He made his way through the crowd, and Annie, breathing out in a long sigh, swept a glass of champagne from a passing tray. She was far, far too aware of every nuance of Garvin MacCrae, noticing the length of his fingers, imagining the taste and feel of his mouth. Such an attraction would only distract her from the business at hand. That business, she reminded herself, wasn't falling in any way, shape, or form for a man as unpredictable and driven as Garvin MacCrae. And what he wanted from her, she had to remember, were answers to his wife's death.
An attractive, slim woman joined her in front of a huge painting of the windswept coast of Nova Scotia. She was perhaps in her late thirties, with dark Jacqueline Kennedy hair. She wore a classic, understated black dress and simple diamond earrings and carried a light scent of an expensive perfume. She smiled. "Excuse me, you're Annie Payne, aren't you? I'm Cynthia Linwood. I saw you at the auction on Saturday. I would have said hello then, but I must have missed you."
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I left right after I bought the painting."
"That's what I understood." With her sharp features, small bones, and dark coloring, Cynthia Linwood didn't look like either Sarah or her older brother, John, whom Annie had only seen from afar in the Linwood ballroom. Maybe she'd married a Linwood? Did Haley have a brother? Were they cousins? "The decision to sell that particular painting wasn't an easy one. My husband..." Her gracious smile faltered. "I'm sure you can imagine."
"Your husband?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed you knew. My husband's John Linwood."
As in Sarah's older brother. There had to be close to a twenty-year difference in John and Cynthia Linwood's ages. Annie smiled through her awkwardness. "I didn't realize. I'm new in town—I'm afraid I don't know a lot of people in San Francisco."
"I understand you're from Maine."
Annie nodded, relieved to move off the shifting ground of relationships among the Linwoods. "I moved here just before Thanksgiving."
"Alone?"
"Yes. Well, I have a dog."
Cynthia smiled. "I love dogs. What kind?"
"Rottweiler. He's—he doesn't fit the stereotype. He's getting used to life in the city. So am I."
"Did you know anyone in San Francisco before you moved here?"
Annie shook her head.
Cynthia Linwood's beautifully groomed eyebrows shot up. "Really? I would think that would be—I don't know, scary. Moving to a new city, opening a gallery. You've started over, in essence."
"That was the point," Annie said softly, remembering how quiet the bay had been the morning she'd left, how alone and yet hopeful she'd felt. If she'd stayed in Maine, she'd have had to start over there too. Not in all the same ways, perhaps, but in all the ones that were important.
Before her mind drifted off to nostalgic memories, she smiled and tuned back into her surroundings. "San Francisco's a beautiful city. I love the history, the architecture, the views. The Golden Gate Bridge is everything I imagined. It's expensive here, but I'm enjoying myself. And my gallery's holding its own."
"Wonderful. I'd love to see it. I'm afraid I'm hardly an expert on art, but I'm learning. My husband's far more knowledgeable."
Her comment seemed intended to be neither effusive toward her husband nor defensive toward herself, simply a statement of the facts. Annie found herself liking the woman.
"Here's John now," Cynthia said, smiling broadly as her husband swept up to her. He was energetic, lean, fit—and, Annie thought, appeared far healthier than his younger sister. He had her expressive mouth and fair coloring but none of her plainness, none of her eccentricities. And he had no walker, no shuffling gait, no swollen, twisted joints. His tuxedo was clean, pressed, sophisticated. No doubt his socks matched.
When his wife introduced Annie, he took her hand in a firm grip and greeted her warmly. "Annie Payne. Of course. I just saw Garvin. He said you two had worked things out."
They had? Annie tried to keep her surprise from showing. So far as she could tell, Garvin MacCrae still thought she was a liar. She said diplomatically, "I'm afraid I didn't understand his interest in the painting when I bid on it."
"Yes, he mentioned you were new in town. Welcome."
"Thank you."
His wife hooked her arm into his, leaning close, almost protectively. "Annie was just telling me about her gallery. I plan to stop by one day soon." She smiled at Annie. "You're going to be swamped for the next few days. Everyone's madly curious about you after Saturday."
Including her, her expression suggested. Annie was suddenly grateful for her years of dealing with bluntspoken, tightfisted supporters of her little maritime museum. A smooth, polished Linwood was a breeze in comparison. "Come whenever you can. I'd be happy to show you around."
John Linwood gave a distracted smile, glancing around the crowded room before shifting his vivid blue eyes—his sister's eyes —back to Annie. She wondered if, like his former son-in-law and, possibly, the man wanted for his daughter's murder, he'd contemplated that she might be in touch with Sarah. "If you'll excuse me," he said pleasantly, "I need to tear my wife away for a few moments. Do you mind?"