TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

by Sharon Mignerey

  "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 in Seattle, 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 got that 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 in Seattle. I can't ask them."

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

  * * *

  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 on Kantrovich Island had 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 a nice 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."