Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey
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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