Just Before Sunrise (4 page)

"I understand. I certainly didn't mean to make it any harder on you."

"You haven't. Well, Garvin, I hope we'll see each other again soon."

"I hope so, too."

John Linwood withdrew into an adjoining room, and Garvin sighed heavily, cursing himself for having come today. Neither he nor his father-in-law, he noted, had mentioned the name of the artist. Sarah Linwood's family and friends hadn't heard from her since the murders. Five years. Now no one knew if she was alive or dead.

Instead of heading directly out as he'd intended, Garvin abruptly about-faced and made his way down the hall to the table at the entrance to the ballroom. The woman who kept track of the buyers and what items they bought regarded him with sympathy. "I'm sorry things didn't go your way, Mr. MacCrae. A lot of people were rooting for you."

"Thanks. Who's the lady who beat me out?"

"I'm not supposed to say—"

"It's okay. I don't want to put you on the spot." In spite of his tensed jaw, Garvin produced a smile. "If you speak to her, tell her I hope she enjoys the painting."

The woman chewed on one corner of her mouth and glanced into the ballroom. More frenzied bidding was going on. Garvin paid no attention. A runner—a panting college kid—burst up to the table with the tag from a sold item. It would be matched to the number of the buyer, in order to bring item, buyer, and money together at the right time.

As she took the tag, the woman subtly tilted her clipboard toward Garvin. He scanned down to Number 112.

His opponent's name was Annie Payne of Annie's Gallery on Union Street.

A dealer.

Garvin gritted his teeth. A damned dealer! She'd paid five thousand dollars for a painting by an unknown, a painting that, as far as he could see, wasn't worth even the five hundred he'd meant to pay for it. Given the painful memories associated with it, even Haley's family didn't want it.

Maybe Annie Payne was compulsive about bidding and had gotten in way, way over her head when he'd bid against her, ending up with a painting she didn't really want at such a price. Once the adrenaline rush passed and she realized what she'd done, she might have regrets.

Of course, Annie Payne could also be scamming him. She could have known who he was and planned to sell the painting back to him for a tidy profit, assuming he'd play her game her way, which was a hell of an assumption.

Maybe she had another buyer already in mind?

Who?

Garvin swore to himself. It was just a painting. Never mind that Sarah, for all her recklessness and self-absorption, had captured the very essence of Haley's nature. His wife was gone, and Garvin had slowly come to accept life without her, even if he couldn't forgive himself for not loving her enough to have saved her. If only she'd come to him with whatever she'd learned about Sarah's finances, her gambling debts—whatever it was that had compelled her to go back to the Linwood house that night. But she hadn't. And she'd died.

He slipped out the front door, relieved to have the Linwood house at his back. It had been madness to come today. He should have known it wouldn't end up as he'd planned. At the very least, he should have known there'd be no avoiding the past he had worked so desperately to put behind him, if not forget.

He trotted down the steps and out to the street, barely aware that the rain had stopped for the moment. The sky was still gray, the air damp and chilly. Halfway down the block, he recognized Annie Payne wrestling with her new purchase at the rear of a small, rusting station wagon.

He slowed his pace, studying her. She didn't look like a crafty dealer who'd deliberately outsmarted and outmaneuvered him. Most of her blond hair had come loose from its pins and sticks, dropping down her forehead and temples in pale wisps. A brightly embroidered shawl hung off one arm, its fringe tickling the street. One wrong step and she'd trip over it. Garvin felt his curiosity piqued by her. Why on earth had she paid such an exorbitant amount for Sarah Linwood's painting of her niece?

"Otto," Annie Payne said firmly, apparently unaware of Garvin's presence, "you have to move. Now, I warned you I'd have a painting when I got back. So there's no excuse for being stubborn." She glared into the back of her car. "Otto, I mean it.
Move."

Glancing into the station wagon, Garvin was surprised to find an enormous rottweiler sprawled in back. Otto, presumably. His massive head was twisted around at her, his big brown eyes studying her without apparent concern or intention of doing as she said.

No, indeed. Annie Payne wasn't what he'd expected at all.

"Otto. You're not keeping your end of the deal."

As if she'd had every expectation that he would. Up close, Garvin noticed she was slender and fit and probably weighed less than her dog. He said, "I see you have a problem."

"Yes, Otto's being stubborn." She looked around at him as she spoke, then took a quick breath, obviously taken aback. "You're the man from the auction."

The man from the auction? Then she didn't know who he was. Or was adept at pretending not to. "Yes," he said. "My name's Garvin MacCrae."

She didn't blush or go pale; she simply pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "Hi—Annie Payne. I hope there are no hard feelings."

He smiled a little. "Not many."

She smiled back, a glint coming into her eyes. They were pale blue, almost gray. "I thought the crowd was going to eat me alive there for a minute. Someone mentioned the girl in the painting's your wife. I hope she won't be too disappointed. Was it going to be a present?"

Garvin's throat tightened, and he managed to shake his head. A present for Haley. Annie Payne didn't know his wife was dead.

Who the hell
was
she?

She frowned, a touch of color appearing high in her cheeks. "I can see you're still upset. I'm sorry. It was nothing personal. To be honest, I didn't expect anyone else to bid."

"Neither did I." His voice was less strangled than he'd expected.

"That's an auction for you. I'm not much on auctions myself. When I want something, I just like to pay my money and take it home. I don't like this win-lose stuff."

So much for his compulsive auction-goer theory. Annie Payne turned her attention back to her dog, running one hand through her hair in frustration. She caught an ebony hair stick and dragged it out, shoving it into the depths of some skirt pocket. Her movements were unselfconscious, without any indication that she knew he was watching her as closely as he was. He hadn't expected to find the woman who'd beaten him out to be so matter-of-fact, so guileless—so attractive. He noticed the soft rise of her breasts, the slim curve of her hips, the creamy skin at her throat.

Not good, he thought.

She gave an exaggerated sigh. "I might not get the painting home if this dog doesn't move. He has to be the stupidest animal in the entire universe." She leaned forward, hands on hips. "Otto. Otto, I said move."

Otto didn't move.

"I thought rottweilers were smart," Garvin said.

"Not Otto. I think he fell on the rocks one too many times as a puppy."

Without warning, she balanced the painting against the bumper and climbed up into the back after Otto. Garvin grabbed her shawl just before it hit the wet pavement. Annie Payne seemed oblivious to anything but getting her dog to move. She went in on her hands and knees, leaving Garvin with a view of her shapely behind.

Grumbling and cursing, she pushed the huge dog's paws in an apparent attempt to get him to flop over onto his other side. He didn't budge, just kept staring at her with those enormous brown eyes.

"I'm taking you to dog obedience school," she warned him.

Otto seemed unimpressed. He opened his mouth—one designed for crushing—and yawned, frothy white slobber creeping over his jowls.

"There'll be no treat for you tonight, bub, if you don't move."

Garvin wondered what a dog as big as Otto would consider a treat. He folded the large, beautiful, but rather unusual, shawl. It, too, didn't fit his mental image of an uhrasophisticated, wily gallery owner.

Annie Payne, it seemed, had her own way of doing things.

Her tone changed as she tried cajoling, talking to her dog as if he were a recalcitrant toddler. "Roll over, Otto. Come on, buddy. Yes, roll over. Otto." Her tone sharpened, her patience unquestionably exhausted. "Otto.
Roll over."

Otto ignored her.

She backed out, ducking her head to keep from banging it on the liftgate as she dropped back onto the pavement. Garvin handed her the shawl. She sighed, defeated. "He's paying me back for not taking him to the auction. I'll just have to wait him out." She squinted up at the gray sky. "I hope the rain holds off."

"What if you let him out of the car instead of trying to get him to shift position? Then you could slide the painting in and let him in again."

She shook her head. "He's not moving."

"Isn't it worth a shot?"

"I suppose." But she clearly didn't think anything would work. She turned back to her dog, patting her hip with one hand in an attempt to coax him. "Come on, Otto. Want to go for a walk? Here, boy. Come."

The big dog blinked at her, then stretched out his long legs, if possible taking up even more of the back of the little station wagon.

Annie Payne regarded Garvin without surprise. "You see? He's stubborn
and
stupid."

In spite of her disgust, Garvin had no doubt of her affection for her rottweiler and knew better than to agree with her assessment. This, he thought, was not his fight. She'd bought herself a painting for five thousand dollars. She could get it home on her own. "Well, I hope things work out."

"Oh, they will. Otto knows sooner or later I always get my way."

She smiled, a dimple appearing in her left cheek, giving her expression an irreverent, sexy touch that suggested that maybe Annie Payne wasn't as innocent as she looked. Garvin found himself intrigued and just a little suspicious. Given his experience with her so far, he wouldn't be surprised if she did always get her way.

She certainly had today.

"Good luck," he told her. "By the way, if you decide you don't want the painting after all, give me a call. I'm over in Marin. My number's in the book."

"All right. I'll do that. But don't get your hopes up. I doubt I'll change my mind."

Garvin narrowed his eyes on her, unable to dismiss the sudden impression that Annie Payne was hiding something. He thought he saw her squirm, just for the flash of a second, under his scrutiny. Definitely, he decided, she was hiding something.

But he needed to regroup, rethink his strategy, before pouncing on her.

The sexual connotation of the image hit him hard, shot urges through him that had nothing to do with paintings or suspicions. He could feel his throat tighten, his body tense. Well, what the hell did he expect? An undertone of sex was the raw, inevitable result of their sparring in the auction room.

He wondered how shocked Annie Payne would be if she knew what he was thinking. Even if he wouldn't act on such an impulse under the circumstances, the thought of going to bed with her seemed perfectly natural.

Also bloody dumb, he added silently.

"Enjoy the painting, then," he said, his throat still tight.

She smiled brightly, oblivious to his tortured state. "I will. Oh, and give my best to your wife. I'm sure you'll find another present for her."

That brought him spinning back to reality. But he'd turned away from her and thus was spared from answering, from having to explain that his wife was dead.

"Hell," he breathed, and kept walking.

Ten paces up the sidewalk, he heard Annie Payne laugh in unbridled delight. Garvin glanced back. Otto had decided to move. Seizing the moment, his master shoved the painting in back, shut the liftgate, and skipped up to the driver's seat with her shawl over her head as the heavens opened up.

Ignoring the downpour, Garvin stood on the sidewalk and watched her old station wagon cough and choke out onto the street.

The woman didn't even have a decent car. How could she have afforded to pay five thousand dollars for a painting he doubted was worth even five hundred?

It was a question, he knew, that needed an answer.

Chapter Two