Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey

      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.’’