Just Before Sunrise (37 page)

She'd never gotten the chance.

"I'm a good shot," Ethan said from the library. "You won't suffer."

"What you are," Annie said, "is a coward who's too scared to face himself in the mirror. You just can't admit it. You want to think of yourself as the carefree playboy type, the urban sophisticate, the ultimate yuppie, but you're just a miserable chickenshit."

Eyebrows raised, Vic looked around at Garvin, who grimaced at her impolitic words. But Annie Payne was a Mainer who'd stood on the edge of the abyss before, and damned if she was going down without a fight.

Garvin shifted forward and peered around the door frame. Ethan had his back to the door, but Garvin could see the gun in his right hand, leveled at Annie. She looked remarkably unafraid for a woman in her position. But that was Annie Payne. An optimist in spite of what she'd seen of life's harsh realities. She wasn't naive or blind, only determined to carry on, no matter what.

"You know," Vic whispered against Garvin's back, "I wouldn't call somebody with a gun a chickenshit."

Garvin glared him into silence.

There was a sound behind them. Vic frowned. "What was that?"

"Hell," Garvin said under his breath, but he was already too late.

Out of nowhere—with no finesse or hesitation— Otto streaked past them in a blur of black fur and muscle. He charged into the library, not growling, not barking, just moving. His rottweiler genes had taken over.

"Holy shit," Vic breathed.

He and Garvin surged into the library together, but Otto was already pouncing on Ethan, sending him sprawling onto the floor, gun flying, Ethan screaming. Otto landed on him with the force of his powerful one-hundred-and-twenty-pound body.

Annie grabbed up the gun even as Garvin got to her, grabbed her, held her. She fell against his chest. She was shaken, he saw, but undaunted.

Otto kept a terrified Ethan pinned under him while Vic sauntered around them both. "I knew this dog'd come in handy," he said proudly. "Right, Otto? You and me, we're pals. You got the fuck. You got 'im."

But Vic's knees were shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Payback time," Garvin said, holding Annie close, the terror subsiding. He hadn't lost her. "You rescued Otto. Now Otto's rescued Annie."

"I didn't know he had it in him," she said. "He's always been such a sweet dog."

Vic snorted. "Sweet? Yeah, kid, he's sweet all right. He must've remembered our friend Ethan from the other night at your apartment." Vic leaned forward and raised his voice as if somehow Ethan's hearing had been damaged. "When you coldcocked Otto. You knew he'd be there, and you were ready for him. Remember? Big mistake, you rat fuck. Never piss off a rottweiler."

Ethan moaned but didn't move a muscle. "Get him off me!"

A siren sounded outside on the street. Vic looked satisfied. "Sarah must have persuaded the police she wasn't a lunatic. Or someone saw a rottweiler loose in the neighborhood."

Annie sank more of her weight against Garvin, just a little of the tension going out of her body. "It's over," she said hoarsely. She turned her slate eyes up to him. "You have your killer."

"Yes."

He could feel the peace and the horror of knowing the truth settling over him, but at the same time, all he could think about was Annie and how close he'd come to losing her. He glanced at the stunning portrait Sarah had done of his wife. Haley had been a good woman, and the world had lost her too soon. But Annie was his present and his future, even if right now she couldn't trust him to know it.

Chapter Sixteen

The pots of flowers and the courtyard outside Annie's Gallery had never looked so beautiful, so inviting as the evening of her first opening. The invitations had gone out, the publicity was widespread, and she was sure—beyond sure—that Sarah Linwood was about to be declared a major new American artist.

Annie surveyed her gallery. She couldn't have been happier. She'd tied a red bow around Otto's neck for the occasion and had bought a new dress to wear with Gran's crewelwork shawl. Zoe Summer had provided appropriate scents. Vic Denardo had rented a tuxedo. Sarah Linwood had found a new thrift store and purchased a sedate black silk dress she was convinced had once belonged to her. She wore it with a pair of new white Keds and socks that seemed to match.

Cynthia Linwood, who'd promised she wouldn't meddle but wanted everything to be perfect, had helped Annie choose a caterer and hone a guest list. Everyone in San Francisco, she said, wanted to be there. Annie had no reason to doubt her.

An hour before the seven o'clock start of the opening, only Garvin MacCrae was missing. Even Michael Yuma and every employee of the marina, including a huge man named Beau, tattoos on his massive arms, had arrived for an impromptu preopening get-together.

"Think he won't show?" Vic asked, already into the champagne.

"Of course he'll show."

It wasn't just bluster. Annie
knew.
In the weeks since the police had dragged off Ethan Gonninger, she had come to know, understand, and trust Garvin—to connect with him—in a way she never had with anyone else before, not even Gran. It hadn't been any one thing, any one moment. They'd gone sailing together, they'd spent a weekend driving through wine country, they'd worked on a business plan for her gallery. They'd made love often, everywhere, and they'd taken Otto on long runs on the beach. And each day they were together, Annie found herself backing off from her conviction that for her, life had to be a here-today-gone-tomorrow proposition.

He swept into the gallery just minutes before seven, and before he could spot her, Annie watched him greet John and Cynthia Linwood, kiss Sarah on the cheek, clap a hand on Vic's shoulder. He complimented Otto on his bow, and he thanked Michael Yuma and the guys from the marina for showing up. There was none of the sense of isolation, of holding life at arm's length, that had been there weeks ago at the Linwood auction.

He spotted Annie finally, swept up a glass of champagne, and grinned. Again, as always, Annie was stunned by her reaction to him. It would be that way, she knew, forever. He wore a tuxedo, but that didn't matter. She was just as taken aback by him when he wore torn jeans and threw two-by-fours for Otto down at the marina.

"Sorry I'm late," he said.

"That's okay. I knew you'd be here."

He squeezed her hand. "I'm glad you knew."

She smiled. "Where've you been?"

"Walking the streets."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Why? Is there something wrong? Garvin, I know tonight can't be easy for you. People are going to think about your connection to the Linwoods. Please don't feel obligated to be here if—"

"Whoa, don't get ahead of yourself, Annie. Tonight will be poignant, yes. But I was walking the streets thinking about tomorrow."

Her heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with the approaching opening. It was knowing this infuriating man. Loving him. "Tomorrow," she said.

He nodded and withdrew something from his pocket. When he held it up, she saw that it was a ring.

"It's nothing fancy," he said, "but it was my great-grandmother's, and I thought—well, I thought you might like it better than a big old diamond."

"Garvin..."

"Marry me, Annie Payne. Tomorrow, the next day, any day you want." He smiled, slipping the ring on her finger as her eyes filled with tears. "I love you, Annie, and I want to be with you."

She sniffled and glanced back at Gran's painting, could see the two of them out on the front porch watching the dawn come and listening to the tide and the gulls, and suddenly she could see her and Garvin and Otto and toddlers. Babies, she thought, so overcome at the thought of her future, she almost couldn't get the words out. "I love you too. Sometimes I think I have since I spotted you bidding against me in that ballroom."

"And you'll marry me?"

She smiled, feeling the weight of the beautiful, simple ring on her finger. "I'll marry you, Garvin MacCrae."

He touched one finger to a tear on her cheek and smiled with such tenderness she wanted to cry. "I'll live with you here in San Francisco or out in Marin or back home in Maine. Wherever you want, Annie."

"Where doesn't matter, Garvin. Here, Maine, Belvedere, some shack in the hills." She took his champagne from his hand, set it down, and, ignoring the first wave of critics and the first stunned oohs and aahs over Sarah Linwood's work, she kissed him lightly and whispered, "Wherever I'm with you I am home."

***THE END***

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