"So it would seem," Rogan agreed, and rang for the next course.
Chapter Eight
MAGGIE couldn't stay away from the gallery. There seemed to be no reason to. Joseph and the rest of the staff were welcoming enough, even going so far as asking for her opinion on some of the displays.
However much it might have pleased her, she couldn't improve on Rogan's eye for detail and placement. She left the staff to carry out his orders and set herself up unobtrusively to sketch the Native American artwork.
It fascinated her-the baskets and headdresses, the meticulous beading, the intricacies of the ritual masks. Ideas and visions leaped around in her head like gazelles, bounding, soaring, so that she rushed to transfer them to paper.
She preferred burying herself in work to everything else. Whenever she took too much time to think, her mind veered back to what Christine had told her about Maeve. Just how much, she'd wondered, was beneath the surface of her parents' lives that she'd been ignorant of? Her mother with a career, her father loving some other woman. And the two of them trapped-because of her-in a prison that had denied them their deepest wishes.
She needed to find out more, and yet she was afraid, afraid that whatever she learned would only further demonstrate the fact that she hadn't really known the people who had created her. Hadn't known them at all.
So she put that need aside and haunted the gallery.
When no one objected, she used Rogan's office as a temporary studio. The light was good, and as the room was tucked away in the back of the building, she was rarely disturbed. Roomy, it was not. Obviously Rogan had elected to utilize every space he could find for the showing of art.
She couldn't argue with that decision.
She covered his gleaming walnut desk with a sheet of plastic and thick pads of newspaper. The charcoal-and-pencil sketches she had made were only a start. She worked now by adding splashes of color. She'd picked up a few acrylics in a shop near the gallery, but often her impatience with the imperfections of her materials caused her to use other materials at hand, and she would dip her brush into coffee dregs or dampened ashes, or stroke bolder lines with lipstick or eyebrow pencils.
She considered her sketches merely a first step. While she believed herself an adequate enough draftsman, Maggie would never have termed herself a master with brush and paint. This was only a way to keep her vision alive from conception to execution. The fact that Rogan had arranged for several of her sketches to be matted and hung for the show embarrassed her more than pleased her.
Still, she reminded herself that people would buy anything if they were made to believe in its quality and value.
She'd become a cynic, she thought, narrowing her eyes as she studied her work. And a bean counter as well, tallying up profits before they were made. God help her, she'd been caught up in the gossamer dream Rogan had spun, and she'd hate herself, even more than she would hate him, if she went back home a failure.
Did failure run in her blood? she wondered. Would she be like her father and fail to achieve the goal that mattered most to her? She was so intent on her work, and on her darkening thoughts, that she hissed in surprise and annoyance as the office door opened.
"Out! Out! Do I have to lock the damn thing?"
"My thoughts exactly." Rogan closed the door at his back. "What the hell are you doing?"
"An experiment in nuclear physics," she snapped back. "What does it look like?" Frustrated by the interruption, she blew her choppy bangs out of her eyes and glared. "What are you doing here?"
"I believe this gallery, which includes this office, belongs to me."
"There's no forgetting that." Maggie dipped her brush in a mixture of paint she'd daubed on an old board. "Not with the first words out of everyone's mouth around here being Mr. Sweeney this and Mr. Sweeney that." Inspired by this little verbal foray, she washed color over the thick paper she'd tacked to another board.
As she did so his gaze dropped from her face to her hands, and for a moment he was struck speechless. "What in sweet hell are you about?" Dumbfounded, he lunged forward. His priceless and well-loved desk was covered with paint-splattered newspapers, jars of brushes, pencils and-unless he had very much mistaken the sharp smell-bottles of turpentine. "You're a madwoman. Do you realize this desk is a George II?"
"It's a sturdy piece," she responded, with no respect for the dead English king. "You're in my light." Distracted, she waved a paint-flecked hand at him. He avoided it out of instinct. "And well protected," she added. "I've a sheet of plastic under the newspaper."
"Oh well, that makes it all right, then." He grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged ruthlessly. "If you'd wanted a bloody easel," he said when they were nose to nose, "I'd have provided you with one."
"I don't need an easel, only a bit of privacy. So if you'd make yourself scarce, as you've done brilliantly for the past two days-" She gave him a helpful shove. They both looked down at the bold red smudges she'd transferred to his pin-striped lapel.
"Oops," she said.
"Idiot." His eyes narrowed into dangerous cobalt slits when she chuckled.
"I'm sorry. Truly." But the apology was diluted by a strangled laugh. "I'm messy when I work, and I forgot about my hands. But from what I've seen, you've a warehouse full of suits. You won't be missing this one."
"You think not." Quick as a snake, he dipped his fingers in paint and smeared it over her face. Her squeal of surprise was intensely satisfying. "The color becomes you."
She swiped the back of her hand over her cheek and spread the paint around. "So you want to play, do you?" Laughing, she snatched up a tube of canary yellow.
"If you dare," he said, torn between anger and amusement, "I'll make you eat it, tube and all."
"A Concannon never ignores a challenge." Her grin spread as she prepared to squeeze. Retaliation on both sides was interrupted as the office door opened.
"Rogan, I hope you're not-" The elegant woman in the Chanel suit broke off, pale blue eyes widening. "I beg your pardon." Obviously baffled, she smoothed back her soft swing of sable hair. "I didn't know you were . . . engaged."
"Your interruption's timely." Cool as a spring breeze, Rogan ripped a sheet of newspaper and rubbed at the paint on his fingertips. "I believe we were about to make fools of ourselves."
Perhaps, Maggie thought, setting aside the tube of paint with a ridiculous sense of regret. But it would have been fun.
"Patricia Hennessy, I'd like to present Margaret Mary Concannon, our featured artist."
This? Patricia thought, though her fragile, well- bred features revealed nothing but polite interest. This paint-smeared, wild-haired woman was M. M. Concannon? "How lovely to meet you."
"And you. Miss Hennessy."
"It's Missus," Patricia told her with the faintest of smiles. "But please call me Patricia."
Like a single rose behind glass, Maggie thought, Patricia Hennessy was lovely, delicate and perfect. And, she mused, studying the elegant oval face, unhappy. "I'll be out of your way in a moment or two. I'm sure you want to talk to Rogan alone."
"Please don't hurry on my account." Patricia's smile curved her lips but barely touched her eyes.
"I've just been upstairs with Joseph, admiring your work. You have an incredible talent."
"Thank you." Maggie snatched Rogan's handker-chief from his breast pocket.
"Don't-" The order died on his lips as she soaked the Irish linen in turpentine. With something resembling a snarl, he took it back and scrubbed the rest of the paint from his hands. "My office seems to have been temporarily transformed into an artist's garret."
"Sure and I've never worked in a garret in me life," Maggie announced, deliberately broadening her brogue. "I've annoyed himself by disturbing sacred ground here, don't you know. If you've been acquainted with Rogan long, you'll understand he's a finicky man."
"I'm not finicky," he said between his teeth.
"Oh, of course not," Maggie responded with a roll of the eyes. "A wild m
an he is, as unpredictable as the colors of a sunrise."
"A sense of organization and control is not generally considered a flaw. A complete lack of it normally is."
They'd turned toward each other again, effectively, if unintentionally, closing Patricia out, even in the small room. There was tension in the air, and it was obvious to Patricia. She couldn't forget the time when he had desired her keenly. She couldn't forget it because she was in love with Rogan Sweeney.
"I'm sorry if I've come at a bad time." She hated the fact that her voice was stiff with formality.
"Not at all." Rogan's scowl was easily transformed into a charming smile as he turned to her. "It's always a delight to see you."
"I just dropped in thinking you might be done with business for the day. The Carneys invited me for drinks and hoped you could join us."
"I'm sorry, Patricia." Rogan looked down at his ruined handkerchief, then dropped it onto the spread-out sheets of newspaper. "With the show tomorrow, I've dozens of details yet to see to."
"Nonsense." Maggie shot Rogan a wide grin. "I wouldn't want to interfere with your social hour."
"It's not your fault-I've simply other obligations. Give my apologies to Marion and George."
"I will." Patricia offered her cheek for Rogan to kiss. The scent of turpentine clashed with, then overwhelmed, her delicate floral perfume. "It was nice to meet you, Miss Concannon. I'm looking forward to tomorrow night."
"It's Maggie," she said, with a warmth that came from innate female understanding. "And thank you. We'll hope for the best. Good day to you, Patricia." Maggie hummed to herself as she cleaned her brushes. "She's lovely," she commented after Patricia left. "Old friend?"
”That's right."
"Old married friend."
He only lifted a brow at the implication. "An old widowed friend."
"Ah."
"A very significant response." For reasons he couldn't fathom, he became defensive. "I've known Patricia for more than fifteen years."
"My, you're a slow one, Sweeney." Propping a hip on the desk, Maggie tapped a pencil to her lips. "A beautiful woman, of obvious taste-a woman of your own class, I may add, and in fifteen years you haven't made a move."
"A move?" His tone iced like frost on glass. "A particularly unattractive phrase, but ignoring your infelicitous phrasing for the moment, how do you know I haven't?"
"Such things show." With a shrug, Maggie eased off the desk. "Intimate relationships and platonic ones give off entirely different signals." Her look softened. He was, after all, only a man. "I'll wager you think you're terribly good friends."
"Naturally I do."
"You dolt." She felt a rush of sympathy for Patricia. "She's more than half in love with you."
The idea, and the casually confident way Maggie presented it, took him aback. "That's absurd."
'The only thing absurd about it is that you haven't a clue." Briskly, she began to gather her supplies. "Mrs. Hennessy has my sympathy-or part of it. Hard for me to offer it all when I'm interested in you myself, and I don't fancy the idea of you popping from her bed to mine."
She was, he thought, exasperated, the damnedest woman. "This is a ridiculous conversation, and I have a great deal of work to do."
It was rather endearing, the way his voice could go so grandly formal. "On my account at that, so I shouldn't be holding you up. I'll spread these drawings out in the kitchen to dry, if that's all right with you."
"As long as they're out of my way." And their creator with them, he thought. He made the mistake of glancing down, focusing. "What have you done here?"
"Made a bit of a mess, as you've already pointed out, but it'll tidy quick enough."
Without a word, he picked up one of her drawings by the edges. He could see clearly what had inspired her, how she meant to employ the Native American art and turn it into something boldly and uniquely her own.
No matter how much or how often she exasperated him, he was struck time and again by her talent.
'You haven't been wasting time, I see."
"It's one of the little things we have in common. Do you want to tell me what you think?"
"That you understand pride and beauty very well."
"A good compliment, Rogan." She smiled over it. "A very good one."
"Your work exposes you, Maggie, and makes you all the more confusing. Sensitive and arrogant, compassionate, pitiless. Sensual and aloof."
"If you're saying I'm moody, I won't argue." The tug came again, quick and painful. She wondered if there would come a time when he would look at her the way he looked at her work. And what they would create between them when, and if, he did. "It's not a flaw to me."
"It only makes you difficult to live with."
"No one has to but myself." She lifted a hand, disconcerting him by stroking it down his cheek. "I'm thinking of sleeping with you, Rogan, and we both know it. But I'm not your proper Mrs. Hennessy, looking for a husband to guide the way."
He curled his fingers around her wrist, surprised and darkly pleased when her pulse bumped unsteadily. "What are you looking for?"
She should have had the answer. It should have been on the tip of her tongue. But she'd lost it somewhere between the question and the hard, fast stroke of her own heart. "I'll let you know when I find out." She leaned forward, rising on her toes to brush her mouth over his. "But that does fine for now."
She took the painting from him and gathered up others.
"Margaret Mary," he said^ as she started for the door. "I'd wash that paint from my face if I were you."
She twitched her nose, looked cross-eyed down at the red smear. "Bloody hell," she muttered, and slammed the door on her way out.
The parting shot may have soothed his pride, but he wasn't steady and bitterly resented that she could turn him inside out with so little effort. There was simply no time for the complications she could cause in her personal life. If there were time, he would simply drag her off to some quiet room and empty all of this frustration, this lust, this maddening hunger, into her until he was purged of it.
Surely once he'd taken control other, or at least of the situation, he'd find his balance again.
But there were priorities, and his first, by legal contract and moral obligation, was to her art.
He glanced down at one of the paintings she'd left behind. It looked hurriedly executed, carelessly brilliant, with quick strokes and bold colors demanding attention.
Like the artist herself, he mused, it simply wouldn't be ignored.
Deliberately he turned his back on it and started out. But the image remained, teasing his brain just as the taste of her remained, teasing his senses.
"Mr. Sweeney. Sir."
Rogan stopped in the main room, bit back a sigh. The thin, grizzled-looking man standing there, clutching a ragged portfolio, was no stranger.
"Aiman." He greeted the roughly dressed man as politely as he would have a silk-draped client. "You haven't been in for a while."
"I've been working." A nervous tic worked around Aiman's left eye. "I've a lot of new work, Mr. Sweeney."
Perhaps he had been working, Rogan mused. He'd most certainly been drinking. The signs were all there in the flushed cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, the trembling hands. Aiman was barely thirty, but drink had made him old, frail and desperate.
He stayed just inside the door, off to the side, so that visitors to the gallery wouldn't be distracted by him. His eyes pleaded with Rogan. His fingers curled and uncurled on the old cardboard portfolio.
"I was hoping you'd have time to look, Mr. Sweeney."
"I've a show tomorrow, Aiman. A large one."
"I know. I saw it in the paper." Nervously, Aiman licked his lips. He'd spent the last of the money he'd earned from sidewalk sales in the pub the night before. He knew it was crazy. Worse, he knew it was stupid. Now he desperately needed a hundred pounds for rent or he'd be out on the street within the week. "I could leave them with you, Mr. Sweeney. Come back on Monday. I've
-I've done some good work here. I wanted you to be the first to see it."
Rogan didn't ask if Aiman was out of money. The answer was obvious and the question would only have humiliated the man. He had shown promise once, Rogan remembered, before fears and whiskey had leveled him.
"My office is a bit disrupted at the moment," Rogan said kindly. "Come upstairs and show me what you've done."
"Thank you." Aiman's bloodshot eyes brightened with a smile, with hope as pathetic as tears. 'Thank you, Mr. Sweeney. I won't take up much of your time. I promise you."
"I was about to have a bit of tea." Unobtrusively, Rogan took Aiman's arm to steady him as they started upstairs. "You'll join me while we look over your work?"
"I'd be pleased to, Mr. Sweeney."
Maggie eased back so that Rogan wouldn't see her watching as he took the curve of the stairs. She'd been certain, absolutely certain, that he would boot the scruffy artist out the door. Or, she mused, have one of his underlings do his dirty work for him. Instead he'd invited the man to tea and had led him upstairs like a welcomed guest.
Who would have thought Rogan Sweeney had such kindness in him? He'd buy some of the paintings as well, she realized. Enough so that the artist could keep his pride, and a meal or two in his belly. The gesture was more impressive to her, more important than a
dozen of the grants and donations she imagined Worldwide made annually.
He cared. The realization shamed her even as it pleased her. He cared as much about the very human hands that created art as he did the art itself.
She went back into his office to tidy, and to try to assimilate this new aspect of Rogan to all the others.
Twenty-four hours later Maggie sat on the edge of her bed in Rogan's guest room. She had her head between her knees and was cursing herself for being vilely ill. It was humiliating to admit, even to herself, that nerves could rule her. But there was no denying it, with the nasty taste of sickness still in her throat and her body shivering with the chills.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 62