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 c
oloring book and crayons were strewn across the table. And Sly lay asleep on the floor at Ian's feet.
Rosie had been able to watch Ian only 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 to walk at all. She had wanted to cry, she had wanted 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's good 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.
TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT Page 9
