by Nora Roberts
a doorstop."
Rogan waited to be sure she'd run down, then hid a smile in his brandy. 'That sums it up amazingly well."
"Jackass."
"Shrew," he said pleasantly. "Would you care for some dessert?"
The chuckle tickled her throat, so she set it free. Who would have thought she'd actually come to like him? "No, damn you. I'll not drag that poor maid away again from her television or her flirtation with the butler or however she spends her evenings."
"My butler is seventy-six, and well safe from flirtations with a maid."
"A lot you know." Maggie rose again and wandered toward a wall of books. Alphabetized by author, she noted, and nearly snorted. She should have known. "What's her name?"
"Whose?"
'The maid's."
"You want to know my maid's name?"
Maggie stroked a finger down a volume of James Joyce. "No, I want to see if you know your maid's name. It's a test." He opened his mouth, closed it again, grateful that Maggie's back was to him. What difference did it make if he knew the name of one of his maids?
Colleen? Maureen? Hell! The domestic staff was his butler's domain. Bridgit? No, damn it, it was . . .
"Nancy." He thought—was nearly certain. "She's fairly new. I believe she's been here about five months. Would you like me to call her back in for an introduction?"
"No." Casually, Maggie moved from Joyce to Keats. "It was a curiosity to me, that's all. Tell me, Rogan, do you have anything in here other than classics? You know, a good murder mystery I might pass some time with?"
His library of first editions was considered one of the finest in the country, and she was criticizing it for lacking a potboiler. With an effort, he schooled his temper and his voice. "I believe you'll find some of Dame Agatha's work."
"The British." She shrugged. "Not bloodthirsty enough as a rule—unless they're sacking casdes like those damn Cromwellians. What's this?" She bent down, peered. This Dante's in Italian."
"I believe it is."
"Can you read it, or is it just for show?"
"I can fumble through it well enough."
She passed by it, hoping for something more contemporary. "I didn't pick up as much of the language as I should have in Venice. Plenty of slang, little of the socially correct." She glanced over her shoulder and grinned. "Artists are a colorful lot in any country."
"So I've noticed." He rose and crossed to another shelf of books. "This might be more what you're looking for."
He offered Maggie a copy of Thomas Harris's Red Dragon. "I believe several people are murdered horribly."
"Wonderful." She tucked the book under her arm. "I'll say good night then so you can get back to work. I'm grateful for the bed and the meal."
"You're welcome." He sat behind his desk again, lifted a pen and ran it through his fingers while he watched her. "I'd like to leave at eight sharp. The dining room's down this hall and to the left. Breakfast will be served anytime after six."
"I can guarantee it won't be served to me at that hour, but I'll be ready at eight." On impulse she crossed to him, placed her hands on the arms of his chair and leaned her face close to his. "You know, Rogan, we're precisely what each other doesn't need or want—on a personal level."
"I couldn't agree more. On a personal level." Her skin, soft and white where the flannel parted at her throat, smelled like sin.
"And that's why, to my way of thinking, we're going to have such a fascinating relationship. Barely any common ground at all, wouldn't you say?"
"No more than a toehold." His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered, rose to hers again. "A shaky one at that."
"I like dangerous climbs." She leaned forward a little more, just an inch, and nipped his bottom lip with her teeth.
A spear of fire arrowed straight to his loins. "I prefer having my feet on the ground."
"I know." She leaned back again, leaving him with a tingle on his lips and the heat in his gut. "We'll try it your way first. Good night."
She strolled out of the room without looking back. Rogan waited until he was certain she was well away before he lifted his hands and scrubbed them over his face. Good Christ, the woman was tying him into knots, slippery tangled knots of pure lust. He didn't believe on acting on lust alone, at least not since his adolescence. He was, after all, a civilized man, one of taste and breeding. He respected women, admired them. Certainly he'd developed relationships that had culminated in bed, but he'd always tried to wait until the relationships had developed before making love. Reasonably, mutually and discreedy. He wasn't an animal to be driven by instinct alone. He wasn't even certain he liked Maggie Concan-non as a person. So what kind of man would he be if he did what he was burning to do at this moment? If he stalked up those stairs, threw open die door to her bedroom and ravished her good and proper. A satisfied man, he thought with grim humor. At least until morning when he had to face her, and himself, and the business they had to complete. Perhaps it was more difficult to take the high road. Perhaps he would suffer, as he was damn well certain she expected him to. But when the time came for him to take her to bed, he would have the upper hand. That, most certainly, was worth something. Even, he thought as he shoved papers aside, a miserably sleepless night.
Maggie slept like a baby. Despite the images evoked by the novel Rogan had given her, she'd dropped off to sleep just after midnight and had slept dreamlessly until nearly seven. Flushed with energy and anticipation, she searched out the dining room and was pleased to see a full Irish breakfast warming on the sideboard.
"Good morning, miss." The same maid who had served her the night before scurried in from the kitchen. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
Thank you, no. I can serve myself." Maggie picked up a plate from the table and moved toward the tempting scents on the sideboard.
"Shall I pour you coffee or tea, miss?"
'Tea would be lovely." Maggie took the lid off a silver warmer and sniffed appreciately at the thick rashers of bacon. "Nancy, is it?"
"No, miss, it's Noreen."
Failed that test, Squire Sweeney, Maggie mused. "Would you tell the cook, Noreen, that I've never had a better meal than my dinner last night."
"I'd be happy to, miss."
Maggie moved from server to server, heaping her plate. She often skipped meals altogether, so indifferent was her own cooking. But when food was available in such quantity, and food of such quality, she made up for it.
"Will Mr. Sweeney be joining me for breakfast?" she asked as she carried her plate back to the table.
"He's already eaten, miss. Mr. Sweeney breakfasts every day at half-six, precisely."
"A creature of habit, is he?" Maggie winked at the maid and slathered fresh jam on her warmed toast.
"He is, yes," Noreen answered, flushing a bit. "I'm to remind you, miss, he'll be ready to leave at eight."
"Thank you, Noreen, I'll keep it in mind."
"You've only to ring if you need anything."
Quiet as a mouse, Noreen faded back into the kitchen. Maggie applied herself to a breakfast she felt was fit for a queen and perused the copy of the Irish Times that had been neatly folded beside her plate. A cozy way to live, she supposed, with servants only the snap of a finger away. But didn't it drive Rogan mad to know they were always about the house? That he was never alone? The very idea made her wince. She'd go mad for sure, Maggie decided, without solitude. She looked over the room with its dark and glossy wainscoting, the glitter from the twin crystal chandeliers, the gleam from the silver on the antique sideboard, the sparkle of china and Waterford glass. Yes, even in this lush setting, she'd go stark, raving mad. She lingered over a second cup of tea, read the paper from back to front and cleaned every crumb from her plate. From somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour. She debated having just one more serving of bacon, called herself a glutton and resisted. She took a few moments to study the art on the Walls. There was a watercolor she found particularly exquisite. Taking a last, leisurely
turn around the room, she started out, down the hall. Rogan stood in the foyer, immaculate in a gray suit and navy tie. He studied her, studied his watch.
"You're late."
"Am I?"
"It's eight past the hour."
She lifted her brows, saw he was serious and dutifully muffled a chuckle. "I should be flogged."
He skimmed a gaze up her, from the half boots and dark leggings to the mannish white shirt that reached to midthigh and was cinched with two leather belts. Glittering translucent stones swung at her ears, and she had, for once, added a touch of makeup. She hadn't, however, bothered with a watch.
"If you don't wear a timepiece, how can you be on time?"
"You've a point there. Perhaps that's why I don't"
Still watching her, he took out a pad and his pen.
"What are you doing?"
"Noting down that we have to supply you with a watch, as well as a phone-answering machine and a calendar."
"That's very generous of you, Rogan." She waited until he opened the door and gestured her out "Why?"
"The watch so you'll be prompt. The answering machine so I'll at least be able to leave a damn message when you ignore the phone, and the calendar so you'll know what the bloody day is when I request a shipment."
He'd bitten off the last word as if it were stringy meat, Maggie thought. "Since you're in such a bright and cheerful mood this morning, I'll risk telling you that none of those things will change me a whit I'm irresponsible, Rogan. You've only to ask what's left of my family." She turned around, ignoring his hiss of impatience, and studied his house.
It overlooked a lovely, shady green—St. Stephen's, she was to learn later—and stood proudly, a trifle haughtily, against a dreamy blue sky. Though the stone was aged, the lines were as graceful as a young woman's body. It was a combination of dignity and elegance Maggie knew only the rich could afford. Every window, of which there were many, glistened like diamonds in the sun. The lawn, smooth and green, gave way to a lovely front garden, tidy as a church and twice as formal.
"A pretty spot you have here. I missed it, you know, on my way in."
"I'm aware of that. You'll have to wait for the tour, Margaret Mary. I don't like to be late." He took her arm and all but dragged her to the waiting car.
"Do you get docked for tardiness, then?" She laughed when he said nothing, and settled back to enjoy the ride. "Are you by nature surly of a morning, Rogan?"
"I'm not surly," he snapped at her. Or he wouldn't be, he thought, if he'd gotten above two hours' sleep. And the responsibility for that, damn all women, fell solidly on her head. "I have a lot to accomplish today."
"Oh, to be sure. Empires to build, fortunes to win."
That did it. He didn't know why, but the light undertone of disdain broke the last link on control. He swerved to the side of the road, causing the driver who had been cruising behind him to blast rudely on his horn. Grabbing Maggie by the collar, he hauled her half out of her seat and crushed his mouth to hers. She hadn't been expecting quite that reaction. But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy it. She could meet him on even ground when he wasn't quite so controlled, quite so skillful. Her head might have spun, but the sensation of power remained. No Seduction here, only raw needs, rubbing together like live wires and threatening to flare. He dragged her head back and plundered her mouth. Just once, he promised himself. Only once to relieve some of this vicious tension that coiled inside him like a snake.
But kissing her didn't relieve it. Instead, the complete and eager response of her, the total verve of it, wrapped his tension only tighter until he couldn't breathe. For a moment he felt as though he were being sucked into some velvet-lined, airless tunnel. And he was terrified that he'd never want or need light again. He jerked away, fastened his hands like vises on the wheel. He eased back onto the road like a drunk trying to negotiate a straight line.
"I'm assuming that was an answer to something." Her voice was unnaturally quiet. It wasn't his kiss that had unnerved her nearly as much as the way he had ended it.
"It was that or throttle you."
"I prefer being kissed to strangled. Still, I'd like it better if you weren't angry about wanting me."
He was calmer now, concentrating on the road and making up the time she'd cost him that morning. "I explained myself before. The timing's inappropriate."
"Inappropriate. And who's in charge of propriety?"
"I prefer knowing whom I'm sleeping with. Having some mutual affection and respect."
Her eyes narrowed. "There's a long way between a kiss on the lips and a tumble in the sheets, Sweeney. I'll have you know I'm not one to leap onto the mattress at the blink of an eye."
"I never said—"
"Oh, didn't you, now?" She was all the more insulted because she knew how quickly she would have leaped onto a mattress with him. "As far as I can see, you've decided I'm plenty loose enough. Well, I won't be explaining my past history to you. And as for affection and respect, you've yet to earn them from me, boy-o."
"Fine, then. We're agreed."
"We're agreed you can go straight to hell. And your maid's name is Noreen."
That distracted him enough to have him taking his eyes off the road and staring. "What?"
"Your maid, you dolt, you narrow-nosed aristocrat. 'Tisn't Nancy. It's Noreen." Maggie folded her arms and stared resolutely out the side window.
Rogan only shook his head. "I'm grateful to you for clearing that up. God knows what an embarrassment it would have been to me if I'd had to introduce her to the neighbors."
"Blue-blooded snob," she muttered.
"Wasp-tongued viper."
They settled into an angry silence for the rest of the drive.
Chapter Seven
IT was impossible not to be impressed by Worldwide Gallery, Dublin. The architecture alone was worth a visit to the place. Indeed, photographs of the building had appeared in dozens of magazines and art books around the world as a shining example of the Georgian style that was part of Dublin's architectural legacy. Though Maggie had seen it reproduced in glossy pages, the sight of it, the sheer grandeur of it in three dimensions, took her breath away. She'd spent hours of her free time during her apprenticeship in Venice haunting galleries. But nothing compared in splendor with Rogan's. Yet she made no comment at all while he unlocked the imposing-looking front doors and gestured her inside.
She had to resist the urge to genuflect, such was the churchlike quiet, the play of light, the scented air in the main room. The Native American display was beautifully and carefully mounted—the pottery bowls, the gorgeous baskets, the ritual masks, shaman rattles and beadwork. On the walls were drawings at once primitive and sophisticated. Maggie's attention and her admiration focused on a buckskin dress the color of cream, adorned with beads and smooth, bright stones. Rogan had ordered it hung like a tapestry. Maggie's fingers itched to touch.
"Impressive" was all she said.
"I'm delighted you approve."
"I've never seen American Indian work outside of books and such." She leaned over a water vessel.
That's precisely why I wanted to bring the display to Ireland. We too often focus on European history and culture and forget there's more to the world."
"Hard to believe people who could create this would be the savages we see in those old John Wayne movies. Then again"—she smiled as she straightened—"my ancestors were savage enough, stripping naked and painting themselves blue before they screamed into battle. I come from that." She tilted her head to study him, the perfectly polished businessman. "We both do."
"One could say that such tendencies become more diluted in some than in others over the centuries. I haven't had the urge to paint myself blue in years."
She laughed, but he was already checking his watch again.
"We're using the second floor for your work." He started toward the stairs.
"For any particular reason?"
"For several particular reasons." Impatience shi
mmering like a wave of heat around him, he paused until she joined him on the staircase. "I prefer a show like this to have some sense of a social occasion. People tend to appreciate art, at least feel it's more accessible, if they're relaxed and enjoying themselves. " He stopped at the top of the steps, lifting a brow at her expression. "You've a problem with that?"
"I'd like people to take my work seriously, not think of it as a party favor."
"I assure you, they'll take it seriously." Particularly with the prices he'd decided to demand for it, the strategy he intended to employ. "And the marketing of your work is, after all, my province." He turned, sliding open double pocket doors, then stepped back so that Maggie could enter first.
She quite simply lost her voice. The wonderfully enormous room was flooded with light from the domed central skylight above. It poured down over the dark, polished floor and tossed back stunning reflections, almost mirrorlike, of the work Rogan had chosen to display. In all of her dreams, in her wildest and most secret hopes, she'd never imagined that her work would be showcased so sensitively, or so grandly. Thick-based pedestals of creamy white marble stood around the room, lifting the glass to eye level. Rogan had chosen only twelve pieces to grace the lofty space. A canny move, she realized, as it made each piece seem all the more unique. And there, in the center of the room, glistening like ice heated by a core of fire, was Maggie's Surrender. There was a dull ache in her heart as she studied the sculpture. Someone would buy it, she knew. Within days someone would pay the price Rogan was asking and steal it completely and finally from her life. The price of wanting more, she thought, seemed to be the loss of what you already had. Or perhaps of what you were.
When she said nothing, only walked through the room with her boots echoing, Rogan stuck his hands in his pockets. 'The smaller pieces are displayed in what we call the upper sitting rooms. It's a more intimate space." He paused, waiting for some response, then hissed through his teeth when he received none. Damn the woman, he thought. What did she want? "We'll have an orchestra at the show. Strings. And champagne and canapes, of course."
"Of course," Maggie managed. She kept her back to him, wondering why she should stand in such a magnificent room and want to weep.
"I'll ask you to attend, at least for a short time. You needn't do or say anything that would compromise your artistic integrity."
Her heart was beating much too loudly for her to catch his tone of annoyance. "It looks..." She couldn't think of a word. Simply couldn't. "Fine," she said lamely. "It all looks fine."
"Fine?"
"Yes." She turned back, sober-eyed and, for the first time in recent memory, terrified. "You have a nice aesthetic sense."
"A nice aesthetic sense," he repeated, amazed at her tepid response. "Well, Margaret Mary, I'm so gratified. It's only taken three incredibly difficult weeks and the combined efforts of more than a dozen highly qualified people to make everything look 'fine.'"
She ran an unsteady hand through her hair. Couldn't he see she was speechless, that she was completely out of her realm and scared as a rabbit faced by a hound? "What do you want me to say? I've done my job and given you the art. You've done yours and utilized it. We're both to be congratulated, Rogan. Now perhaps I should look about in your more intimate rooms."
He stepped forward, blocking her path as she started for the doorway. The fury that rose up in him was so molten, so intense, he was surprised it didn't melt her glass into puddles of shine and color.
"You ungrateful peasant."
"A peasant, am I?" Emotions swirled inside her, contradictory and frightening. "You're right enough on that, Sweeney. And if I'm ungrateful because I don't fall at your feet and kiss your boots, then it's ungrateful I'll stay. I don't want or expect any more from you than what it said in your cursed contracts with your bloody exclusive clauses, and you'll get no more from me."
She could feel the hot tears boiling up, ready to erupt. She was certain that if she didn't get out of the room quickly, her lungs would quite simply collapse from the strain. In her desperation to escape, she shoved at him.
"I'll tell you what I expect." He snagged her shoulder, whirled her around. "And what I'll have."
"I beg your pardon," Joseph said from the doorway. "I seem to be interrupting."
He couldn't have been more amused, or more fascinated, as he watched his coolheaded boss spit fire and rage at the small, dangerous-eyed woman whose fists had already raised as if for a bout.
"Not at all." Using every ounce of willpower, Rogan released Maggie's arm and