He pivoted to her, touched a finger to her mouth. "No. Don't. Don't say a word."
His voice was raw from exhaustion, tension. He needed rest, a hot bath. He'd been out on the water all night, most of the day. Thinking, Annie expected. Debating what to do. Remembering. She thought she understood. When she'd bid against him for Sarah Linwood's painting, she'd shattered whatever life he'd fashioned for himself in the past five years, whatever shaky peace with his fate.
She had no idea what he meant to do. Ask her to leave? Fetch a tape recorder to make sure she couldn't take back what she was going to tell him?
Instead, he drew his finger along her lower lip. Hundreds, thousands, of sensations spilled through her, softening any resistance, overcoming any reserve. Yesterday, tomorrow, suddenly made no difference.
"Annie, Annie."
His voice was just as raw, just as exhausted, but without the edge. He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently, softly, letting his palms skim down her shoulders, down her back. She should be all right, she thought faintly. It wasn't the sort of raging, rough kiss as the other night. There was control behind it. Intention. Really, she should be all right. She wouldn't lose herself.
But she was wrong.
Her head spun, her blood heated. She savored the taste of him, the feel of his hands on the small of her back. He edged her lips with his tongue, eased in. Control. Oh, yes. He had it. And intention. Indeed. He knew exactly what he was doing. To her. To himself. Somewhere deep within her a moan of pleasure, of sweet torture, formed and then slowly escaped. He responded by pulling her against him, urging his dark, thrusting need against her.
Her head roared. For a wild moment she expected they'd end up tearing off their clothes and making love there on the deck, never mind the hard boards, the cold breeze, the tension between them.
But even as the thought of his body inside hers gripped her, he drew back.
She threw one hand back and braced herself on the rail, gasping for air, staring at him.
He raked a hand through his hair, hissed a curse. "Talk to Sarah, Annie. Tell her what I've said. Then you can talk to me."
He turned back to the bay.
Annie peeled her hand from the balustrade. She started to speak but changed her mind. He'd dismissed her. Summarily. With the taste of him still on her mouth.
Without a word, she walked unsteadily back through the living room and out to her car. She would do well to remember that Garvin MacCrae was a man with a mission. He would roll over her —over anyone—to get what he wanted. Not because he didn't have feelings for her but because finding whoever was responsible for his murderer was the right thing to do.
About that, Annie thought, she could make no mistake.
* * *
Chapter Seven
Annie took a circuitous route—no difficult task in San Francisco —up to the tangle of streets where Sarah Linwood had her cottage. She pulled over several times and let cars pass, telling herself she was just being cautious, not paranoid. But damned if she'd let anyone follow her today.
Once she stopped and walked Otto around a little park. Twice she almost turned back and went home. She could just forget about Garvin MacCrae and the Linwoods. Forget about Sarah's paintings. Vic Denardo. Two unsolved five-year-old homicides. She could make her mark in San Francisco without "discovering" Sarah Linwood.
She found her way up to Sarah's cul-de-sac in her car for the first time, thus permitting her to bypass the stone steps. Unbelievably, there was even a parking space. She promised Otto a treat if he hung in there one more time, then ventured to the front door.
Her knocks went unanswered. She frowned, the wind swirling and cold enough that she wished she'd worn her fleece jacket over her sweater. But the brisk air revived her, helped remind her she wasn't the first woman to kiss a man she had no business kissing. Garvin MacCrae just had a way of stirring her up. That stubble of beard, those earthy eyes, his worn, sexy clothes—even his fatigue was sensual, calling up images of taut muscles and sweat as he'd sailed the bay.
Another two knocks, and Sarah still didn't answer her door.
Impatient, Annie pressed her face up to the front window. The little table was immaculate. No sign of her reclusive painter in her kitchen or in what she could see of the rest of the house. Was she asleep? Had she fallen out of sight of the window? Had she gone out?
Where would a woman who could barely walk, who had no apparent means of transportation, no friends, go?
The grocery, you idiot. Annie sighed, very aware that she'd let a simple kiss cloud her thinking. Then she remembered how close she'd been to making love to Garvin MscCrae on his deck.