Just Before Sunrise (30 page)

Annie Payne came to breakfast looking as if she'd passed a perfectly peaceful night. Garvin watched her irritably as she poured herself a bowl of raisin bran. She wore slim black pants with a berry-colored chenille sweater and silver earrings. A touch of blush and mascara, no lipstick yet. She'd already been out for a short walk and called the vet. Otto had had a good night and could go home that morning, although he would need time to recuperate. After she'd hung up, she was downright lighthearted. The snarl of emotions and physical longings left over from last night didn't dampen her mood, at least not that Garvin could see. Otto was on the mend, and Annie was fine.

She dug into her cereal. "I don't think it's a good idea for Otto to rest at the gallery today, but I can't leave him alone at my apartment. I doubt the intruder'll be back—presumably he's finished there—but Otto might not be comfortable there after what happened."

"You're worried about posttraumatic stress?"

"Mm."

Garvin sighed. "He can stay here."

Her eyes lit up. "He can? You're sure you don't mind? He won't be any trouble. He's not incapacitated or anything. The vet says he can go outside to do his business."

"Thank God."

She was oblivious to his mild sarcasm. "This is really nice of you, Garvin. What a relief. I mean, a rottweiler's tough to explain to customers on a good day, but with his head partly shaved and stitches—" She shrugged expansively. "I'm sure he's going to look rather rugged."

"Rugged?"

"You know what I mean. People could get the wrong idea about him and think he was in a fight."

"Maybe he was. We haven't seen what he did to whoever knocked him on the head."

She paled slightly, obviously not wanting to remember such unpleasantness. "There wasn't any trail of blood. You'd think if Otto had managed to fight back, there'd be—well, something left behind."

"An arm or a leg, perhaps?"

"Rottweilers are crushers, not slashers. Dobermans are slashers."

Garvin gave her a dry smile. "Good to know."

Her big eyes fastened on him, as if she'd just realized he was being flip. "I'm serious, Garvin."

"So am I."

"No, you're not. You're miffed because I'm in a good mood and you're not."

"Miffed? Annie, that's not a word I'd associate with me. Pissed, annoyed, irritated. They'll do. But not miffed."

She scowled at him. "All right. So you're
irritated
because I'm in a good mood and you're not."

He leaned over the table toward her. "Why do you suppose that is?"

"Because I have a dog and you don't."

He laughed. He couldn't help himself. He threw back his head and roared, just because he had never, ever, in his life encountered a woman like Annie Payne.

She jumped to her feet. Now she, he thought, was miffed. "This is ridiculous. I'm going to brush my teeth and put on some lipstick. If you can manage it, I'd appreciate a ride to town. If not, I can call a cab or find a bus. Maybe Michael Yuma would give me a ride."

She started to breeze past him, but Garvin caught her by the arm and swung her into him, remembering the feel of her skin against his last night. "Annie," he said into her ear, "I'm not in a bad mood because I don't have a dog and you damned well know it."

She swallowed.

He persisted. "Admit it, Annie."

"Admit what?"

He pulled her lower, settled his palms in the small of her back. Let her wonder at his next move. It was one way of calling her bluff. Dogs. The hell he was irritated because of a damned dog. The hell she
thought he
was irritated because of a damned dog.

"All right, all right." She scooted away from him, clearing her throat self-consciously. "You're not jealous because I have Otto. I don't know what your bad mood's about."

He gave her a dark look.

She pushed her hair back with both hands. "Oh, all right. I do know. You can't stand it that I woke up smiling and you didn't. Well, it's nothing to get mad about. I'm smiling because I knew you'd regret not staying in bed with me last night. And you're grouchy because I'm right. You
do
regret it." She dropped her hands to her side. "There you have it. Simple."

Garvin folded his arms on his chest, still saying nothing.

"And also because of Otto," Annie added quickly. "I'm smiling because he's all right."

"Annie." He kept his arms folded on his chest, his eyes on her. "How do you know I regret what I did last night?"

She returned his gaze, a sly smile at the corners of her mouth. "Don't you?"

"Let's say I do. Why does it put you in a good mood?"

"It doesn't."

He was going to throttle her. It was the only sensible course of action.

"Knowing
you'd regret last night does. It suggests..." She shrugged, as if she didn't know what it suggested. Or knew and didn't want to tell him. "It suggests a lot of things."

"Name one."

"That I'm cottoning on to you. That I'm unraveling who you are and sorting it out, getting comfortable with the intricacies of your nature. No, comfortable's not the right word. Maybe familiar is better."

He frowned. "Annie, I'm not a damned painting."

She cleared her throat. "This is true."

"So forget about unraveling my intricacies or whatever the hell you've been doing and concentrate on this."

He swept her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers, feasted on the taste of her, the feel of her, the very scent of her. He would have pulled away if he had felt even the slightest resistance. But he didn't. Annie settled her arms around him, plundered his mouth as eagerly as he did hers. Probably getting familiar with the intricacies of his nature, he thought.

Well, let her.

Finally, he set her back down on her feet. She ran her fingers through her hair and licked her lips. "Yes," she said. "Something to concentrate on, for sure."

He grinned. "You'll force yourself, will you?"

She regarded him with half-closed eyes. "Don't look so victorious, Garvin MacCrae. You won't have any easier a day than you had a night." She tossed her head back. "Now. I'll be ready in ten minutes. Otto awaits."

It was weird not having Otto with her at the gallery. Annie felt more alone than she would have expected, never mind Gran's many exhortations on animals being no substitute for people. Gran had loved animals, especially the birds she fed and the cormorants and ducks and occasional blue heron that would feed in the bay in front of her cottage, but she'd needed people, too. She had her volunteer work, her friends. Of course, she'd never understood Otto and her granddaughter's attachment to him and would have disdained her missing him when he was in perfectly good hands. It wasn't the dog, she'd say. It's that fellow, Garvin MacCrae. He's got you all in a muddle, and it's easier for you to say it's the dog than him.

She might have been right. Otto was probably having the time of his life in Garvin's big house. Annie trusted Garvin to look after him. After last night, she should be glad all was as well as it was. She was glad.

"Just in a muddle," she said under her breath.

Zoe Summer, along with the rest of San Francisco, had heard about Sarah Linwood's return. She wanted details. Annie promised to provide them during the first slow time they had. Given the extra publicity, she had no idea when that would be. Her gallery was packed, even the cash register active. People weren't just looking but buying, mostly low-and medium-priced items, a few frames. There were tons of inquiries.

Two reporters called. One stopped in. They all wanted to talk to Sarah Linwood. Barring that, they'd talk to Annie. She declined. Sarah's whereabouts weren't for anyone but Sarah to divulge, nor were the specifics of the agreement they had made regarding the auctioned portrait of Haley Linwood MacCrae. None of the reporters had yet made the connection between Sarah's appearance at last night's foundation dinner and the police report on the break-in at Annie's apartment. Annie chose not to enlighten them.

Nor did they ask about Garvin MacCrae. She certainly didn't volunteer any information about him. Before he'd dropped her off at her gallery, with Otto slumped in the backseat with his shaved head, he had said he would meet her at closing. They would then head up to see Sarah together and discuss their next move. He was still hoping her open presence in San Francisco would keep Vic Denardo at bay.

It didn't. He called at noon. "The police are looking for me. They think maybe I broke into your place last night and beat up your dog." He didn't sound particularly upset.

"Didn't you?" Annie asked coolly. She was behind her desk, browsers sifting through her gallery.

"Nah. Me and Otto were just starting to get along. I wouldn't hurt him. And why would I break in? You don't have anything I want besides Sarah's address, which I figure you haven't written down anywhere. Am I right?"

"About that, yes. What about the painting?"

"What would I want with a painting? Besides, I know Sarah has it, not you. Look, I didn't break into your place, and I didn't hurt your dog. Believe me or not, it's your choice." He didn't seem to care one way or the other. "Hell, if it'd get you to take me to Sarah, I'd say I did it. How'd Johnny and the new wife receive her?"

"I didn't stay. Mr. Denardo—"

"Conninger? My buddy Ethan was there, wasn't he? We used to sail together. Him, me, Garvin."

"Yes, I know. Mr. Denardo, what's the point of this call?"

"I want to see Sarah. Tell her to name the place, the time. It doesn't matter to me. I'll be there."

Annie inhaled. "She could just name a time and place and have the police meet you instead."

"You're a tough cookie, aren't you, sugar? I'd be watching. You tell her, okay?"

Annie said nothing.

"Okay, sugar?"

She sighed. "I'll tell her."

She slammed down the phone in frustration. A customer, an elderly man, was looking nervously over the counter at her. She smiled. "May I help you?"

An hour later, business was still percolating, and Annie hadn't told the police or Garvin or even Zoe about Vic Denardo's call. She'd almost talked herself into believing the break-in had been a random act, an ordinary urban burglar who'd panicked when he saw a rottweiler, smacked him on the head, probably with whatever he'd used to knock in her window, and got out of there while he had the chance without bothering to steal anything. It didn't
have
to be Vic Denardo's work.

She groaned. Obsessing wasn't going to get her anywhere.

At two o'clock John and Cynthia Linwood walked into her gallery together, a handsome couple despite the disparity in their ages. "Isn't it charming?" Cynthia beamed at her husband, as if showing off a pet project. Last night's chilliness might never have existed. "I just love the feel of the place, its mood. So many galleries are so inaccessible, so snobbish that people are put off or afraid to ask questions for fear of being sneered at. All that attitude. I hate it."

Annie finished ringing up a sale, and Cynthia greeted her with a broad, unselfconscious smile. She wore a close-fitting black suit with pearl earrings and not a strand of her Jacqueline Kennedy hair out of place. John Linwood, also crisply dressed, seemed more awkward, aware of the furtive, knowing looks he was getting from browsers who had recognized him. Either that, Annie thought, or he simply wasn't used to being in a retail establishment.

"I overheard what you said about my gallery," she said. "Thank you."

"I meant every word." Cynthia glanced around, as if to check if anyone was within easy earshot. A young couple with two small children was exclaiming over a series of botanical fern prints. Cynthia sighed at them, then regarded Annie with absolute gravity. "I spoke to Garvin last night. He told me about the break-in at your apartment. I'm very sorry I was so rude to you last night. The shock—well, there's no excuse." She kept her voice low, dignified. "The police have contacted us to find out if we have any reason to believe Vic Denardo's in the area. Of course, we said no. We don't."

"But Sarah," John said in a tortured voice. He averted his eyes, staring down at the toddler with the young couple, who was twirling her jet-black hair around her finger and staring up at him. He gave her a distracted smile, then turned back to Annie. "My sister could be in danger from this man. He...It's possible he..." His eyes shut, and the little girl toddled back to her parents.

"You must know who Vic Denardo is," Cynthia said briskly, her voice still low.

Annie nodded. She could have said more, but didn't. Last night's rules no longer applied, but she still didn't want to act precipitously and blurt out things better left for others to explain. She was the outsider.

Cynthia eyed her, then inhaled, as if guessing Annie was holding back. "Sarah didn't tell us where she's staying. If there's a reason she needs to keep it a secret—"

"I don't know that there is," Annie said. Wasn't half the point of her showing up last night to have her presence in San Francisco and her whereabouts out in the open? But with the break-in, the emergency with Otto, Garvin might have decided to change his plan.

John touched his wife's arm before she could lose patience. She had a prickliness to her that Annie could appreciate, although she didn't doubt Cynthia Linwood's sincerity in her comments about her gallery. She didn't seem the kind of woman to engage in insincere flattery.

"When you see my sister next," her husband said, "please tell her I would be happy to arrange for her security if she should feel any threat from Vic Denardo. I have no idea what their relationship has been since she left San Francisco." He paused, swallowed visibly. "I don't want anything to happen to her."

"I'd be glad to tell her." Annie managed a quick smile. On top of seeing his sister for the first time in five years last night, he had just learned that the chief suspect in the murders of his daughter and father might be back in San Francisco. "I'll probably see her later today. Garvin's meeting me here around six. My dog was injured last night during the break-in. He's recuperating at Garvin's house." She started to say more, then decided that was enough. Let John and Cynthia Linwood figure out her relationship with Garvin MacCrae on their own.