Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  "I'll get thirty."

  "Plague take you, Rogan, for a horse thief. Twenty."

  Twenty-five." He rose then to stand toe to toe with her. "Worldwide will earn a quarter of your sweat and Mood, Maggie, I promise you."

  " A quarter." She hissed through her teeth. That's a businessman for you, preying on art."

  "And making the artist financially secure. Think of It, Maggie. Your work will be seen in New York, in Rome and Paris. And no one who sees it will forget it"

  "Oh, it's clever you are, Rogan, taking a quick turn from money into fame." She scowled at him then

  stuck out her hand. The hell with it and you, you'll have your twenty-five percent"

  Which was exactly what he'd planned on. He look her hand, held it. "We're going to do well together, Maggie."

  Well enough, she hoped, to settle her mother in the village and away from Blackthorn Cottage. "If we don't, Rogan, I'll see that you pay for it."

  Because he'd enjoyed the taste of her, he lifted her hand to his lips. "I'll risk it."

  His lips lingered there long enough to make her pulse stutter. "If you were going to try to seduce me, you'd have been smarter to start before we had a deal."

  The statement both surprised and annoyed him. "I prefer to keep personal and professional matters separate."

  "Another difference between us." It pleased her to see she'd scratched the seamlessty polite exterior. "My personal and professional lives are always fusing. And I indulge both when the whim strikes." Smiling, she slipped her hand from his. "It hasn't as yet- personally speaking. I'll let you know if and when it does."

  "Are you baiting me, Maggie?"

  She stopped as if thinking it through. "No, I'm explaining to you. Now I'll take you to the glass house so you can choose what you want shipped to Dublin." She turned to pull a jacket from a peg by the back door. "You might want your coat. It'd be a shame to get that fancy suit wet."

  He stared at her a moment, wondering why he should feel so completely insulted. Without a word

  he turned on his heel and strode back into the living room for his coat.

  Maggie took the opportunity to step outside and cool her blood in the chilly rain. Ridiculous, she told herself, to get so sexually tied up over having her hand kissed. Rogan Sweeney was smooth, too smooth. It was a fortunate thing he lived on die other side of the country. More fortunate yet, he wasn't her type.

  Not at all.

  Chapter Five

  THE high grass beside the ruined abbey made a lovely resting place for the dead. Maggie had fought to have her father buried there, rather than in the tidy and cold ground near the village church. She had wanted the peace, and the touch of royalty for her father. For once, Brianna had argued with her until their mother had sullenly closed her mouth and washed her hands of the arrangements.

  Maggie visited there only twice a year, once on her father's birthday and once on her own. To thank him for the gift of her life. She never came on the anniversary of his death, nor did she allow herself to mourn in private.

  Nor did she mourn him now, but sat down on the grass beside him, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The sun fought through layers of clouds to gild the graves and the wind was fresh, smelling of wildflowers.

  She hadn't brought flowers with her, never did. Brianna had planted a bed right over him, so that as spring warmed the earth, his grave sprang with color and beauty.

  Tender buds were just forming on the primroses. The fairy heads of columbine nodded gently among the tender shoots of larkspur and betony. She watched a magpie dart over headstones and sway toward a field. One for sorrow, she thought, and searched the sky fruitlessly for the second that would stand for joy.

  Butterflies fluttered nearby, flashing thin, silent wings. She watched them for a time, taking comfort in the color and the movement. There had been no place to bury him near the sea, but this, she thought, this place would have pleased him.

  Maggie leaned back comfortably on the side of her father's headstone and closed her eyes.

  I wish you were still here, she thought, so I could tell you what I'm doing. Not that I'd listen to any of your advice, mind. But it would be good to hear it

  If Rogan Sweeney's a man of his word-and I can't see how he'd be anything else-I'll be a rich woman. How you'd enjoy that. There'd be enough for you to open your own pub like you always wanted. Oh, what a poor farmer you were, darling. But the best of fathers. The very best.

  She was doing her best to keep her promise to him, she thought. To take care of her mother and her sister, and to follow her dream.

  "Maggie."

  She opened her eyes and looked up at Brianna. Tidy as a pin, she thought, studying her sister. Her lovely hair all scooped up, her clothes neatly pressed. "You look like a school teacher," Maggie said, and laughed at Brianna's expression. "A lovely one."

  "You look like a ragpicker," Brianna retorted, scowling at Maggie's choice of ripped jeans and a tattered sweater. "A lovely one."

  Brianna knelt beside her sister and folded her hands. Not to pray, just for neatness' sake.

  They sat in silence for a moment while the wind breathed through the grass and floated through the tumbled stones.

  "A lovely day for grave sitting," Maggie commented. He'd have been seventy-one today, she thought "His flowers are blooming nicely."

  "Needs some weeding." And Brianna began to do so. "I found the money on the kitchen counter this morning, Maggie. It's too much."

  "It was a good sale. You'll put some of it by."

  "I'd rather you enjoyed it."

  "I am, knowing you're that much closer to having her out"

  Brianna sighed. "She isn't a burden to me." Catch-Ing her sister's expression, she shrugged. "Not as much as you think. Only when she's feeling poorly."

  "Which is most of the time. Brie, I love you."

  "I know you do."

  The money's the best way I know how to show it Da wanted me to help you with her. And the good Lord knows I couldn't live with her as you do. She'd lend me to the madhouse, or I'd send myself to prison by murdering Her in her sleep."_

  This business with Rogan Sweeney, you did it for her."

  "I did not." Maggie bristled at the thought of it. "Because of her, perhaps, which is a different matter altogether. Once she's settled and you have your life back, you'll get married and give me a horde of nieces and nephews."

  "You could have your own children."

  "I don't want marriage." Comfortable, Maggie closed her eyes again. "No, indeed. I prefer coming and going as it suits me and answering to no one. I'll spoil your children, and they'll come running to

  Aunt Maggie whenever you're too strict with them." She opened one eye. "You could marry Murphy."

  Brianna's laugh carried beautifully over the high grass. "It would shock him to know it."

  "He was always sweet on you."

  "He was, yes-when I was thirteen. No, he's a lovely man and I'm as fond of him as I would be of a brother. But he's not what I'm looking for in a husband."

  "You've got it all planned then?"

  "I've nothing planned," Brianna said primly, "and we're getting off the subject. I don't want you to join hands with Mr. Sweeney because you feel obliged to me. I might think it's the best thing you could do for your work, but I won't have you unhappy because you think I am. Because I'm not."

  "How many times did you have to serve her a meal in bed this month?"

  "I don't keep an accounting-"

  "You should," Maggie interrupted. "In any case, it's done. I signed his contracts a week ago. I'm now being managed by Rogan Sweeney and Worldwide Galleries. I'll have a show in his Dublin gallery in two weeks."

  "Two weeks. That's so fast."

  "He doesn't seem to be a man to waste time. Come with me, Brianna." Maggie grabbed her sister's hands. "We'll make Sweeney pay for a fancy hotel and we'll eat out in restaurants and buy something foolish."

  Shops. Food she hadn't
cooked herself. A bed that didn't have to be made. Brianna yearned, but only for a moment "I'd love to be with you, Maggie. But I can't leave her like that"

  "The hell you can't. Jesus, she can stand her own company for a few days."

  "I can't." Brianna hesitated then sat back wearily on her haunches. "She fell last week."

  "Was she hurt?" Maggie's fingers tightened on her sister's. "Damn it, Brie, why didn't you tell me? How did it happen?"

  1 didn't tell you because it turned out to be no great matter. She was outside, went out on her own While I was upstairs tidying rooms. Lost her footing, it seems. She bruised her hip, jarred her shoulder."

  "You called Dr. Hogan?"

  "Of course I did. He said there was nothing to worry about She'd lost her balance was all. And if the got more exercise, ate better and all the rest, she'd be stronger."

  "Who didn't know that?" Damn the woman, Maggie thought And damn the constant and incessant guilt that lived in her own heart "And it's back to bed she went, I'll wager. And has stayed there ever since."

  Brianna's lips twitched into a wry smile. "I haven't been able to budge her. She claims she has an inner-ear deficiency and wants to go into Cork to a specialist"

  "Hah!" Maggie tossed back her head and glared at the sky. "It's typical. Never have I known anyone with more complaints than Maeve Concannon. And she's got you on a string, my girl." She jabbed a finger at Brianna.

  "I won't deny it, but I haven't the heart to cut it"

  "I do." Maggie stood, brushed at her knees. The answer's money, Brie. It's what she's always wanted. God knows she made his life a misery because he couldn't hang on to it." In a gesture of protection, Maggie laid a hand on her father's headstone.

  "That's true, and he made hers a misery as well. Two people less suited I've never seen. Marriages aren't always made in heaven, or in hell. Sometimes, they're just stuck in purgatory."

  "And sometimes people are too foolish or too righteous to walk away." The hand on the headstone stroked once, then dropped away. "I prefer fools to martyrs. Put the money by, Brie. There'll be more coming soon. I'll see to that in Dublin."

  "Will you see her before you go?"

  "I will," Maggie said grimly.

  "I think you'll enjoy her." Rogan dipped into the clotted cream for his scone and smiled at his grandmother. "She's an interesting woman."

  "Interesting." Christine Rogan Sweeney lifted one sharp white brow. She knew her grandson well, could interpret every nuance of tone and expression. On the subject of Maggie Concannon, however, he was cryptic. "In what way?"

  He wasn't sure of that himself and stalled for time by stirring his tea. "She's a brilliant artist; her vision is extraordinary. Yet she lives alone in a little cottage in Clare, and the decor is anything but aesthetically unique. She's passionate about her work, but reluctant to show it. She's by turns charming and rude-and both seem to be true to her nature."

  "A contradictory woman."

  "Very." He settled back, a man completely content in the gracious parlor, Sevres cup in his hand, and his head resting against the brocade cushion of a Queen Anne chair. A fire burned quietly in the grate. The flowers and the scones were fresh.

  He enjoyed these occasional teas with his grandmother as much as she did. The peace and order of her home were soothing, as was she with her perpetual dignity and softly faded beauty.

  He knew she was seventy-three and took personal pride in the fact that she looked ten years younger. Her skin was pale as alabaster. Lined, yes, but the marks of age only added to the serenity of her face. Her eyes were brilliantly blue, her hair as soft and white as a first snowfall.

  She had a sharp mind, unquestionable taste, a generous heart and a dry, sometimes biting wit She was, as Rogan had often told her, his ideal woman.

  It was a sentiment that flattered Christine as much at it concerned her

  He had failed her in only one way. That was to find. a personal contentment that equalled his professional one.

  "How are preparations for the show going?" she asked.

  "Very well. It would be easier if our artist of the

  moment answered her damn phone." He brushed

  that irritation away. The pieces that have been

  shipped in are wonderful. You'll have to come by the

  gallery and see for yourself."

  1 may do that" But she was more interested in the artist than in the art. "Did you say she was a young woman?" "Hmmm?" "Maggie Con cannon. Did you mention she was

  "Oh, middle twenties, I'd expect Young, certainly, for the scope of her work."

  Lord, it was like drawing teeth. "And flashy would you say? Like-what was her name-Miranda Whitfield-Fry, the one who did metal sculpture and wore all the heavy jewelry and colored scarves?"

  "She's nothing like Miranda." Thank Christ. He remembered with a shudder how relentlessly, and embarrassingly, the woman had pursued him. "Maggie's more the boots and cotton shirt type. Her hair looks like she had a whack at it with kitchen shears."

  "Unattractive then."

  "No, very attractive-but in an unusual sense."

  "Mannish?"

  "No." He recalled, uncomfortably, the vicious sexual tug, the sensual scent of her, the feel of that quick, involuntary tremble under his hand. "Far from it"

  Ah, Christine thought. She would definitely make time* to meet the woman who put that scowl on Rogan's face. "She intrigues you."

  "Certainly, I wouldn't have signed her otherwise." He caught Christine's look and raised a brow in an identical manner. "It's business, Grandmother. Just business."

  "Of course." Smiling to herself, she poured him more tea. "Tell me what else you've been up to."

  Rogan arrived at the gallery at eight A.M. the next morning. He'd enjoyed an evening at the theater, and a late supper with a sometimes companion. As always, he'd found Patricia charming and delightful. The widow of an old friend, she was, to his mind, more of a distant cousin than a date. They'd discussed the Eugene O'Neill play over salmon and champagne and had parted with a platonic kiss at

  just after midnight.

  And he hadn't slept a wink. It hadn't been Patricia's light laugh or her subtle perfume that had kept him tossing. 'Maggie Concannon, he thought. Naturally the woman was in the forefront of his mind, since most

  Of his time and effort was focused on her upcoming show. It was hardly any wonder that he was thinking

  of her-particularly since it was all but impossible to speak to her.

  Her aversion to the phone had caused him to

  retort to telegrams, which he fired off to the west

  with blistering regularity.

  Her one and only answer had been brief and to the point: STOP NAGGING.

  Imagine, Rogan thought as he unlocked the el-egant glass doors of the gallery. She'd accused him of nagging, like some spoiled, whiny child. He was a businessman, for God's sake, one about to give her career an astronomical boost. And she wouldn't even spare the time to pick up the damn phone and have

  a reasonable conversation.

  He was used to artists. Sweet Mary knew he had dealt with their eccentricities, their insecurities, their Often childish demands. It was his job to do so, and he considered himself adept. But Maggie Concan-non was trying both his skill and his patience.

  He relocked the doors behind him and breathed to the quietly scented air of the gallery. Built by his grandfather, the building was lofty and grand, a striking testament to art with its Gothic stonework and carved balusters.

  The interior consisted of dozens of rooms, some small, some large, all flowing into the next with wide archways. Stairs curved up fluidly to a second story that housed a ballroom-size space along with intirnate parlors fitted with antique sofas.

  It was there he would show Maggie's work. In the ballroom he would have a small orchestra. While the guests enjoyed the music, the champagne, the canapes, they could browse among her strategically placed works. The larger, bolder pieces he would highlight,
showcasing smaller pieces in more intimate settings.

  Imagining it, refining the pictures in his mind, he walked through the lower gallery toward the office and storage rooms.

  He found his gallery manager, Joseph Donahoe, pouring coffee in the kitchenette.

  "You're here early." Joseph smiled, showing the flash of one gold tooth. "Coffee?"

  "Yes. I wanted to check on the progress upstairs before heading into the office."

  "Coming right along," Joseph assured him. Though the two men were of an age, Joseph's hair was thinning on top. He compensated for the loss by growing it long enough to tie in a streaming ponytail. His nose had been broken once by a wayward polo mallet and so listed a bit to the left The result was the look of a pirate in a Savile Row suit

  The women adored him.

  "You look a bit washed-out."

  "Insomnia," Rogan said, and took his coffee black. "Did yesterday's shipment get unpacked?"

  Joseph winced. "I was afraid you'd ask." He lifted his cup and muttered into it. "Hasn't come in."

  "What?"

  Joseph rolled his eyes. He'd worked for Rogan for more than a 'decade and knew that tone. "It didn't arrive yesterday. I'm sure it'll be along this morning. That's why I came in early myself." "What is that woman doing? Her instructions were very specific, very simple. She was to ship the last of the pieces overnight."

  "She's an artist, Rogan. She probably got struck by Inspiration and worked past the time to post it. We've got plenty of time."

  "I won't have her dragging her feet." Incensed, Rogan snapped up the kitchen phone. He didn't have to look up Maggie's number in his address book. He already knew it by heart. He stabbed buttons and listened to the phone ring. And ring. Irresponsible twit"

  took out a cigarette as Rogan slammed the receiver. "We have more than thirty pieces," he said as he flicked an ornate enameled lighter. "Even without this last shipment, it's enough. And the work, Rogan. Even a jaded old hand like me is dazzled."