Just Before Sunrise (12 page)

When he was waylaid by two men and whisked into a conversation that clearly didn't concern her, she seized the moment and snaked through the elegantly dressed crowd to the gallery where Sauveur's work was actually on display. His huge canvases of the stark, familiar North Atlantic coast immediately assaulted her senses, playing on her memories. If Sarah Linwood's work was focused on the essence, the soul, of what she painted—people, objects, landscapes—Sauveur's landscapes were focused on the rawness and possibility of North America, even at the turn of the millennium. His subject was the continent's easternmost fringe of rock, sea, and sky.

After a while—she couldn't say how long—Annie became aware of Garvin's presence beside her.

"This landscape reminds me of Thomas Cole's
The Oxbow,"
she said without looking at him. "It's called
Grand Manan.
Grand Manan's a Canadian island in the Bay of Fundy."

"You've been there?"

"Yes." She gestured at the cliffs depicted in the painting. "I've stood right on that ledge, watching the tide crash in. The Bay of Fundy has the most extreme tides in the world. They're incredible to watch. Grand Manan's further down east than where I used to live."

Garvin, she noticed, was studying her, not the painting. "You miss Maine," he said.

"Yep. I don't deny it. But I figure I need to miss it."

"Why?"

He seemed interested, but it wasn't a subject she wanted to delve into right now. "So I know I can live without it, I guess. That my life isn't a place." But the thought of her old job, her old life, only made her feel more isolated. Not out of place, she thought. Just alone. She directed her attention back to the landscape. "There's a tension between the real and the ideal in Sauveur's work. It's almost palpable, isn't it?"

Out of the corner of her eye she caught Garvin's wry smile. "I was just thinking the painting's too big, it won't fit over a sofa."

She laughed but eyed him sardonically. "Now, why do I have the feeling you're being disingenuous? I think you've heard of the Hudson River School and maybe even Thomas Cole. I don't pretend to be an art historian myself, but"—she caught herself and smiled—"but don't get me started."

Something crept into his eyes; she couldn't define it but knew only that it made her throat catch. "Another time, perhaps. Look, there's someone I need to see." He touched her shoulder, leaning in toward her, his mouth so close to hers she could feel his breath. "Excuse me for two minutes, okay?"

"Sure. Take your time. I'm sure I can amuse myself."

He made his way through the crowd, and Annie, breathing out in a long sigh, swept a glass of champagne from a passing tray. She was far, far too aware of every nuance of Garvin MacCrae, noticing the length of his fingers, imagining the taste and feel of his mouth. Such an attraction would only distract her from the business at hand. That business, she reminded herself, wasn't falling in any way, shape, or form for a man as unpredictable and driven as Garvin MacCrae. And what he wanted from her, she had to remember, were answers to his wife's death.

An attractive, slim woman joined her in front of a huge painting of the windswept coast of Nova Scotia. She was perhaps in her late thirties, with dark Jacqueline Kennedy hair. She wore a classic, understated black dress and simple diamond earrings and carried a light scent of an expensive perfume. She smiled. "Excuse me, you're Annie Payne, aren't you? I'm Cynthia Linwood. I saw you at the auction on Saturday. I would have said hello then, but I must have missed you."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I left right after I bought the painting."

"That's what I understood." With her sharp features, small bones, and dark coloring, Cynthia Linwood didn't look like either Sarah or her older brother, John, whom Annie had only seen from afar in the Linwood ballroom. Maybe she'd married a Linwood? Did Haley have a brother? Were they cousins? "The decision to sell that particular painting wasn't an easy one. My husband..." Her gracious smile faltered. "I'm sure you can imagine."

"Your husband?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed you knew. My husband's John Linwood."

As in Sarah's older brother. There had to be close to a twenty-year difference in John and Cynthia Linwood's ages. Annie smiled through her awkwardness. "I didn't realize. I'm new in town—I'm afraid I don't know a lot of people in San Francisco."

"I understand you're from Maine."

Annie nodded, relieved to move off the shifting ground of relationships among the Linwoods. "I moved here just before Thanksgiving."

"Alone?"

"Yes. Well, I have a dog."

Cynthia smiled. "I love dogs. What kind?"

"Rottweiler. He's—he doesn't fit the stereotype. He's getting used to life in the city. So am I."

"Did you know anyone in San Francisco before you moved here?"

Annie shook her head.

Cynthia Linwood's beautifully groomed eyebrows shot up. "Really? I would think that would be—I don't know, scary. Moving to a new city, opening a gallery. You've started over, in essence."

"That was the point," Annie said softly, remembering how quiet the bay had been the morning she'd left, how alone and yet hopeful she'd felt. If she'd stayed in Maine, she'd have had to start over there too. Not in all the same ways, perhaps, but in all the ones that were important.

Before her mind drifted off to nostalgic memories, she smiled and tuned back into her surroundings. "San Francisco's a beautiful city. I love the history, the architecture, the views. The Golden Gate Bridge is everything I imagined. It's expensive here, but I'm enjoying myself. And my gallery's holding its own."

"Wonderful. I'd love to see it. I'm afraid I'm hardly an expert on art, but I'm learning. My husband's far more knowledgeable."

Her comment seemed intended to be neither effusive toward her husband nor defensive toward herself, simply a statement of the facts. Annie found herself liking the woman.

"Here's John now," Cynthia said, smiling broadly as her husband swept up to her. He was energetic, lean, fit—and, Annie thought, appeared far healthier than his younger sister. He had her expressive mouth and fair coloring but none of her plainness, none of her eccentricities. And he had no walker, no shuffling gait, no swollen, twisted joints. His tuxedo was clean, pressed, sophisticated. No doubt his socks matched.

When his wife introduced Annie, he took her hand in a firm grip and greeted her warmly. "Annie Payne. Of course. I just saw Garvin. He said you two had worked things out."

They had? Annie tried to keep her surprise from showing. So far as she could tell, Garvin MacCrae still thought she was a liar. She said diplomatically, "I'm afraid I didn't understand his interest in the painting when I bid on it."

"Yes, he mentioned you were new in town. Welcome."

"Thank you."

His wife hooked her arm into his, leaning close, almost protectively. "Annie was just telling me about her gallery. I plan to stop by one day soon." She smiled at Annie. "You're going to be swamped for the next few days. Everyone's madly curious about you after Saturday."

Including her, her expression suggested. Annie was suddenly grateful for her years of dealing with bluntspoken, tightfisted supporters of her little maritime museum. A smooth, polished Linwood was a breeze in comparison. "Come whenever you can. I'd be happy to show you around."

John Linwood gave a distracted smile, glancing around the crowded room before shifting his vivid blue eyes—his sister's eyes —back to Annie. She wondered if, like his former son-in-law and, possibly, the man wanted for his daughter's murder, he'd contemplated that she might be in touch with Sarah. "If you'll excuse me," he said pleasantly, "I need to tear my wife away for a few moments. Do you mind?"

"Of course not. It was a pleasure to meet you both."

After they'd retreated, Annie checked out a few more Sauveur landscapes, but her attention kept wandering. She couldn't focus on cliffs and waves and dramatic mountain ranges, all, it seemed to her, designed to make her homesick, never mind their gripping mix of romanticism and harsh reality. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Garvin MacCrae laughing with a group of men and women, their gold watches and jeweled necklaces glittering in the careful, expensive lighting. She tugged Gran's shawl around her, no illusions that she was on her home turf.

Garvin caught her eye, smiled, and started toward her. Annie couldn't tear her eyes off him. It wasn't as if he'd changed in the last twenty minutes. He hadn't. His tuxedo, his lean ruggedness, his dark hair and deep dark green eyes were all the same. Yet she couldn't stop herself from staring at him, from feeling a rush of anticipation as he came closer, even as she warned herself that being attracted to Garvin MacCrae would likely get her nowhere but deeper into the morass of Linwood troubles.

"Sorry to abandon you," he said as he eased beside her.

"I didn't feel abandoned."

"No?"

She smiled. "Not my style."

He studied her, seemingly unaware of the powerful paintings in front of him, the crush of San Francisco elite. He had an uncanny ability to make the person he was addressing believe nothing else would or could interfere with their conversation. Annie felt she had his complete attention. It wouldn't be easy to hide anything from him for long, she thought. And probably not smart to try.

He settled in close to her. "Used to getting along on your own, aren't you?"

She gave him an amiable smile. "I expect we both are."

"Yes." His narrowed eyes penetrated her, as if trying to gauge how much he really didn't know about her. She met his gaze dead-on, not afraid of what he might see inside her. He gave her a quick smile, and shifted his gaze, taking in their surroundings. "I noticed you met John and Cynthia Linwood."

"Yes, they seem very nice. You told John Linwood we'd worked things out?"

"Just that we'd reached an understanding. Which we have, after a fashion." His mouth twitched in a wry half smile. "I know you haven't told me everything, and you know I know."

"I do, do I?"

"Without a doubt."

Without giving a reply, she moved on to a final painting, a smallish, for Sauveur, landscape of a Nova Scotia bog enveloped in fog. But Garvin caught her by the elbow and drew her close to him, just a few inches, enough to set her blood boiling but not to attract attention. "So innocent, Annie." His voice was low, deep, probably at least as sexy as he intended, and suddenly she knew he was aware of her attraction to him. "I know damned well you bought that painting for Sarah."

"Garvin—"

He touched a finger to her mouth. "Not now. We'll talk later."

The brief, intimate contact had her reeling. Her shawl slid down her arms and brushed the floor. She scooped it up, wrapped it over her shoulders, and clutched its edges with cold, shaking hands. "Please try to understand—"

"Later, Annie."

His mouth almost touched hers, and his eyes had taken on the color of an evergreen in the Nova Scotia fog of the painting beside them, sending a mix of sparks and chills through her. He didn't back off, paid no attention to the whirl of activity around them.

He hooked her arm into his and drew her back into the crowd before she could come to her senses and march out, get a cab,
walk
home—do anything she had to do to get away from him. But he gave a relaxed smile as he approached two couples in their thirties and introduced her without a trace of suspicion or nastiness.

"People seem surprised to see you here," Annie half whispered as he dragged her off to meet more people.

"They are."

"Why?"

"Because I don't usually come to this sort of thing."

"Then why are you here tonight?"

He didn't answer.

And she knew.

"You didn't come to my apartment to make sure I was all right," she said. "You wanted to sweet-talk me into coming here with you. Why? What's the point? Do you think you'll get your way by preying on my vulnerabilities?"

He regarded her without a hint of apology. "I thought coming here might help you to realize what you're up against."

"I'm up against you!"

"Not me. Two murders that are unsolved. A past that's not going to go away." His tone softened ever so slightly. "Annie, if you're in cahoots with Sarah Linwood, you know she has nothing to fear from these people. They are her family, her friends—"

But she refused to listen to more and pushed through the crowd out to the elegant gallery's main entrance. Tears stung her eyes. She noticed the curious looks and choked on the knowledge of how alone she was. She had let herself believe that Garvin MacCrae had invited her here tonight on the spur of the moment because he knew she was new in town, alone, eager to meet people. He'd capitalized on her eagerness to attend a Winslow Gallery opening. He'd
manipulated
her.

Sarah Linwood. Vic Denardo. They consumed him. They were what he wanted.

Not her, she thought. Not her friendship, not her trust. Just what she knew about his wife's aunt and the man he believed had killed her.

Never mind that she knew more than she'd told him. Never mind that he was absolutely right in thinking she was withholding crucial information from him, even lying.

"Annie," he said, catching up with her.

She jerked around at him, her indignation outstripping any sense of guilt. "I'll find my own way home."

His eyes bored through her, but she detected a flicker of sympathy in them. "You knew you were playing with fire when you showed up for that auction. Don't be surprised you got burnt."

"I just—I just wanted a pleasant evening out. I didn't ask for you to come to my door. I could have stayed home and watched TV with Otto."

His eyes held hers. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I trusted you!"

"No, Annie," he said confidently. "Because you thought you could have your cake and eat it too. You thought you could come here tonight, enjoy yourself, play the San Francisco gallery owner, and not have to account for Saturday. Well, sorry. That's not the way I do things. Trust is a two-way street."