eyes, luminous and so beautiful. "It was never like this—never so wonderful as this." She lifted her face toward him. "If it's this good just kissing…"

She leaned into him until at last they touched, her soft breasts skidding along the wall of his chest. She was right. It had never felt so wonderful as this.

She let go of his hands and wrapped her arms around him. He longed to clasp her as tightly, but settled for skimming his hands along her sides and down her back. If he had ever touched softer skin, he didn't remember it. The softest of all was on the inside of her thigh. When she trembled, he brushed his hands back up her back, sure that he'd moved too fast.

"Open your eyes," he whispered between the heated kisses. He had to know that she was seeing him, somehow trusting him that he would never, never hurt her.

So close, he could see each separate shard of light within her eyes from tawny amber to darkest brown. Her lashes were long, and he wondered why he had never before noticed. Her study of his face was just as intense.

She traced a line across his eyebrow. "You're the most beautiful man," she whispered.

That surprised him, and his gaze dropped to her breasts. He grew even harder. "You're the beautiful one."

She leaned closer, until they touched again. Breast to chest.

"Oh." She shivered again, and she lifted his hands to her breasts.

He felt as though he'd just been given a precious gift. Taking greatest care, he supported their weight, caressing and gently kneading and intently watching her expression before he touched her nipples. When he did, her expression gave him permission to kiss one, then the other. This time when she trembled, she pressed his head closer when he would have pulled away. So he gave in to the need to take the nipple deep into his mouth, the feel of her hard nub against his tongue at once erotic and nurturing.

How he loved this. For long moments he caressed and kissed and fondled until her skin grew hot and her breathing grew ragged and he was sure he'd lose his mind.

He returned to her mouth, and he would have traded certain entrance into heaven to gather her tightly against him. Instead, he skimmed her body with the barest pressure against her skin. Her spine, her arms, her side, the touch against the swell of her breasts, a tease at her thigh.

"Please," she whispered.

"Soon," he promised against her mouth, praying that she was asking for more rather than wanting him to stop.

"Now," she urged.

He felt her hands at his waist, pushing his shorts down. For an instant he imagined pressing her down on the mattress and spreading her wide.In time, came that caution through his head again. From somewhere he dredged restraint he didn't know he had, and scooted backward until his spine rested against the headboard.

She lay half-sprawled across the bed, a question in her eyes.

He opened his arms. "Tell me what you want, babe."

Her gaze skirted away from his, then fell to his throbbing erection. He wanted to promise her that it would be okay, but he wasn't at all sure that it would.

With more gentleness than he knew he had, he cupped her cheek and tried to smile. "We can stop. We can go on." He swallowed. "The control, Rosie. It's yours." He could only pray it was a promise he could keep.

She rose to her knees, her body looking so small and fragile to him despite all the times she had proven how strong she was. Her gaze lingered on his groin long moments, and then she raised her eyes to his.

"What do you want?" he asked, praying he was strong enough to put his clothes on and end this if that's what she wanted.

She came closer still, and a tremulous smile curved her mouth. "You." Then she kissed him as though doing so was more vital than breathing. For him, it was.

He'd never been the passive one in this dance. When she came close and put her knees on either side of him and slowly lowered herself, he felt time suspend. When her heated flesh finally touched him, he resisted the urge to push. Her expression held intense concentration, and her grip against his shoulders was so fierce.

"Open your eyes, babe." When she did, he brushed his thumb across her lower lip. "It's only me."

She kissed him then, and her weight settled over him, exquisite millimeter by millimeter until her pelvis rested against his. Despite his vow that he wouldn't hug her tightly or make her feel pinned in any way at all, his arms came around her in a rush. He wanted to stay buried in her forever, and he wanted the explosive climax that would come this very instant if he didn't stop thinking about how good she felt.

She leaned back and looked at him, then whispered, "Are you okay?"

That was supposed to be his question, but he nodded. She began to move then, and he began to recite multiplication tables in his head. Through it, the friction of her soft and willing flesh threatened to bring him to the brink. He made it to fifteen times eleven before he felt the pulses of her climax overtake her. Awed by the power of her release, he cradled her close, sheltering her as the spasms of her sweet, hot body urged him toward the edge. Never in his life had he been more aware of a woman's release or more pleased that she had gained pleasure from his body.

When her sensual storm subsided, he felt himself grow even more hard.

"Thank you," she whispered. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned backward until gravity claimed them, and he sprawled on the bed above her. He worried about being too heavy, but her arms were fierce around him. He lifted his weight away from her, supporting himself on arms that quivered.

She wrapped her legs around his. "The way you came to me the other night. That's how you like it?"

God help him, he did—feeling her beneath him. He loved the knowledge that by being as close as this, she was sheltered by his body. To her, it could only seem that she was pinned by someone larger and stronger. He nodded, hating the admission.

She pulled him closer. "It's your turn," she whispered against his ear. She raised her hands above her head, and clasped both of his, urging him to settle his weight flush against her. He did, and shudders racked him. Her soft body beneath him felt like all the things he'd longed for his entire life and never found until now. He began to move then, shedding the control he'd tried so hard to maintain.

"I love … this," she whispered as the first pulses of her climax gripped him.

"Ah, Rosie. I love … you," he returned in the same moment. The wave overtook him, and he rode the crest, his release emptying his mind and leaving him with a sharp spear of satisfaction that he would remember for the rest of his life.

Eons before he was ready, he forced himself to shift to the side and release her. She met his gaze, a drowsy and contented smile on her face.

"You're very kind." Her hand brushed over his cheek.

"Like a grizzly bear is kind." He'd been called many things—never kind. He was pretty sure he didn't like it.

She grinned, and brushed the flat of her palm across his chest, touching his hair rather than his skin. "Fuzzy, too."

He took her hand in his and kissed the palm.

"An amazing man. Thank you," she whispered again, near sleep. "For giving me back this piece of myself. Another good deed to go with all those others. I'll be grateful forever … I'll remember you for as long as I live."

Her eyes drifted shut, and he felt a yawning hole open up within himself.

She acted as if he'd done this out of some selfless urge simply to heal her. This hadn't been a good deed—he'd hoped this was a beginning. And she was already sending him on his way … with gratitude and good memories.

For the next two hours he lay beside her watching her sleep and thinking about every conversation they had ever had. They had formed a tentative truce that had grown into a tentative friendship. But not once had she given him any indication that her interest in him went beyond a sexual attraction. She was a capable woman who clearly didn't need him … or want him.

He kept thinking about that. By now he should be used to people not wanting him. He should have figured on this. Only he hadn't.

He looked at her and thought about the children that he imagined. He loved her … and she was grateful. Ironic that he'd finally found the woman he could imagine being the mother of his children—a fierce and tender woman who would take care of her own as he wanted to take care of her … and he wasn't what she wanted after all.

This time he had given only himself … and as always it wasn't enough. He'd prided himself on becoming a man who knew how to help others, how to be useful, how to put his considerable resources to work for good. Fat lot of good that did him now. He'd been right all along that he wasn't the right kind of man for her. And he was terribly afraid nothing he did would make a difference.

He pressed a kiss against her temple, and she smiled in her sleep. And then he left her before he lost all his pride and begged her to let him stay with her.

* * *

Two hours later, Rosie walked with her parents and Annmarie to the dock a few blocks away, stunned by the knowledge that Ian had left. Without so much as a goodbye. Now, they were waiting for Lily's arrival.

Less than five minutes later a float plane appeared, flying barely a hundred feet above the channel—the last leg of Lily's journey from California.

Rosie's dad had related that he and Ian ate breakfast together. At Ian's request, he made a couple of calls and found somebody willing to fly to Juneau. Within the hour Ian was on his way.

Rosie was furious with him. Hurt. Baffled. She wanted to cry, and she didn't dare. Not when Lily was about to arrive and everyone was excited about that. Not when she needed to spend this time mending her relationship with her sister. Still, her thoughts kept returning to him. Why had he left without so much as a word?

The float plane landed with barely a ripple in the water. The instant the engines cut, Lily opened the passenger door and called to them.

"Mommy!" Annmarie squealed, waving and throwing kisses.

The lump in Rosie's throat grew bigger. Annmarie was so excited about her mother's arrival. This was just as it was supposed to be. Never would she admit to anyone that in the selfish secret part of her heart, she sometimes imagined what her life would have been like if she had kept Annmarie. One thing she knew absolutely—this child was born to be Lily's daughter.

Annmarie took Rosie's hand and said, "Aunt Rosie, lift me up so I can see better."

Rosie picked her up, resisting the urge to squeeze her tight. In her excitement Annmarie planted a kiss on Rosie's cheek. "Mommy!" she called again. "Hurry!"

All at once Lily was there, tears in her eyes and hugging them all, her daughter most of all.

"Oh, look at you. You've grown haven't you?"

"Yep." Annmarie gave her mother one of her fierce hugs. "Guess what? I have a kitten named Sweetie Pie, and she's the most precious thing."

Lily laughed.

Annmarie nodded and looked to her grandmother for confirmation. "Isn't that right, grandma?"

"That she is," Patty said, enveloping them all.

Rosie stood within the circle of her mother's embrace and her sister's and Annmarie's. They all cried and laughed and talked all at once until Dane cleared his throat.

"Let's get Lily's luggage and go home," Dane said. "Unless the four of you want to stand down here on the dock all day."

Lily threw her arms around him. "Admit it, Dad," Lily said. "You'd stay here with us if we did."

"You'd prob'ly get wet, though," Annmarie piped in. "Mommy, did you know it rains here? All the time?"

"Yeah, I kinda remember that," Lily responded.

As they walked up the planking toward the road, Lily's arm came around Rosie.

"Thank you for keeping my little girl safe," she said.

Rosie nodded with a faint smile. Looking back, she knew just how safe they hadnot been. Except for those four magical days in Holiday Cove. Four days when they had played and taken naps together and tried to make up for all the time that Rosie had missed. Four days when a warrior named Ian had stolen into her life, so much so that she was pretty sure she'd be missing him forever.

Annmarie took her mother's hand. "Aunt Rosie and me, we got seashells. Lots of them." Her smiled faltered. "'Cept they're on the boat, and we're here. I wanted to show you all my seashells."

"We'll get them another day," Rosie promised.

"What's this about a kitten?" asked Lily.

Annmarie's face lit up. "You can play with her, Mommy. She likes to chase string, and after she drinks milk, she licks her paw and washes her face like this," she added, demonstrating.

"Where's Ian?" Lily asked.

"Left this morning," Dane said. "He was anxious to get back to Juneau. Said he needed to make arrangements to take the boat back to Lynx Point and that it was time to go home."

"I never thought it would be so long before I testified," Lily said. "I knew he had a bunch of things going on that were time-sensitive—so I'll just have to thank him when I get home."

Rosie racked her brain, trying to remember all the conversations with Ian and whether he'd ever mentioned "time-sensitive" projects that required his attention. If he had, she didn't remember it. Another surge of anger swept through her that he'd left without talking to her, without saying goodbye.

Dane slanted Lily a considering look. "'Home'—I thought you were moving backhome."      

She turned to face him. "I am. My house is up for sale, and so things are rolling. If things go the way I want, I'll get a job at the research station at Lynx Point."

He hugged her. "Good. That's real good."

Lily took their mother by the arm, and the two of them forged ahead, leaving Dane to carry the suitcase.

"Come on!" Lily called over her shoulder. "Last one home has to eat raw fish eggs!"

The childhood taunt made Rosie laugh. She took Annmarie by the hand. "Let's go. We can beat Grandma and your mom."

They ran up the street, laughing. When Rosie and Annmarie were even with Lily, Rosie picked up Annmarie and ran ahead. Behind her, Lily hurried to catch up. The years fell away, and Rosie had a flash of memory of running home with her two sisters. For a long time she'd always been able to beat her sisters. Dahlia, the youngest, always trailed behind. The last time they'd raced, Dahlia had beaten them both and had gone on to be fast enough to compete in college.

Panting, Rosie stopped at the gate and set down Annmarie.

"We won!" Annmarie called. Then she looked up at Rosie before glancing back at her mom. "Raw fish eggs sound pretty bad."

Lily ran the last few steps before stopping. She had a wide smile, and held a hand against her side. "God, I haven't done that in years." She threw an arm around Rosie, and the two of them moved through the gate together. "That felt good."

"I bet our baby sister can still outrun us."

"We should call her," Lily said. "She left a message on my machine at home a few days ago."

"I talked to her," Patty said, following them up the walk to the house. "She's fine. She was worried about you. She'd heard about the trial, and when she didn't reach you at home or work, she got all worried."

The rest of the day was filled with catching up. Lily had changed. Not quite so naive, not quite so optimistic that everything would turn out in the end. More than once Rosie felt tears surge close to the surface as she realized all that Lily had endured. The loss of a husband she adored. The witnessing of a murder.

Rosie felt ashamed of being so self-absorbed, and she told Lily over the last cup of herbal tea before they went to bed.

In answer Lily clasped her hand. "I've always been afraid you regretted your decision to let John and me adopt Annmarie. Especially after he died."

Rosie shook her head, realizing her denial was true. "Annmarie has the best mom—someone who loves her probably even more than I do. How could I regret that?" The lump in her throat grew larger. She grasped both of Lily's hands in hers and looked deeply into her sister's eyes. "I love her, and I'd do anything in the world for her. I already did—I gave her the best mom a little girl could have." Tears welled up in her eyes."And, knowing that, if I had it to do over, I'd make the same decision. Annmarie was born to be your daughter."

"Oh, Rosie." Lily squeezed Rosie's hand more tightly. "If you think you could stand having me in Lynx Point, I think there's a real good chance that I can get a job working at least part-time at the research station."

"If I could stand it? Oh, I might manage."

"It will be like old times—you and me and Hilda. Together again."

Rosie chuckled. "And Hilda's four kids and Annmarie."

Lily's expression turned somber. "Kids of your own, Rosie, do you ever think about that?"

She almost shook her head. Then Ian's image rose in front of her, and she imagined how babies she made with him might look. Her hand went to her tummy when she realized they had made love early this morning without any protection.

She'd welcome a baby that was a result of that passion.

"Rosie?"

"I was just thinking of Ian," she said, then looked at her sister, wondering why she had admitted it.

Lily studied her a moment before saying, "I wondered how you two would get on—you're so much alike in some ways." She paused, then added, "John thought he was a hardass."

Rosie smiled and nodded her agreement, though she doubted Lily was ready to hear about Ian's ability to break arms or shoot down airplanes.

"He has a good heart."

That sounded so much like the sort of thing Lily usually said about others that Rosie chuckled.

"You don't think so?"

"You're right." Despite needing to think he was in charge all the time, he proved time and again just how kind a man he was, though she was positive he would never describe himself that way. Again the thought stabbed her—he'd left without a word to her. How could he?

"He's got this incredible knack for sizing things up and figuring out just what needs to be done. And then he does it."

That sounded just like him, Rosie thought, wishing again she knew why he had left.

"He just has this stupid notion that he always has to be doing something for somebody else," Lily continued, "but he'll never let anyone help him. It's like he doesn't think he deserves it or something." Lily's smile became wistful. "Personally I think he's afraid that if he's just himself, nobody will want him. His family doesn't, you know."

That comment settled into Rosie, like watching a shiny coin settle into a thick ooze of mud. With dismay she remembered his expression when she had said,Thank you. Another good deed … I'll be grateful forever. She should have figured it out—as simple as two plus two. He thought she didn't want him—just the things he could do for her.

His brother died, and he held himself responsible. His mother had disowned him, and his brothers and sister wanted nothing to do with him. His ex-wife wanted only his money. A lesser man would have become a loner. Instead, Ian took others under his wing, doing for them as his own family wouldn't permit. Always giving … his time, his money, his skill. A sudden image flashed through her—of a boy always seeking to please but never sure that he'd be accepted. Or a man atoning for past sins.

Rosie closed her eyes as another memory shook her. In the middle of lovemaking, he'd told her that he loved her. And she'd responded by thanking him and, in so many words, sending him on his way. Was that why he'd left? Surely the man knew how much she wanted him, needed him.

Her expression must have revealed something of her dismay because Lily stared at her for the longest moment, then said, "Oh, my God, you're in love with him, aren't you?"

Less than twenty-four hours earlier, their mom had come to the same conclusion. Rosie wanted to deny it. Realizing she'd been selfish wasn't the same thing as being in love with the man. Was it? Being sure that she'd miss talking to him for the rest of her life—dear heaven, was that being in love? This horrible empty feeling she had … if this was being in love, how would she ever stand it?

Her silence didn't keep Lily from drawing conclusions. "Well it's about time. Ian is perfect for you."

Remembering that her sister thought the best of everyone, Rosie felt compelled to say, "He drives me crazy."

Lily laughed. "That's how you know he's the one."

Was he?HisI love you feathered through her mind, making her shiver. The man told her he loved her and then left? Surely this wasn't love. It hurt too damn much.
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Chapter 18

«^

Ten days later Ian guidedMiss Pris away from the Eriksens' dock and into the channel. He was the proud new owner of the boat, and Mike had a new, bigger one on order. Ian had once thought the loaded SUV he'd purchased two years ago was the most extravagant he would ever be after becoming a millionaire. Until the night he'd boarded this boat with Rosie, he'd never found anything he wanted badly enough to spend money on himself.

From the flying bridge, he breathed in the air, loving the scent of the salt water and the pine forest. Turn left, and he could head toward Lynx Point, and from there decide whether to head east toward Petersburg or Wrangall or west toward Sitka or north toward Juneau. Turn right, and he could sail to Rosie's house.

He turned right. He was a fool for hoping she would be glad to see him. He was an even bigger fool for hoping she would show him her favorite hideaways and teach him to be a good sailor. But he hoped anyway. She had called him several times during the last ten days, demanding that he call off the help that he'd hired to repair the considerable damage to her home and greenhouse inflicted by Marco and his thugs. He'd chosen not to call her back, but he'd listened to each one of those messages more times than he cared to admit—hungry for the sound of her voice, even when she was annoyed with him.

He'd been home long enough to take care of things that needed to be handled for Lucky's Third Chance, negotiate buyingMiss Pris from the Eriksens and briefly talk to Lily about her impending move to Lynx Point. He knew it wouldn't be long before he moved, too. The question that remained was where. If he had his way, it would be here.

He was still determined to find a ranch that would provide a wilderness experience, and he'd put things into motion for that search. One night, he'd found a listing for acreage for sale on Kantrovich Island. It was either the perfect solution or his entrance into a self-made hell. He kept imagining how building the ranch here would be, and Rosie's reaction to having him around. If she decided that she wanted him, things would be just about perfect. And if she didn't…

He'd made a point to open the doors and keep them open, hoping that someday the people he loved would forgive him and walk through them. So far, they had wanted nothing to do with him. The idea that Rosie might not want him, probably didn't want him—if he was honest with himself—that idea nearly killed him.

He shook his head in disgust. If he didn't talk to her, he'd never know whether she wanted him or not.

He came around the last turn and saw her house. It glowed in the late-afternoon light, looking even better than he remembered it. The totem in the middle of her yard faced the water, he realized, reminding him of a sentry. And again he had the feeling of coming home. The depth with which he wanted it to be shook him.

Rosie came out of the greenhouse and looked toward the water, shading her eyes with her hand. He slowed the boat and headed toward her small dock, his attention mostly on her. She took off a pair of work gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of the dark-green canvas apron that covered her jeans and shirt. Slowly she walked toward the dock, her dog at her side. His heart lurched, and he wished he could see her expression from this distance.

When he reached her small dock, she lashed a rope around one of the yacht's cleats. When he came off the flying bridge, he belatedly wished that he'd changed out of his jeans and into dress slacks or at least had the foresight to bring her flowers. He hadn't thought of any of that, though. As soon as the Eriksens had agreed to sell the boat, Ian had come as fast as he could to finish the transaction.

So much for putting his best foot forward and trying to impress her.

Sly leaped from the dock onto the boat, his tail wagging, then jumped on Ian as soon as he reached the deck.

"I missed you, too," Ian told the dog, scratching his ears. His attention, though, was on Rosie. She'd clearly been working: splotches of dried mud covered her apron and a spot on her jaw. Her expression was guarded, as though she didn't know what to make of his being here. He understood the feeling. She looked tired, and she looked wonderful.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she returned.

The silence stretched between them, long and more awkward than he had imaged possible. Finally he motioned toward the gate at the back of the boat. "Would you like to come aboard?"

"Yes." She didn't quite meet his glance.

"How have you been?" he asked, immediately deciding it was the dumbest question he'd ever asked.

"Busy." This time she met his gaze straight-on. "There's been a lot to do since I was gone so long. And then since I got back, there's been all those repairmen showing up." Her eyebrow rose in that so-familiar gesture that indicated she was fighting her temper. She began ticking items off on her fingers. "I have a new back door, one with shatterproof glass. Ten new panes of polycarbonate on the greenhouse, new tables in the greenhouse and more help than I needed in replanting seedlings. I can't repay you for all that." She swallowed. "I didn't want—"

"You needed help, and I wanted to help." Hilda had provided an itemized list when he'd asked for it. What was he supposed to do? Ignore that he was responsible for the trouble he'd brought to Rosie's door.

Her eyebrow rose further. "You might have returned my phone calls."

"I was busy." Since she'd sounded mad on the messages that she'd left for him, he decided the better course was to keep sending her help and give her time to cool off.

"Busy. That explains why you left without so much as a word."

Now, that sounded promising.He gave her one of his practiced smiles. "Miss me?"

"Like I'd miss a toothache." She glanced at the floor where Sly had left muddy footprints. "I should get something to wash off these prints before you return the boat to Mike."

She opened the door and went inside, and he followed her.

"Don't worry about it."

"How can I not?" She continued toward the galley where cleaning supplies were stowed beneath the sink. "You don't know how Mike is about—"

"Mike isn't going to care."

"Yeah, right."

"It's not his boat anymore."

She straightened and faced him. "It's not?"

He shook his head.

"He loves this boat."

"He's buying a new one—a bigger one. Do you really want to talk about Mike Eriksen?"

"No." She retrieved the cleaner from under the sink. "You bought it, didn't you?"

Ian nodded.

"Oh." She turned around and stared at him.

He should have thought this through a little more, he decided.

How hard could it be to tell her that he loved her, ask if she loved him back, and be done with it?

"If you're not returning the boat to Mike … Ian, what are you doing here? Why did you leave the other day?" Her chin quivered, and her eyes took on a sudden sheen. "Without so much as a goodbye?"

His heart constricted. He had assumed that she'd be mad at him for leaving. Hurt, though. That surprised him, and it provided another tiny ember of hope.

"At the time…" He cleared his throat and looked away from her, unwilling to admit that he'd felt hurt by her rejection. "It seemed like a good idea. I had some things to take care of."

She set the cleaner down on the counter with a thump. "And these things were so urgent you couldn't wait—"

"I didn't want to talk to you, okay?"

"You're mad at me?"

"Not anymore." He jammed his hands in his pockets, hating the conversation and not having any idea how to make it go better.

"Well, fine." She wrapped her arms around herself and surprised him by not marching back out of the boat.

"So." She sighed and met his gaze. "Why did you buy this boat?"

He glanced around, deciding that he'd lost his mind. How did he explain something to her that he didn't fully understand himself. Every reason that came to mind sounded incredibly selfish.

Her jaw dropped as though she had suddenly come upon some great realization. She marched toward him and would have poked him in the middle of his chest if he hadn't grabbed her hand. "You didn't buy the damn boat to give to me, did you?"

"No."

"Because if you did, that sort of thing doesn't impress me."

She snatched her hand away from his as though his touch had burned her.

"You've already made that real clear."

"I don't want it. I don't."

"I didn't buy the boat for you, dammit. Good God, you think that I think so little of myself that I'd buy you a boat to make you love me?" He glared at her. If he'd thought of it, he might have, he silently admitted. Which proved it—he had lost his mind. "I bought it for me. And I don't have to explain myself."

"Why are you here?"

He cleared his throat. Snarling that he loved her wasn't likely to have the desired effect. Finally he said, "I came to clear the air." When she turned away from him, he added, "Lily's moving here soon, and I don't want to lose her friendship because you and I—"

Rosie turned back to face him, and he could swear that her shoulders had slumped. "Consider it cleared." She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then clamped it shut. She stepped around him and went to the door where she paused and called Sly. She met his gaze momentarily, then went through the door and up the path toward her house without waiting to see if the dog followed.

His heart thudding in his chest, Ian went to the back of the boat and watched her walk away. Her shoulders were bent as though she carried the weight of the world. The air was anything but cleared, but then how could it be when he hadn't been honest with her?

He glanced down at the dog who sat next to him. "She's going to think you're a traitor, you know."

The dog's eyebrows twitched.

Ian opened the gate, and the dog trotted up the trail ahead of him. When they reached the porch, the door was open. Slowly he climbed the steps and crossed the porch, so reminded of the first morning he'd come to her house. She hadn't wanted him anywhere near her that day. He wasn't all that sure anything had changed since.

"Rosie?" he called, peering into the house.

She came out of the bathroom, and he could see that she'd taken off the apron and washed her hands and face. While he watched, tears gathered in her eyes, then spilled suddenly down her cheeks.

He came into the room and reached for her.

She held out her hands, not in welcome, but to ward him off.

"What is it?" he asked. "What can I do?"

"Nothing." She headed across the kitchen and wiped her face with the tissue she took from a box.

He followed and this time ignored her silent protest when he took her hand. "What's wrong, then?"

"You."

"Me?"

She took her hand back and began to pace. "Yes. Geez, men are such stupid jerks." She waved an arm. "You make love to me and give me the best sex I've ever had and then you leave without a word. And I don't hear a thing from you for ten damn days. I'm just reminded of you every minute of every day because you keep doing things for me. And you come to clear the air. And then you wonder what's wrong?" She stopped and glared at him through the tears washing down her face. "You don't always have to be doing things for me."

"Okay." He liked doing things for her.

"And stop being so agreeable. You're the bossy one."

"Takes one to know one," he retorted.

Her chin quivered.

"Rosie, for pity's sake, just spit it out. What do you want?"

The tears became a flood. "You," she whispered. "Dammit, just you."

His heart stopped. Sure he hadn't correctly heard her, he took a step toward her.

She managed a tremulous smile. "You like it here, don't you?"

No place had ever felt like home before. "You know I do."

She swallowed and raised her face toward his. "The other day when … when you told me that you lo-loved me…"

He took another step closer. "I meant it, Rosie."

"Why did you come, Ian?" she whispered.

"Because I had to know."

"What?"

"If you love me, or if I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life alone."

She touched his cheek, lying her palm flat against his skin. "I love you."

He put his hand over hers and with his other hand drew her even closer. "Tell me what you want."

"Just you," she returned. "That's all." A tremulous smile lit her face. "Your body on occasion if you're inclined to share."

Finally his heart started beating again. "You ask a lot."

"To me it's the world." She leaned back to look at him. "Do you want children?"

He nodded. "More to the point, doyou want children?" The tears came again, and he wiped them away.

"Yes."

He stared down at her and told her the truth he was so afraid of. "I was so sure you didn't want me."

"You've gottobe kidding." She lifted his hand and placed it over her heart. "Only with every minute of every day. I love you. I think I have, almost from the very first day."

"Ah, Rosie." He scooped her up and carried her toward her bedroom.

Being in his arms again felt perfect, exhilarating, especially as she realized his intent.

He set her down on the bed.

"You want me? Just me?" With quick efficient movements, he stripped, then stood naked before her, clearly aroused. "This is me, Rosie. Battered and scarred." He held his arms toward her in a gesture of surrender. "No prize, but I'm all yours."

She lookedathim, loving him so much she felt too small for her skin. She wiggled out of her jeans. Holding his glance, she pulled her shirt off and unfastened her bra. "That's pretty amazing considering what I didtoyou that first day." She briefly touched him. "You have no idea how glad I am that I didn't do any permanent harm."

"Tell me again, Rosie."

"What?" She scooted across the bedtomake room for him and held her arms out toward him.

"That you love me."

She cupped her hands around his face and looked deeply into his eyes. "You're my destiny, Ian. Everything that happenedtome—I'd relive it all again, knowing that I'd find youatthe end of my journey." She brought her face closer, pressing her lips across his cheek and brow and chin. "I love you, Ian Stearne."

They fell onto the bed, kissing and holding each other close. He pulled her beneath him and in one smooth stroke, entered her. "I'm home, Rosie. Wherever you are."

She waited for the fearto come, then realized it wouldn't.This was Ian. Her love. And he was exactly where she wanted him. She held him close, whispering her love to him.

Much, much later he announced, "We're getting married right away—one of those children we want could already be on the way." He brushed her hair away from her face and gazed down at her, seeing the face he'd been looking for—the face that belonged to the mother of his children. "Your house is a good place to raise kids."

"Our house," she said to him."Our home."

"Yeah." His uncertain luck had held one last time. He had everything he'd ever wanted.

* * * * *