"Let tonight be what it was, Annie," he said softly.
She noted his use of the past tense, knew he was leaving her bed even before his feet hit the floor. Silhouetted against the shaft of light coming from the bathroom, he looked magnificent. She wasn't sorry. She knew she'd been cast into labyrinths and caverns for a reason. Somewhere, hidden in a deep, dark place within one of those labyrinths, one of those caverns, was the part of Garvin MacCrae that would risk loving again. That would take the chance that another woman he loved wouldn't die on him and leave him feeling responsible.
He was already pounding up the stairs. She heard him curse. A door slammed shut.
She wasn't afraid. Not in the least. Not of him, not of herself. And she had no regrets about their lovemaking. Yes, she'd wanted him, and he'd wanted her. She wouldn't deny it. She felt bad about how awkwardly their night together had ended, but no matter what happened tomorrow, she'd have tonight.
Another door slammed. Water came on.
He was taking a shower, she thought.
"I hope it's a cold one," she muttered, knowing that the night would have brought on more lovemaking, hours of it.
Groaning under her breath, she slipped from her bed. Her ill-fated bath awaited her. The water, of course, was ice-cold, the smell of almonds long dissipated. She drained the tub and filled it again, suddenly energized. In the full-length mirror, her breasts looked heavy and swollen, her skin pink. All from lust, she thought. Pure lust. She gave her reflection a sly smile. There was nothing wrong with wanting Garvin MacCrae, she thought. Nothing at all.
Or with having had him, she added silently.
She pulled on her nightshirt. Everything suddenly seemed so very clear to her. Garvin had stomped upstairs not because he'd had her and once was enough but because he'd had her and once wasn't enough.
She crawled into bed, the sheets still warm from their lovemaking. She stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, wondering if he was up there blaming her fears rather than his own for why he was spending the rest of the night alone in bed. Well, let him. She'd warned him that she was no good at one-night stands. Serious issues existed between them, and they needed to be confronted. Maybe her timing was a little off, and maybe he had good reason to think her own fears had forced her subconsciously to drive him off.
Above her, his shower clanked off. She thought he kicked the door open.
Hugging her comforter around her, she closed her eyes, knowing she would sleep well, not in spite of Garvin MacCrae but because of him. For the first time in a long time, she was thinking not just about today but about tomorrow.
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Annie Payne came to breakfast looking as if she'd passed a perfectly peaceful night. Garvin watched her irritably as she poured herself a bowl of raisin bran. She wore slim black pants with a berry-colored chenille sweater and silver earrings. A touch of blush and mascara, no lipstick yet. She'd already been out for a short walk and called the vet. Otto had had a good night and could go home that morning, although he would need time to recuperate. After she'd hung up, she was downright lighthearted. The snarl of emotions and physical longings left over from last night didn't dampen her mood, at least not that Garvin could see. Otto was on the mend, and Annie was fine.
She dug into her cereal. "I don't think it's a good idea for Otto to rest at the gallery today, but I can't leave him alone at my apartment. I doubt the intruder'll be back—presumably he's finished there—but Otto might not be comfortable there after what happened."
"You're worried about posttraumatic stress?"
"Mm."
Garvin sighed. "He can stay here."
Her eyes lit up. "He can? You're sure you don't mind? He won't be any trouble. He's not incapacitated or anything. The vet says he can go outside to do his business."
"Thank God."
She was oblivious to his mild sarcasm. "This is really nice of you, Garvin. What a relief. I mean, a rottweiler's tough to explain to customers on a good day, but with his head partly shaved and stitches—" She shrugged expansively. "I'm sure he's going to look rather rugged."
"Rugged?"
"You know what I mean. People could get the wrong idea about him and think he was in a fight."
"Maybe he was. We haven't seen what he did to whoever knocked him on the head."
She paled slightly, obviously not wanting to remember such unpleasantness. "There wasn't any trail of blood. You'd think if Otto had managed to fight back, there'd be—well, something left behind."
"An arm or a leg, perhaps?"
"Rottweilers are crushers, not slashers. Dobermans are slashers."
Garvin gave her a dry smile. "Good to know."
Her big eyes fastened on him, as if she'd just realized he was being flip. "I'm serious, Garvin."
"So am I."
"No, you're not. You're miffed because I'm in a good mood and you're not."