Just Before Sunrise (13 page)

He kept his voice low, but they were out of anyone's earshot. Annie started to defend herself, then clamped her mouth shut and shot out to the street. Garvin swore and came after her. He was a man with a mission, she thought, and she'd allowed herself to be lulled into a false sense of security.

Besides, he had a point about trust being a two-way street.

She shivered out on the sidewalk, more from frustration and humiliation than the cold. It was a long walk back to her apartment, but she could do it.

Garvin touched her shoulder and said softly, "Annie, I'll drive you home."

"No, thank you." Stiff, uncompromising. She wished her knees weren't going jittery at his touch, her resolve melting at the regret she heard in his voice.

"I guess this wasn't a very good way to make my point."

She cast him a cool look, not caring about her brimming tears. "No, it wasn't. I—I'm trying to do the best I can."

He sighed. "Maybe you are, but—"

A movement off toward the gallery stopped him, and Annie spotted Cynthia Linwood bursting from the entrance. "Garvin, I wanted to talk to you before you left." She hurried up to them, no sign she was aware of their altercation. "I wanted to remind you about Friday. It would mean a lot to John if you could make it."

It was as if a mask dropped over Garvin. He stood very still, his expression completely unreadable. "Thank you for the reminder, Cynthia." But there was no gratitude in his tone.

Cynthia Linwood pretended to be oblivious to his manner. "We would all love to see you, Garvin. And, please, bring Annie with you." She turned to Annie. "We would love to have you join us, Annie. I mean that."

Before she could ask what they were talking about, Garvin broke in. "It was good to see you and John tonight, Cynthia. If I can be there Friday, I'll let you know. Good night."

Cynthia nodded, a touch of annoyance cooling her dark eyes. "It was good to see you, too." She gave Annie a formal smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Annie. I look forward to visiting your gallery."

When Cynthia Linwood retreated, Annie let sheer curiosity drag her down the street with Garvin, who marched to his car without a word. "What was that all about?" she asked, finally, when he stopped at his sleek, expensive sports car.

He glanced back at her, his eyes lost in the shadows of the night. "Friday is the annual dinner for the Haley Linwood Foundation. I'd forgotten."

"Oh. I see. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said, curt, almost harsh. "I'm not still in love with my wife."

Annie jumped backward at the unexpected ferocity of his words and stumbled on the curb. His hand shot out, steadying her, his touch an electric current. "It's okay," she said. "I can manage."

"That's you, isn't it, Annie?" His voice was ragged, husky. "Always one to manage. Sometimes you can't, you know. Sometimes life just throws too damned much at you."

She nodded dully, weakening at the flash of memory, the gleaming white casket that held her mother's remains, the spray of pink roses, herself at sixteen with no parents, only Gran, only their cottage by the bay. And now not even that.

She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt his hands gentle on her as he drew the folds of Gran's shawl up over her shoulders. His fingers skimmed her throat, melting her resistance. "Come on." His voice was soft now, liquid. "I'll take you home."

Garvin kept his eyes pinned to the road as he negotiated Annie's steep Russian Hill street. She hadn't spoken since leaving Winslow's. Just as well. A tight coil of tension had knotted itself in his gut as he'd watched her tonight. It had nothing to do with Sarah Linwood or Vic Denardo and everything to do with Annie Payne. Her smile, her laugh, her ease with who she was and what she wanted to be. She was a captivating woman.

And a liar, of course.

He double-parked in front of her building. He remembered living on a shoestring, working toward a dream. Not giving a damn about anything else.

She opened her door. "Thank you for the ride."

Her voice was soft, reserved. He narrowed his gaze on her. Her eyes shifted away from his. Guilt, he thought. Annoyance. He studied the shadows on the line of her jaw in the harsh light from the street, watched her throat as she swallowed. "Annie—Sarah Linwood was a troubled woman five years ago, and two people were murdered. I'd keep that in mind if I were you."

Her gaze came back to him. "I will."

The coil in his gut tightened even more.

She started from the car, but he leaned toward her, careful not to grab her arm, to touch her in any way. He'd be lost if he did. He knew it. Sprung loose, all the tension in him would send him spinning out of control.

"Why did you leave Maine?" he asked softly.

Surprise flickered in her face at his question. "What?"

"Maine. Tell me. What were you thinking when you packed up your car, packed up Otto, and headed west? What were you hoping to find out here? What did you dream about on the drive west?"

For a moment he thought she wouldn't answer him. Then she said, "I just wanted—I needed a chance to figure out who I am now that everything that made me who I was is gone. I don't know if that makes any sense to you."

He nodded, if anything the coil of tension tighter. "It does."

"I should go."

"Annie, Sarah can be very persuasive. She knows how to use her Linwood manners and bearing. She can exact promises from people they later regret making." He paused, but Annie Payne didn't jump out of the car and race into her apartment. She kept one hand on the door, listening. "Haley believed in her. She couldn't understand that Sarah was responsible for the choices she made about Vic Denardo and her gambling. Haley kept expecting her to snap out of it, kept believing she would. She saw her aunt as a victim of her father."

Annie frowned. "You mean Sarah's father? But he was killed—"

"Thomas Linwood was a harsh, controlling, difficult man. When Sarah first started painting—not long after Haley sat for her —and he found out, he was furious. He didn't mind her dabbling in art. It was a ladylike enough hobby. But when she started making noises about showing her work in public, he objected. He claimed he was trying to protect her from disappointment and humiliation."

"But you don't believe it," Annie said quietly.

Garvin shook his head. "No, I don't. I think he was a sanctimonious old bastard and a mean one. He couldn't stand Sarah doing something he couldn't control."

"How did she react?"

"She burned her canvases."

"What?"
Horror drained the color from Annie's face; her grip on the door faltered. "But that's so self-destructive!"

"Sarah has a self-destructive streak."

"What about the portrait of your wife? How did it survive?"

"Haley had it. She presented it to her grandfather after Sarah had destroyed all her other paintings and insisted he hang it in his library. If he didn't, she vowed never to speak to him again. He doted on her, and he knew she meant what she said." Garvin paused, remembering Haley's laughter the day she'd told him that story. She'd been so damned proud of herself. "So he obliged her."

"She must have been an incredible woman," Annie said softly.

Garvin nodded. "She was. Sarah managed to capture her spirit in her portrait. I can't explain—"

"You don't have to. I saw it, too."

"Annie—" He inhaled, trying to get distance, control, where there was none to be had. "Tell Sarah about me if you haven't already. Ask her to let me see her. I'll go to her or I'll meet her anywhere of her choosing."

"Please, I—"

"I only want the truth, Annie. Nothing more."

She pushed open the door and leaped out of the car.

Garvin sighed. He could go after her. Pin her to the wall and demand she prove to him she wasn't in contact with Sarah. Scare her. Intimidate her. Damn it,
make
her talk.

Or try. There was always Otto.

In spite of himself, he smiled. He stepped out of the car and called to her over the hood. "I'm not giving up on you, Annie."

She didn't even glance back at him.

"If you need me, you can find me at my marina or up at my house. You have the addresses and numbers."

No answer. She opened the high gate to the walk that led back to her apartment.

And before he knew it, Garvin had crossed onto the sidewalk and was standing in back of her, casting a dark shadow over her. The tension had him in its grip. He couldn't get a decent breath. His mind reeled with images of carrying Annie Payne inside to her bed.

She turned to him, her brow furrowed. She didn't take a step back but still she said nothing.

Her eyes, however, never left his.

And he knew.

"Annie."

He pulled her against him, groaned at the feel of her warm, slender body, and fell upon her mouth, tasting her, filling himself with her, desperately trying to release the tension that had built up inside him, forcing that tight coil to spring free.

Yet somewhere from far within the deep recesses of his conscience, caution and control wormed their way forward.

He tore his mouth from hers. Lurched back from her. His breathing was ragged, his body consumed with a hunger that had never been so deep, so insistent. He dragged the back of his hand across his chin, staring at her. He'd only made matters worse for himself, he knew.

Not even a night in bed with Annie would satisfy him.

"I'm sorry," he said curtly.

Her eyebrows quirked up. "You are? I'm not. If I hadn't wanted you to kiss me, Garvin MacCrae, I'd have told you so. And if you hadn't listened, you'd be doubled over right now wishing you had. I've an effective move to the privates." She gestured toward the area in question. "You leave yourself open to such a blow."

"Annie, I swear—"

She curved an arm around his neck and kissed him softly, fervently. He heard her quiet moan deep in the back of her throat. Her mouth opened against his, and he wondered if she knew, if she had any idea what it took for him not to sweep her up and carry her down the walk to her apartment.

But there was Sarah.

There was whatever Annie Payne was hiding from him.

Yet her tongue, the taste of her, left him breathless, aching. When she finished, she searched his eyes, smiling as if she had total control of him and herself. "There. Now you know."

Garvin wasn't sure he knew anything.

"I wanted that kiss as much as you did, Garvin MacCrae. And took from it as much as you."

He smiled back, just a hint of what lay beneath the surface. "So you think."

That stopped her. She drew back, not so smug. Her shawl dusted the ground. "And I know where to find you," she said. "If I need you, I'll be in touch. Good night."

"My best to Otto," he said, and headed for his car before his desire to have Annie Payne in his bed overtook his common sense.

Or hers did.

Chapter Six

Annie sniffed a jar of something that looked like dryer fuzz that Zoe had brought over just before closing late Tuesday afternoon. "I don't smell anything."

"But how do you feel?"

"Harassed, but I felt harassed before you walked in."

Zoe groaned, snatching the jar away. "You're impossible."