at the head of the steps, yawned, then flopped onto the floor. Ian climbed the steps as the dog watched, its expressive brows twitching.
Ian turned around slowly, his thorough gaze taking in the compound. As always happened for him, the detours he was tempted to call bad luck always turned out in the end. Relieved, he took a step across the porch toward the half-opened door.
Rosie reappeared, without Annmarie or the pack, a steaming mug in her hands, the mouth-watering aroma of coffee wafting toward him. She waited for him at the doorway, her expressive eyes wary, then handed him the cup.
‘‘You’ve got some explaining to do, Mr. Ian Stearne.’’ She poked him in the chest, ignoring that his six-foot, three-inch frame dwarfed her, treating him like a truant schoolboy.
Lily had been adamant that Annmarie would be safe with Rosie, and given her treatment of him, he understood why Lily thought so. Problem was, Lily didn’t understand how much trouble she was really in. With a thorny tongue and petal-soft skin, Rosie didn’t seem as naive as Lily, but she wasn’t ready for this much trouble, either. Just as he’d known would be the case when all this started, he had two charges to keep safe instead of one.
‘‘All right.’’ And he followed her into the kitchen where the aroma of coffee and cinnamon and roses reminded him of the home he’d never had and always dreamed of.
Chapter 2
Inside the kitchen Ian found the same cheery feeling as outside, which somehow fit Rosie. Not that she was cheerful, exactly. At least, not with him.
The room was bright, both from the overhead light and a riot of color. Yellow walls and bright print curtains were stark contrast to the misty, gray dawn outside. Down a hallway he could see a stairwell that led to the second story and doorways to a couple of other rooms. No other lights were on, nor were there any other sounds, suggesting no one else was in the house.
Rosie had shed her jacket, revealing a bright-pink, long-sleeved T-shirt carelessly tucked into her jeans. She stood at the sink, washing her hands.
His first impression that she wasn’t very big was reinforced. In fact, her build was on the fragile side, making him wonder how she had carried both Annmarie and the pack. Glad her back was to him, he studied her, noting the similarities and differences to her sister, Lily. Rosie’s blond hair was shades lighter, more like Annmarie’s, and was cut in a short touchable-looking style.
Annmarie sat on the counter next to the sink, her legs dangling over the edge. Ian winked at her, and she winked back, squinting shut both her eyes.
‘‘I’m having hot chocolate, Mr. Ian,’’ she announced with a smile. ‘‘Would you like Aunt Rosie to make you some, too?’’
He held up his cup. ‘‘She already gave me coffee.’’ His glance slid to the woman. ‘‘Thank you.’’
She shut off the water and turned to face him as she dried her hands. He forced his gaze to stay on her face, though the curves revealed by the knit fabric of her shirt drew his interest. Like Annmarie and Lily, Rosie’s eyes were brown, an inheritance from a Tlingit shaman, Lily once told him. Rosie’s eyes were wary, and Ian knew he had given her plenty of cause to be leery of him. Nothing new there—with rare exceptions, he had that effect on people.
‘‘There’s a washroom through there,’’ she said, nodding toward a closed door.
Much as he wanted to clean up and needed to see how much damage had been done when he was shot, he recognized her tactic for what it was—dismissal. Her lack of response to his thanks grated. Her voice was civil enough, but she still made him feel as though she’d rather have a Kodiak bear in her kitchen than him. It was the sort of ‘‘get out of my face’’ attitude he’d been dealing with all his life. Just now, it bothered him as it hadn’t in years. Fifteen to be exact. The old memory flooded his mind—of the night he’d gotten one of his brothers killed. The night he discovered he could be either a punk or a man worthy of the name. The night he had vowed he would never again be the cause of pain and destruction.
Aware his thoughts were no longer centered, he reclaimed his focus from years of discipline. He needed to make sure Rosie didn’t report that she had found Annmarie.
‘‘We need to talk,’’ he said. ‘‘Before you call the sheriff.’’
Her back to him, her shoulders stiffened. An instant passed before she nodded.
A bell pinged—the microwave oven he realized, when she took out a steaming cup of hot water and added the hot chocolate mix to it.
‘‘Yum.’’ Annmarie clapped her hands together. ‘‘That’s just how my mommy makes it.’’
‘‘Then I must be doing it right,’’ Rosie said cheerfully.
Her voice took on a husky quality with the child, an inflection Ian found alluring. That he’d give a great deal to hear that tone directed toward him irritated him. Again aware of his lack of focus, he watched as she concentrated on her task.
Rosie gave the mixture an extra stir as an expression of total vulnerability chased across her face. She glanced up and met Ian’s gaze, her features instantly controlled in a smooth mask. ‘‘Did you need something?’’
As in, Did he need written instructions to wash his hands? Ian thought. A woman who looked so wholesome and pretty and sexy and drew him the way she did shouldn’t have the ability to irritate him. Except she did.
He set down the mug on the counter. ‘‘I’m going.’’
The sink and toilet in the bathroom shared space with a washer and dryer and the dog’s water dish—an observation he made as utter weariness caught up with him. Irritated that he was more concerned with what a prickly woman thought of him than whether this place was safe, he closed the door.
He needed to scout the perimeter of Rosie’s property, figure out if there was an escape route and where a defense could be mounted, if required. He was creeping up on the end of thirty-six hours without sleep, so that was fast becoming a priority. He knew better than to hope Marco and his goons had left. They had made it all too clear they wouldn’t stop until they had what they wanted—a way to keep Lily from testifying against their boss. In a word, Annmarie.
Ian slid his jacket off his shoulders, wincing as he pulled. He tugged a little harder, then swore when he jarred the wound, remembering the instant Rosie had put the heel of her foot against him and pushed. What had been an annoying ache had become piercing pain under the pressure of her foot.
Damn, but getting shot was even worse than he remembered. He laid the jacket on the washing machine, then gently tried to draw his shirt away from the wound where congealing blood made it stick. Gentle didn’t get the job done, and he felt as though he was pulling off his own skin. He swore again, knowing he was going to have to yank hard, and the damn thing would probably start bleeding again. Not to mention, sting like fire.
A no-nonsense rap against the door made him jump, and his hand jerked at the fabric, which pulled even harder on his skin.
‘‘What now?’’ he asked, gritting his teeth. He pulled the .38 out of the waistband of his jeans and laid it on the back of the toilet. Then, he unbuttoned the shirt, pulling one arm out of the sleeve, hoping he could peel the shirt away.
‘‘I want to take a look at your shoulder,’’ she said through the door.
‘‘Like hell.’’
Rosie rattled the doorknob as if expecting to find it locked. When it unlatched the door, she pushed it open.
‘‘Come right in.’’ He spared her a glance before returning his attention to getting the shirt off without further irritating the wound. If blood or half-naked men in her bathroom bothered her, she didn’t show it.
‘‘Let me help,’’ she said.
‘‘If I had wanted your help, I would have asked.’’