"That's the sort of thing you learn from a woman who lives into her nineties. You mourn your losses. You move on. There's simply no other sensible, proper choice."
She stopped. She'd wrung herself out. She shifted in her chair and drank her coffee, welcoming its strong flavor. The margarita. She shouldn't have had alcohol after a day like today, with Garvin MacCrae studying her from across the table.
He didn't back down, not that she'd thought he would. His gaze —incisive, probing, carefully unemotional—remained pinned on her. "You haven't know Sarah for very long, Annie. She's already gotten you into one mess trying to have her cake and eat it too. I just want you to keep your eyes open. I don't want to see you hurt."
"That's my risk to take," she said tartly,
He nodded, sipping his own coffee, studying her over the rim of his cup. "So long as you know it."
They split the check at Annie's insistence. It had nothing to do with money, just with her determination to assert her separateness from him. They weren't in this thing together. Maybe he didn't want to see her hurt, maybe she wasn't holding back anything from him anymore, but she couldn't allow herself the illusion that he wouldn't put his need to learn the truth about his wife's death over anything else.
Once back at her apartment, Garvin double-parked and cast a sideways glance at her. "I'll walk with you to your door."
"That's okay, I don't think Vic Denardo will—"
"I'd feel better if I did this, Annie."
She shrugged. "Sure."
She slid out of the car and opened the back door, grabbing up Otto's leash as he loped out onto the sidewalk. By the time Garvin joined her at the gate, her pulse was racing. Otto pranced down the narrow walk ahead of them, then Annie, aware of Garvin close behind her in the shadows. When they came to her door, she fumbled in her bag for her keys. "I haven't got the hang of all these locks," she said. "I never locked my door in Maine."
But her hands were shaking not because of the locks on her door but because of the man at her side. It was a good thing he was double-parked. She wouldn't have to ask him in, risk having all that was simmering between them explode. She could feel his reluctance to leave, but he needed time to absorb the shock of seeing Sarah Linwood, her paintings, what had happened to her in the past five years.
"Annie," he said.
She glanced at him. He leaned toward her, touched her cheek. He traced her lower lip with one finger, setting her body spinning. She took a breath, abandoning her key in its lock. She started to speak, but he brushed his lips across hers, effectively silencing her. His arm dropped down her back, and he drew her toward him even as she sank against his chest.
Then Otto shook his massive head, sending dog slobber flying. Garvin looked down at him and made a face. He gave Annie a dry smile. "I guess Otto knows I'm double-parked."
"He's a smart dog."
"That he is."
"Good night, Garvin. I'll see you soon."
He kissed her lightly, gently. "Count on it."
* * *
Chapter Nine
Annie brought fresh, warm cinnamon streusel muffins for her and Zoe's preopening get-together. She even had a muffin for Otto. Maybe it was just her way of asserting normalcy in her life. This was what she'd envisioned, dreamed of, during her long drive west. Muffins, friends, good conversation, a sunlit San Francisco morning. Not two unsolved murders. Not old family animosities. Falling for a man who was sexy and interesting and yet as single-minded as Garvin MacCrae, maybe.
While the coffee brewed, Annie put out her pots of pansies, cyclamen, ivy, lobelia, swept the courtyard, and inspected the impatiens along the border of the brick walk. She'd left the door to her gallery ajar, but Otto waited inside for Zoe and stayed near the muffins. She'd gotten up an hour early and taken him for an extra-long walk, thoroughly entranced by San Francisco at sunrise. Of course, she'd told herself her early rising had nothing to do with last night beyond feeling guilty over leaving Otto cooped up in Garvin's car.
"You must have a green thumb," a man said behind her.
Annie spun around, and the man who'd snuck into her gallery on Sunday—Vic Denardo—grinned at her. "Nice flowers," he said, gesturing to her impatiens. "Healthy looking."
"Thank you," she mumbled.
He had on black jeans and a white turtleneck again, and Annie could suddenly see how Sarah Linwood had fallen for him. He was fit, wiry, and exuded a raw sensuality that was impossible to ignore. Annie brushed off her hands, noticing her visitor sweeping his dark eyes over her. She wore taupe-colored gabardine pants and a pale blue sandwashed silk blouse, with a dab of some perfume Zoe had pressed upon her. It supposedly soothed and energized at the same time.
She cleared her throat, trying not to let her nervousness paralyze her. "Um—is there something I can do for you?"