Just Before Sunrise (11 page)

Her breath caught at the sight of Garvin MacCrae on her threshold. Tonight he wore a tuxedo, and he looked as comfortable in it as he had in his torn jeans yesterday, his business suit on Saturday. He was elegant, rugged, mercurial. The light struck his eyes, then his mouth, as he tilted his head back and smiled at her. "Evening."

Otto returned to his spot in front of her couch, apparently having dismissed Garvin as a possible intruder. Annie fingered a lock of hair that had escaped the rolled-up bandanna she used as a headband while cleaning. "Hello. Um—this is a surprise. How did you find me?"

"I pried your address out of Saturday's auctioneers."

"I see. Well, come in."

She backed out of the way, and he strolled into the small main room of her apartment, looking for all the world as if he belonged there just because he
was
there. He gave the place a quick onceover. At least she didn't have to worry about it not being clean. Her kitchen sparkled, her two-person oak table gleamed, the cushions on her simple couch were plumped and vacuumed, and there wasn't a dog hair in the place not attached to Otto.

"I could have rented a whole house in Maine for what this place is costing me," she said.

Garvin glanced around at her. "San Francisco's rents are high." He eyed her posters of Yoda and the Hulk, her museum-mounted print of Winslow Homer's
The Fishwives.
"Your taste in artwork isn't easy to categorize, is it?"

She shrugged. "I just like what I like. You'll notice I have followed all the earthquake guidelines to the letter. I didn't hang anything that could fall on my head and kill me, should the Big One hit."

Amusement flashed in his eyes, his quick smile. "That's sensible, I suppose."

"You'll find I have no illusions about natural disasters."

"No, I wouldn't think so."

Otto sighed heavily, dropping off to sleep. Annie had taken him for a good, long walk at midday, hoping to clear her head. It hadn't worked. Neither had cleaning her apartment top to bottom.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she offered.

"No, thanks. I can't stay. I'm on my way to an opening at the Winslow Gallery."

"The Sauveur opening?"

His eyes narrowed on her, missing nothing. She didn't bother trying to hide her interest. For a moment she thought Garvin MacCrae could see her heart skipping at the prospect of attending a Winslow Gallery opening. "Are you going?"

"Me? No, but I've heard about it. I gather the Winslow Gallery's known for its Monday night openings."

"T. J. Winslow likes to go against the grain."

"Well, he has a wonderful gallery. I've been through it several times. And Sauveur—I know his work. He's from the Canadian Maritimes. He does sort of a takeoff on the Hudson River School of the nineteenth century, but with his own twist. He paints huge, dramatic landscapes—"

Garvin held up a hand, silencing her. "Get dressed. You can come with me."

She raised her eyebrows at the unexpected invitation. "Are you serious?"

"Sure."

"But that's not why you came here, is it?"

He sighed. "Annie, if you want to come with me, get dressed and let's go. If not, just say so." He bit off each word as if he'd invited her on impulse and wasn't sure he shouldn't have kept his mouth shut, but then he sighed, and his expression softened. "Look, I didn't come here to harass you. I just stopped by to make sure Vic Denardo hadn't been back."

"He doesn't know where I live."

The deep green eyes darkened. "He can find out."

Annie ignored the shiver that ran right up her back. "Well, I'm not convinced the man yesterday wasn't just some crazy pretending to be Vic Denardo."

"That's wishful thinking."

"Maybe." She eyed him. "If I go with you tonight, are you going to keep at me?"

He sighed. "Would it do any good if I did?"

She smiled brightly. "None whatsoever. I've handled crusty lobstermen and stingy museum trustees, and Gran—my grandmother could be downright crotchety. I think I can tolerate your suspicions for one evening, if," she added, "your invitation still stands."

"It does," he said, watching her closely.

"Give me ten minutes to change."

"Take twenty. I'm in no hurry." His shoulders relaxed, and he folded his arms on his chest, again baffling, intriguing Annie with his easy mix of elegance and ruggedness. "Mind if I take a look at Sarah's painting while I wait?"

Annie swallowed hard. She'd been an idiot to let him manipulate her. He hadn't ventured to her apartment because he was worried about her having to face Vic Denardo again; he'd wanted to catch her in a lie about Sarah's painting.

But she held her ground, squaring her shoulders and meeting his eye. "It's not here."

A gleam of victory flashed back at her. "Then where is it?"

"At a friend's house. I didn't want to leave it here after the trouble at the gallery yesterday. Plus with all the publicity—" She dragged her rolled-up bandanna from her hair and ignored the rush of adrenaline at telling Garvin MacCrae what amounted to a boldfaced lie. "I just thought it'd be smart not to keep it here."

"I thought you were new to San Francisco."

She frowned. What did that have to do with anything? "I am—"

"But you've made a friend you'd trust with a five thousand-dollar painting."

"You got it," she said stubbornly, and ducked into her bedroom.

She shut the door firmly behind her. Her bedroom was just big enough for her double bed and skinny dresser, but she'd cozied it up with a basket of Zoe's potpourri, lots of bright, inexpensive pillows, and a framed photograph of a Maine sunrise. She paused at a photograph of Gran and her mother on her dresser, felt their presence, let it help anchor her. An evening out with Garvin MacCrae, who didn't for a single, solitary second believe she'd bought that painting for herself or anyone but Sarah Linwood. Well, it would be her first big San Francisco opening, and she meant to enjoy herself.

She stripped off her cleaning clothes and grabbed a dress from her tiny closet. If Garvin were truly devious, he would search the premises, find her checkbook, discover her neatly noted deposit of ten thousand dollars on Thursday, and know she was lying through her teeth.

"Not that he doesn't know that already," she muttered, slipping into her versatile black knit dress; it hugged her torso but gave her legs room to move. With a silk scarf, it could do a gallery opening. With her ankle boots and a sweater, it could do a chilly walk on the water with Otto. With Gran's crewelwork shawl, it could do anything.

She skipped the scarf and opted for the shawl. It would give her confidence a boost.

She added black stockings and her dressy black flats and scooted into the bathroom, ignoring Garvin on the couch and Otto, with one paw on his lap, getting himself scratched on the neck, maybe preventing her guest from searching the place.

Her bathroom had a shower and a pint-size sink; no tub; no linen closet. She kept her change of linens on a wicker shelf above the toilet. A basket of Zoe's potpourri gave off a cheery citrus scent. Annie used spray-on gel to revive her hair, then dusted on translucent powder, a smudge of a neutral eyeshadow, one coat of mascara, and two coats of the darkest berry lipstick she could find.

"Hey, not bad," she said aloud to her reflection, pleased with herself.

Except her hands were shaking just enough to remind her she wasn't going out with Zoe and her husband or having yet another tete-a-tete with her richer fellow tenants about Otto being at least as friendly as their Lhasa apsos and cocker spaniels. No. She was going to a gallery opening with a man who thought she could lead him to his wife's killer. That he was attractive, compelling, and intriguing didn't change that basic fact.

A spray of cologne, and she was off.

Garvin dumped Otto's paw off his lap and rose, his eyes impenetrable, not a spot of drool or a single dog hair on him. "Ready?"

"I think so. I don't smell like bleach, do I? I disinfected Otto's dish before supper."

He'd moved close to her, close enough to make her pulse race. "You don't smell like bleach."

His eyes glinted with sudden humor, suggesting there were layers and layers to Garvin MacCrae, things to intrigue and catch a person defenseless. Annie quickly pulled her shawl onto her shoulders and fetched a fat rawhide bone for Otto, then she stood in the middle of her hardwood floor and looked around for his favorite toy.

"Can I help you find something?" Garvin asked.

"Otto's bowling ball—oh, there it is."

She spotted it in the corner next to the couch, rolled it out with her toe, and nudged it toward Otto, who was busy with his rawhide bone. "He's not used to having me go out at night, and I don't want him chewing my new furniture because he's bored or annoyed with me."

"I expect," he said wryly, "that Otto fit in better in Maine than he does in San Francisco."

"In some ways, yes, but I think city life appeals to him on a certain level. He really likes people."

"A good thing."

She grinned. "Isn't it, though?"

With Otto settled down with his bowling ball and rawhide bone, Annie followed Garvin MacCrae outside into the cool night air.

Chapter Five

Both floors of the Winslow Gallery were brightly lit and packed with well-dressed people from all over the Bay Area, some of whom Annie recognized from the newspaper and television news. She noticed that Garvin stayed close to her as they made their way into the crowd.

"I'll bet T. J. Winslow doesn't have to put out flowerpots and sweep up cigarette butts and dead leaves to offset his rent," she muttered.

He glanced at her. "You want to be a T. J. Winslow?"

She shook her head, not feeling even a flicker of envy. "No, but I'm not going to pretend I don't want my gallery to succeed. I do, but on its own terms. I can't do this." She took in the ultrasophisti-cated gallery with a wave of the hand. "I can only do what I do."

A current of excitement ran through her at the thought of the canvases in Sarah Linwood's studio. Others would experience the same thrill that she did, the same mix of awe and nostalgia and pain and hope. Sarah Linwood was that mesmerizing an artist.

Half convinced Garvin would guess what she was thinking, Annie focused on her plush surroundings even as she remained very aware of the hard-to-figure man at her side. Despite the scores of people to meet, the paintings that drew her attention, she kept catching herself staring at him, noticing his straight back, the breadth of his shoulders, the quick smiles that never quite reached his eyes. Definitely a hard man to figure. And an impossible one to ignore.

The occasional raised eyebrow told her who knew about the weekend auction and who didn't. No one said what a heartless thing she'd been to buy the painting of Haley Linwood right out from under her widowed husband. Everyone—eyebrow raisers or not—managed to convey a certain curiosity about her and why she was there with Garvin MacCrae. His behavior toward her must only have fueled more questions. He would touch her elbow, her shoulder, whisper names to her. As wary as she tried to remain, Annie found herself relaxing in his company, wanting to trust him, and, even more dangerous, wanting him to trust her.