She was fit to be tied. Had he followed her all day? Had he thought kissing her gave him the right to follow her? She'd spent a restless day at her gallery before giving up and calling someone to cover for her for the rest of the afternoon while she tracked him down.
Squirrels chattered in the trees, the pungent greenery scented the air. A light breeze rustled as she mounted the two wide, flat stone steps to the front door. She rang the doorbell, just in case a housekeeper or somebody was there.
No one answered.
She sighed, glancing around, noticing the silence.
What if she had to leave before he came back? She'd have missed her chance to get a picture of the man.
Otto, his head stuck out the back window, yawned as he watched her, white slobber oozing out over his jaw. She could leave him stuck in the car for only so long. It wasn't as if she could wait around forever.
With no rail to impede her, she had only to step off the side of the step to reach Garvin's front window and have a peek inside his house.
Without further thought, she did just that. She squeezed behind an overgrown rhododendron, its fat buds and waxy leaves poking into her back as she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her face to the window.
From what she could see, the house was long and narrow, the front door opening into a main room with spare, functional furnishings in neutral colors. There were french doors to a deck, the gleam of San Francisco Bay and San Francisco beyond.
It wasn't easy, Annie thought, to integrate all she'd learned about Garvin MacCrae into one tidy, predictable, or even understandable man. Her library research had only added to her confusion. He had married a Linwood heiress. He had worked for a decade as an ambitious, driven financial wizard. He had refused to take a dime of his wife's money and instead had established a charitable foundation in her name. Five years after her death, he ran a marina.
A car sounded on the street, and she ducked down behind the rhododendron. Peering through the leaves and buds out at the street, she saw Garvin's black sports car ease in behind hers.
She groaned, feeling like a sneak. "Terrific."
Garvin got out of his car, frowning. Otto gave a low bark. It wasn't anything fierce, just a greeting. He and Garvin MacCrae were pals. Garvin eyed her car, he eyed Otto. Even knee-deep in ferns and myrtle and squatted down among rhododendrons, she could tell he was in a raw mood. He wore a black plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned, over a black polo shirt, a pair of tattered jeans, boat shoes. He looked haggard, hard, sexy, in no mood to catch a woman hiding in his rhododendrons.
But with Otto and her car right there, he'd know she couldn't be far away. Ever one to look reality straight in the eye and do what had to be done, Annie pushed her way through the rhododendrons and tangle of undergrowth out across the small yard.
Garvin started down his walk. He was hyperalert, studying her closely, and she remembered her encounter with Michael Yuma. She hadn't, she recalled, exactly had her temper under tight rein.
"I understand you're looking for me," he said.
She picked a long vine off her ankle and cast it behind her. "Damned right. I'm here to skin you for following me last night."
"I figured as much."
She tripped out to the street. He ground to a stop about a yard from her. She noticed the frayed collar of his polo shirt and the day's growth of beard along his jaw. Everything about him was raw-edged, earthy. "I don't like being followed."
"I don't like being lied to." There wasn't even a hint of guilt in those dark green eyes. "I'm just sorry you ended up at the library instead of Sarah Lin wood's doorstep."
Annie snorted, incredulous. "Wait just a minute! You're the one who's done wrong here. I just spent a nice, quiet day running my gallery, experiencing San Francisco—"
It was his turn for an incredulous snort.
She thrust her hands on her hips and glared at him, not nearly, she realized, as furious as she'd expected to be now that they were face-to-face. But she was indignant. "All was quiet yesterday. Really. No strange men hiding in my workroom, no suspicious, irritating, stubborn men interrogating me. I did have Cynthia Linwood stop by—"
"And Ethan Conninger."
She frowned, eyeing him suspiciously. He looked smug. Too smug. "How do you know?"
"Because I watched you all day."
She stared at him. "You what?"
He shrugged, matter-of-fact. "I started in the morning and kept at it until you spotted me at the library." He strode past her, unrepentant, and glanced back when he reached his doorstep. "Lucky for you I'm not Vic Denardo."
Speechless, she spat and sputtered while he shoved his key into his front door. He pushed the door open and turned back to her, his eyes lost in the shifting shade. "If it's any consolation," he said mildly, "for the most part I was bored as hell and not exactly thrilled with myself."
"Where were you?"
"At the coffee shop on and off, and that maternity store—"
"You must have fit right in there," Annie said dryly.