His voice was deep, persuasive. Annie felt a slight tremble in her hand. This is absurd, she thought, and pulled open the door.
Her breath caught at the sight of Garvin MacCrae on her threshold. Tonight he wore a tuxedo, and he looked as comfortable in it as he had in his torn jeans yesterday, his business suit on Saturday. He was elegant, rugged, mercurial. The light struck his eyes, then his mouth, as he tilted his head back and smiled at her. "Evening."
Otto returned to his spot in front of her couch, apparently having dismissed Garvin as a possible intruder. Annie fingered a lock of hair that had escaped the rolled-up bandanna she used as a headband while cleaning. "Hello. Um—this is a surprise. How did you find me?"
"I pried your address out of Saturday's auctioneers."
"I see. Well, come in."
She backed out of the way, and he strolled into the small main room of her apartment, looking for all the world as if he belonged there just because he was there. He gave the place a quick onceover. At least she didn't have to worry about it not being clean. Her kitchen sparkled, her two-person oak table gleamed, the cushions on her simple couch were plumped and vacuumed, and there wasn't a dog hair in the place not attached to Otto.
"I could have rented a whole house in Maine for what this place is costing me," she said.
Garvin glanced around at her. "San Francisco's rents are high." He eyed her posters of Yoda and the Hulk, her museum-mounted print of Winslow Homer's The Fishwives. "Your taste in artwork isn't easy to categorize, is it?"
She shrugged. "I just like what I like. You'll notice I have followed all the earthquake guidelines to the letter. I didn't hang anything that could fall on my head and kill me, should the Big One hit."
Amusement flashed in his eyes, his quick smile. "That's sensible, I suppose."
"You'll find I have no illusions about natural disasters."
"No, I wouldn't think so."
Otto sighed heavily, dropping off to sleep. Annie had taken him for a good, long walk at midday, hoping to clear her head. It hadn't worked. Neither had cleaning her apartment top to bottom.
"Can I get you something to drink?" she offered.
"No, thanks. I can't stay. I'm on my way to an opening at the Winslow Gallery."
"The Sauveur opening?"
His eyes narrowed on her, missing nothing. She didn't bother trying to hide her interest. For a moment she thought Garvin MacCrae could see her heart skipping at the prospect of attending a Winslow Gallery opening. "Are you going?"
"Me? No, but I've heard about it. I gather the Winslow Gallery's known for its Monday night openings."
"T. J. Winslow likes to go against the grain."
"Well, he has a wonderful gallery. I've been through it several times. And Sauveur—I know his work. He's from the Canadian Maritimes. He does sort of a takeoff on the Hudson River School of the nineteenth century, but with his own twist. He paints huge, dramatic landscapes—"
Garvin held up a hand, silencing her. "Get dressed. You can come with me."
She raised her eyebrows at the unexpected invitation. "Are you serious?"
"Sure."
"But that's not why you came here, is it?"
He sighed. "Annie, if you want to come with me, get dressed and let's go. If not, just say so." He bit off each word as if he'd invited her on impulse and wasn't sure he shouldn't have kept his mouth shut, but then he sighed, and his expression softened. "Look, I didn't come here to harass you. I just stopped by to make sure Vic Denardo hadn't been back."
"He doesn't know where I live."
The deep green eyes darkened. "He can find out."
Annie ignored the shiver that ran right up her back. "Well, I'm not convinced the man yesterday wasn't just some crazy pretending to be Vic Denardo."
"That's wishful thinking."
"Maybe." She eyed him. "If I go with you tonight, are you going to keep at me?"
He sighed. "Would it do any good if I did?"
She smiled brightly. "None whatsoever. I've handled crusty lobstermen and stingy museum trustees, and Gran—my grandmother could be downright crotchety. I think I can tolerate your suspicions for one evening, if," she added, "your invitation still stands."
"It does," he said, watching her closely.
"Give me ten minutes to change."
"Take twenty. I'm in no hurry." His shoulders relaxed, and he folded his arms on his chest, again baffling, intriguing Annie with his easy mix of elegance and ruggedness. "Mind if I take a look at Sarah's painting while I wait?"
Annie swallowed hard. She'd been an idiot to let him manipulate her. He hadn't ventured to her apartment because he was worried about her having to face Vic Denardo again; he'd wanted to catch her in a lie about Sarah's painting.
But she held her ground, squaring her shoulders and meeting his eye. "It's not here."