But she refused to listen to more and pushed through the crowd out to the elegant gallery's main entrance. Tears stung her eyes. She noticed the curious looks and choked on the knowledge of how alone she was. She had let herself believe that Garvin MacCrae had invited her here tonight on the spur of the moment because he knew she was new in town, alone, eager to meet people. He'd capitalized on her eagerness to attend a Winslow Gallery opening. He'd manipulated her.
Sarah Linwood. Vic Denardo. They consumed him. They were what he wanted.
Not her, she thought. Not her friendship, not her trust. Just what she knew about his wife's aunt and the man he believed had killed her.
Never mind that she knew more than she'd told him. Never mind that he was absolutely right in thinking she was withholding crucial information from him, even lying.
"Annie," he said, catching up with her.
She jerked around at him, her indignation outstripping any sense of guilt. "I'll find my own way home."
His eyes bored through her, but she detected a flicker of sympathy in them. "You knew you were playing with fire when you showed up for that auction. Don't be surprised you got burnt."
"I just—I just wanted a pleasant evening out. I didn't ask for you to come to my door. I could have stayed home and watched TV with Otto."
His eyes held hers. "Why didn't you?"
"Because I trusted you!"
"No, Annie," he said confidently. "Because you thought you could have your cake and eat it too. You thought you could come here tonight, enjoy yourself, play the San Francisco gallery owner, and not have to account for Saturday. Well, sorry. That's not the way I do things. Trust is a two-way street."
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.