Annie nodded at the auctioneer.
Her opponent immediately went up to eleven hundred.
She whipped around and glared, and her eyes made contact with a man in a dark suit. And she knew. This was her opponent. This was the man who wanted the painting of the red-haired girl.
Her mouth went dry. His eyes bored into her. Annie inhaled sharply, certain she wasn't sparring with a dealer. There was nothing sporting about his expression, nothing of the dealer who took competition and defeat in stride. He wanted the painting, and he had expected to get it for five hundred dollars.
He hadn't, it seemed, expected Annie Payne.
The auctioneer called for twelve hundred. With her gaze still pinned on her opponent, Annie nodded. She wasn't going to back down. She wasn't going to let him unnerve her. She didn't care who he was or why he wanted the painting.
His expression remained grim and determined, giving no indication he was having any fun at all. He had angular, riveting features and very dark hair, but for some reason she couldn't even imagine, Annie guessed his eyes were lighter: gray or green or even blue. She tried to picture him somewhere besides a tense auction room. Where might he smile? Where might he not look so humorless and intense? Roaming the Marin hills, perhaps. Rock climbing. Horseback riding across a meadow. Anywhere, possibly, but a Pacific Heights auction.
He wasn't here for the thrill of an auction, she thought with a sinking feeling.
He was here for the painting.
Annie turned back around and concentrated on her task. Would he let the bidding go over ten thousand?
In another two minutes, it was up to three thousand. Perspiration trickled down the small of her back. She had her shawl clutched tightly in her hands. She was shaking. She resisted the impulse to spin around in her seat and have another look at her opponent. She didn't want him thinking she was desperate, intimidated, terrified that he would outbid her. She couldn't afford to goad him.
She had to win.
An old woman three rows in front turned around and frowned at her. Let the man have the painting, girlie, her expression said. Who do you think you are?
But Annie bid thirty-one hundred. And her dark-haired, dark-suited opponent bid thirty-two, and she could hear the murmurs of sympathy for him even as she bid thirty-three.
Then he went to four. Annie didn't know how he did it. He hadn't uttered a sound. She whipped around.
His eyes were already on her. Steady, confident. Daring her.
Biting on one corner of her mouth, Annie noticed that everyone else's eyes were on her, too. The auctioneer waited for her response. She put up all five fingers, hoping he would understand her bid.
He did. "The bid is at five thousand."
She thought she heard somebody mutter, "Who is she? Why doesn't she let him have it? Doesn't she know who he is?"
No, she didn't. And what difference did it make who he was? She had as much right to that painting as anyone else in the room. More, perhaps, since she was representing the artist who'd painted it.
Her heart pounding, she waited for him to answer her bid. Five thousand was a ridiculous amount to pay for such a painting. People would think she was crazy—until they saw Sarah's subsequent work. Then they would know and understand.
If she had to use Sarah's entire ten thousand, Annie thought, she would.
But the man in the dark suit passed. Stunned, Annie glanced back at him. He gave her a mock salute with one finger and retreated through double doors into an adjoining room that she was quite sure was one of the ones blocked off to the public.
The painting was hers.
"Well," the old woman a few rows up snapped, "I hope she's happy."
She is, Annie thought, her relief making her feel limp and a little like crying. She's very happy.
Now that the thrill of the battle was over, she became acutely aware of a current of hostility directed at her. It wasn't just that people had sympathized with her opponent, they were annoyed with her for outbidding him. And it wasn't just a few people. No wonder Sarah hadn't wanted to come to the auction herself.
Nice, Annie thought. Maybe I can get out of here before anybody finds out who I am.
She pulled her tapestry bag onto her lap, prepared to make a run for it in case someone tried to drag her off to the lions. Why wasn't she garnering any sympathy? She wasn't some tall, rich guy standing in the back of the room. She hadn't tried to burn holes through him with her eyes. What happened to rooting for the underdog?
Mercifully, the runners brought out a magnificent set of rare Austrian china. The auction resumed. Annie got to her feet. She felt jittery and selfconscious, her hands and knees trembling. Excusing herself to each person whose feet she had to climb over, she stumbled back out to the aisle.
A portly middle-aged man on the end said, "You must have wanted that painting very much to go up against Garvin MacCrae."
"Who's Garvin MacCrae?"
"You don't know? I wondered. He's the husband of the girl in the painting."