about you after Saturday."
Including her, her expression suggested. Annie was suddenly grateful for her years of dealing with bluntspoken, tightfisted supporters of her little maritime museum. A smooth, polished Linwood was a breeze in comparison. "Come whenever you can. I'd be happy to show you around."
John Linwood gave a distracted smile, glancing around the crowded room before shifting his vivid blue eyes—his sister's eyes —back to Annie. She wondered if, like his former son-in-law and, possibly, the man wanted for his daughter's murder, he'd contemplated that she might be in touch with Sarah. "If you'll excuse me," he said pleasantly, "I need to tear my wife away for a few moments. Do you mind?"
"Of course not. It was a pleasure to meet you both."
After they'd retreated, Annie checked out a few more Sauveur landscapes, but her attention kept wandering. She couldn't focus on cliffs and waves and dramatic mountain ranges, all, it seemed to her, designed to make her homesick, never mind their gripping mix of romanticism and harsh reality. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Garvin MacCrae laughing with a group of men and women, their gold watches and jeweled necklaces glittering in the careful, expensive lighting. She tugged Gran's shawl around her, no illusions that she was on her home turf.
Garvin caught her eye, smiled, and started toward her. Annie couldn't tear her eyes off him. It wasn't as if he'd changed in the last twenty minutes. He hadn't. His tuxedo, his lean ruggedness, his dark hair and deep dark green eyes were all the same. Yet she couldn't stop herself from staring at him, from feeling a rush of anticipation as he came closer, even as she warned herself that being attracted to Garvin MacCrae would likely get her nowhere but deeper into the morass of Linwood troubles.
"Sorry to abandon you," he said as he eased beside her.
"I didn't feel abandoned."
"No?"
She smiled. "Not my style."
He studied her, seemingly unaware of the powerful paintings in front of him, the crush of San Francisco elite. He had an uncanny ability to make the person he was addressing believe nothing else would or could interfere with their conversation. Annie felt she had his complete attention. It wouldn't be easy to hide anything from him for long, she thought. And probably not smart to try.
He settled in close to her. "Used to getting along on your own, aren't you?"
She gave him an amiable smile. "I expect we both are."
"Yes." His narrowed eyes penetrated her, as if trying to gauge how much he really didn't know about her. She met his gaze dead-on, not afraid of what he might see inside her. He gave her a quick smile, and shifted his gaze, taking in their surroundings. "I noticed you met John and Cynthia Linwood."
"Yes, they seem very nice. You told John Linwood we'd worked things out?"
"Just that we'd reached an understanding. Which we have, after a fashion." His mouth twitched in a wry half smile. "I know you haven't told me everything, and you know I know."
"I do, do I?"
"Without a doubt."
Without giving a reply, she moved on to a final painting, a smallish, for Sauveur, landscape of a Nova Scotia bog enveloped in fog. But Garvin caught her by the elbow and drew her close to him, just a few inches, enough to set her blood boiling but not to attract attention. "So innocent, Annie." His voice was low, deep, probably at least as sexy as he intended, and suddenly she knew he was aware of her attraction to him. "I know damned well you bought that painting for Sarah."
"Garvin—"
He touched a finger to her mouth. "Not now. We'll talk later."
The brief, intimate contact had her reeling. Her shawl slid down her arms and brushed the floor. She scooped it up, wrapped it over her shoulders, and clutched its edges with cold, shaking hands. "Please try to understand—"
"Later, Annie."
His mouth almost touched hers, and his eyes had taken on the color of an evergreen in the Nova Scotia fog of the painting beside
Including her, her expression suggested. Annie was suddenly grateful for her years of dealing with bluntspoken, tightfisted supporters of her little maritime museum. A smooth, polished Linwood was a breeze in comparison. "Come whenever you can. I'd be happy to show you around."
John Linwood gave a distracted smile, glancing around the crowded room before shifting his vivid blue eyes—his sister's eyes —back to Annie. She wondered if, like his former son-in-law and, possibly, the man wanted for his daughter's murder, he'd contemplated that she might be in touch with Sarah. "If you'll excuse me," he said pleasantly, "I need to tear my wife away for a few moments. Do you mind?"
"Of course not. It was a pleasure to meet you both."
After they'd retreated, Annie checked out a few more Sauveur landscapes, but her attention kept wandering. She couldn't focus on cliffs and waves and dramatic mountain ranges, all, it seemed to her, designed to make her homesick, never mind their gripping mix of romanticism and harsh reality. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Garvin MacCrae laughing with a group of men and women, their gold watches and jeweled necklaces glittering in the careful, expensive lighting. She tugged Gran's shawl around her, no illusions that she was on her home turf.
Garvin caught her eye, smiled, and started toward her. Annie couldn't tear her eyes off him. It wasn't as if he'd changed in the last twenty minutes. He hadn't. His tuxedo, his lean ruggedness, his dark hair and deep dark green eyes were all the same. Yet she couldn't stop herself from staring at him, from feeling a rush of anticipation as he came closer, even as she warned herself that being attracted to Garvin MacCrae would likely get her nowhere but deeper into the morass of Linwood troubles.
"Sorry to abandon you," he said as he eased beside her.
"I didn't feel abandoned."
"No?"
She smiled. "Not my style."
He studied her, seemingly unaware of the powerful paintings in front of him, the crush of San Francisco elite. He had an uncanny ability to make the person he was addressing believe nothing else would or could interfere with their conversation. Annie felt she had his complete attention. It wouldn't be easy to hide anything from him for long, she thought. And probably not smart to try.
He settled in close to her. "Used to getting along on your own, aren't you?"
She gave him an amiable smile. "I expect we both are."
"Yes." His narrowed eyes penetrated her, as if trying to gauge how much he really didn't know about her. She met his gaze dead-on, not afraid of what he might see inside her. He gave her a quick smile, and shifted his gaze, taking in their surroundings. "I noticed you met John and Cynthia Linwood."
"Yes, they seem very nice. You told John Linwood we'd worked things out?"
"Just that we'd reached an understanding. Which we have, after a fashion." His mouth twitched in a wry half smile. "I know you haven't told me everything, and you know I know."
"I do, do I?"
"Without a doubt."
Without giving a reply, she moved on to a final painting, a smallish, for Sauveur, landscape of a Nova Scotia bog enveloped in fog. But Garvin caught her by the elbow and drew her close to him, just a few inches, enough to set her blood boiling but not to attract attention. "So innocent, Annie." His voice was low, deep, probably at least as sexy as he intended, and suddenly she knew he was aware of her attraction to him. "I know damned well you bought that painting for Sarah."
"Garvin—"
He touched a finger to her mouth. "Not now. We'll talk later."
The brief, intimate contact had her reeling. Her shawl slid down her arms and brushed the floor. She scooped it up, wrapped it over her shoulders, and clutched its edges with cold, shaking hands. "Please try to understand—"
"Later, Annie."
His mouth almost touched hers, and his eyes had taken on the color of an evergreen in the Nova Scotia fog of the painting beside
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