Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  Shaking her head, she leaned down to kiss him. 'You always say that. I wish I thought you meant it this time." She tilted her head, smiled. "I believe your villa in the south of France is an excellent place not only to relax, but for creative inspiration. The colors and the textures would undoubtedly appeal to an artist."

  He opened his mouth, closed it again. "You do know me too well," he murmured.

  "I do. Give it some thought." She left him brooding and went down to the kitchen. Since Joseph was in the main gallery with a few lingering clients, she began to brew the tea herself.

  Joseph came in just as she was pouring the first cup. "I'm sorry," he said. 'They wouldn't be hurried along, nor could they be seduced into parting with a single pound. Here I thought I'd end the day by selling that copper sculpture. You know, the one that looks a bit like a holly shrub, but they got away from me."

  "Have some tea and console yourself."

  "I will, thanks. Have you-" He stopped when she turned to him and he saw her face in the full light. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  "Why, nothing." She brought the cups to the table, nearly dropping them both when he caught her by the arms.

  "You've been crying," he said in a tight voice. "And there're shadows under your eyes."

  On an impatient breath she set the jostling cups down. "Why are cosmetics so damn expensive if they don't do the job? A woman can't indulge herself in a good weeping spell if she can't depend on her powder." She started to sit, but his hands remained firm on her shoulders. Surprised, she looked up at him. What she saw in his eyes had her fumbling. "It's nothing-really nothing. Just some foolishness. I'm . . . I'm fine now."

  He didn't think. He'd held her before, of course. They'd danced together. But there was no music now. Only her. Slowly, he lifted a hand, brushed a

  thumb gently over the faint smudges under her eyes. "You still miss him. Robbie."

  "Yes. I always will." But her husband's face, so well loved, blurred. She saw only Joseph. "I wasn't crying for Robbie. Not really. I'm not sure exactly what I was crying for."

  She was so lovely, he diought. Her eyes so soft and confused. And her skin-he'd never dared touch her like this before-was like silk. "You mustn't cry, Patty," he heard himself say. Then he was kissing her, his mouth homing to hers like an arrow, his hand scooping up into that soft swing of hair.

  He lost himself, drowning in the scent of her, aching at the way her lips parted in surprise to allow him one long, full-bodied taste of her.

  Her body gave to his, a delicate sway of fragility that aroused unbearable and conflicting needs. To take, to protect, to comfort and to possess.

  It was her sigh, part shock, part wonder, that snapped him back like a faceful of ice water.

  "I-I beg your pardon." He fumbled over the words, then went rigid with regret when she only stared at him. Emotions churned sickly inside of him as he stepped back. 'That was inexcusable."

  He turned on his heel and walked away before her head stopped spinning.

  She took one step after him, his name on her lips. Then she stopped, pressed her hand to her racing heart and let her shaking legs buckle her into a chair.

  Joseph? Her hand crept up from her breast to her flushed cheek. Joseph, she thought again, staggered. Why, it was ridiculous. They were no more than casual friends who shared an affection for Rogan and for art. He was . . . well, the closest thing she knew to a bohemian, she decided. Charming, certainly, as every woman who walked into the gallery would attest.

  And it had only been a kiss. Just a kiss, she told herself as she reached for her cup. But her hand trembled and spilled tea onto the table.

  A kiss, she realized with a jolt, that had given her those moonbeams, the Stardust, and all the wonderful and terrifying tugs and pulls she had hoped for.

  Joseph, she thought again, and raced out of the kitchen to find him.

  She caught a glimpse of him outside and darted past Rogan with barely a word.

  'Joseph!"

  He stopped, swore. Here it was, he thought bitterly. She'd slap him down good and proper, and- since he hadn't made a quick enough exit-in public as well. Resigned to facing the music, he turned, tossed his streaming hair back over his shoulder.

  She skidded to a halt inches in front of him. "I-" She completely forgot what she'd hoped to say.

  "You've every right to be angry," he told her. "It hardly matters that I never meant-that is, I'd only wanted to ... Goddamn it, what do you expect? You come in looking so sad and beautiful. So lost. I forgot myself, and I've apologized for it."

  She had been feeling lost, she realized. She wondered if he would understand what it was like to know just where you were, and to believe you knew where you were going, but to be lost just the same. She thought he might.

  "Will you have dinner with me?"

  He blinked, stepped back. Stared. "What?"

  "Will you have dinner with me?" she repeated. She felt giddy, almost reckless. "Tonight. Now."

  "You want to have dinner?" He spoke slowly, spacing each word. "With me? Tonight?"

  He looked so baffled, so leery, that she laughed. "Yes. Actually, no, that isn't what I want at all."

  "All right, then." He nodded stiffly and headed down the street.

  "I don't want dinner," she called out, loudly enough to have heads turn. Almost reckless? she thought Oh, no, completely reckless. "I want you to kiss me again."

  That stopped him. He turned back, ignored the wink and encouraging word from a man in a flowered shirt. Like a blind man feeling his way, he walked toward her. "I'm not sure I caught that."

  "Then I'll speak plainly." She swallowed a foolish bubble of pride. "I want you to take me home with you, Joseph. And I want you to kiss me again. And unless I've very much mistaken what we're both feeling, I want you to make love with me." She took the last step toward him. "Did you understand that, and is it agreeable to you?"

  "Agreeable?" He took her face in his hands, stared hard into her eyes. "You've lost your mind. Thank God." He laughed and swooped her against him. "Oh, it's more than agreeable, Patty darling. Much more."

  Chapter Fourteen

  MAGGIE dozed off at her kitchen table, her head on her folded arms.

  Moving day had been sheer hell.

  Her mother had complained constantly, relent lessly, about everything from the steady fall of rain to the curtains Brianna had hung at the wide front window of the new house. But it was worth the misery of the day to see Maeve at last settled in her own place. Maggie had kept her word, and Brianna was free.

  Still, Maggie hadn't expected the wave of guilt that swamped her when Maeve had wept-her back bent, her face buried in her hands and the hot fast tears leaking through her fingers. No, she hadn't expected to feel guilty, or to feel so miserably sorry for the woman who'd barely finished cursing her before she collapsed into sobs.

  In the end it was Lottie, with her brisk, unflap pable cheerfulness who had taken control. She scooted both Brianna and Maggie out of the house, telling them not to worry, no, not to worry a bit, as the tears were as natural as the rain. And what a lovely place it was, she'd gone on to say, all the while nudging and pushing them along. Like a dollhouse and just as tidy. They'd be fine. They'd be cozy as cats.

  She'd all but shoved them into Maggie's lorry.

  So it was done, and it was right. But there would be no opening of champagne bottles that night.

  Maggie had downed one bracing whiskey and simply folded into a heap of exhausted emotions at the table while the rain drummed on the roof and dusk deepened the gloom.

  The phone didn't awaken her. It rang demand ingly while she dozed. But Rogan's voice stabbed through the fatigue and had her jolting up, shaking off sleep.

  "I'll expect to hear from you by morning, as I've neither the time nor the patience to come fetch you myself."

  "What?" Groggy, she blinked like an owl and stared around the darkened room. Why, she'd have sworn he'd been right there, badgering her.

&
nbsp; Annoyed that her nap had been interrupted, and that the interruption reminded her she was hungry and there was no more to eat in the house than would satisfy a bird, she pushed away from the table.

  She'd go down to Erie's, she decided. Raid her kitchen. Perhaps they could cheer each other up. She was reaching for a cap when she saw the impatient red blip on the answering machine.

  "Bloody nuisance," she muttered, but stabbed the buttons until the tape rewound, then played.

  "Maggie." Again, Rogan's voice filled the room. It made her smile as she realized he had been the one to wake her after all. "Why the devil don't you ever answer this thing? It's noon. I want you to call the moment you come in from your studio. I mean it.

  There's something I need to discuss with you. So-I miss you. Damn you, Maggie, I miss you."

  The message clicked off, and before she could feel too smug about it, another began.

  "Do you think I've nothing better to do than spend my time talking to this blasted machine?"

  "I don't," she answered back, "but you're the one who put it here."

  "It's half four now, and I need to go by the gallery. Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I need to speak with you, today. I'll be at the gallery until six, then you can reach me at home. I don't give a damn how wrapped up you are in your work. Damn you for being so far away."

  The man spends more time damning me than anything else," she muttered. "And you're just as far away from me as I am from you, Sweeney."

  As if in answer, his voice came again. "You irre sponsible, idiotic, insensitive brat. Am I supposed to worry now that you've blown yourself up with your chemicals and set your hair on fire? Thanks to your sister, who does answer her phone, I know perfectly well you're there. It's nearly eight, and I have a dinner meeting. Now you listen to me, Margaret Mary. Get yourself to Dublin, and bring your pass port. I won't waste my time explaining why, just do as you're told. If you can't arrange a flight, I'll send the plane for you. I expect to hear from you by morning, as I've neither the time nor the patience to fetch you myself."

  "Fetch me? As if you could." She stood for a moment, scowling at the machine. So she was sup posed to get herself to Dublin, was she? Just because

  he demanded it. Never a please or a will you, just do what you're told.

  Ice would flow in hell before she'd give him the satisfaction.

  Forgetting her hunger, she stormed from the room and up the stairs. Get herself to Dublin, she fumed. The nerve of the man, ordering her about.

  She yanked the suitcase out of her closet and heaved it onto the bed.

  Did he think she was so eager to see him that she'd drop everything and scramble off to do his bidding? He was going to find out differently. Oh, yes, she decided as she tossed clothes into the case. She was going to tell him differently, in person. Face-to-face.

  She doubted he'd thank her for it.

  "Eileen, I'll need Limerick to fax me those adjusted figures before the end of the day." Behind his desk, Rogan checked off a line of his list, rubbed at the tension at the base of his neck. "And I'll want to see the report on the construction there the moment it comes in."

  "It was promised by noon." Eileen, a trim brunette who managed the office as skillfully as she did her husband and three children, jotted a note. "You've a two o'clock meeting with Mr. Greenwald. That's re the changes in the London catalog."

  "Yes, I've got that. He'll want martinis."

  "Vodka," Eileen said. 'Two olives. Should I see about a cheese tray to keep him from staggering out?"

  "You'd better." Rogan drummed his fingers on the desk. "Has there been no call from Clare?"

  "None this morning." She shot a quick, interested look from under her lashes. "I'll be sure to let you know the moment Miss Concannon calls."

  He made a sound, the vocal equivalent of a shrug. "Go ahead and put that call through to Rome if you will."

  "Right away. Oh, and I have that draft of the letter to Inverness on my desk if you want to approve it."

  "Fine. And we'd best send a wire to Boston. What's the time there?" He started to check his watch when a blur of color in the doorway stopped him. "Maggie."

  "Aye. Maggie." She tossed her suitcase down with a thud and fisted her hands on her hips. "I've a few choice words for you, Mr. Sweeney." She bit down on her temper long enough to nod at the woman rising from the chair in front of Rogan's desk. "You'd be Eileen?"

  "Yes. It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Concannon."

  "It's nice of you to say so. I must say you look remarkably well for a woman who works for a tyrant." Her voice rose on the last word.

  Eileen's lips twitched. She cleared her throat, closed her steno pad. "It's nice of you to say so. Is there anything else, Mr. Sweeney?"

  "No. Hold my calls please."

  "Yes, sir." Eileen walked out, closing the door discreetly behind her.

  "So." Rogan leaned back in his chair, tapped his pen against his palm. "You got my message."

  "I got it."

  She walked across the room. No, Rogan thought, she swaggered across it, hands still fisted on hips, eyes flashing.

  He wasn't ashamed to admit that his mouth watered at the sight of her.

  "Who in this wide world do you think you are?" She slapped her palms on his desk, rattling pens. "I signed my work to you, Rogan Sweeney, and aye, I slept with you-to my undying regret. But none of it gives you the right to order me about or swear at me every five minutes."

  "I haven't spoken to you in days," he reminded her. "So how can I have sworn at you?"

  "Over your hideous machine-which I tossed into the garbage this very morning."

  Very calmly, he made a note on a pad.

  "Don't start that."

  "I'm merely noting down that you need a replacement for your answering machine. You had no trouble getting a flight in, I see."

  "No trouble? You've been nothing but trouble to me since the moment you walked into my glass house. Nothing but. You think you can just take over everything, not just my work-which is bad enough-but me as well. I'm here to tell you that you can't. I won't-where in the hell are you going? I haven't finished."

  "I never thought you had." He continued to the door, locked it, turned back.

  "Unlock that door."

  "No."

  The fact that he was smiling as he came back toward her didn't help her nerves. "Don't you put your hands on me."

  "I'm about to. In fact, I'm about to do something I haven't done in the twelve years I've worked in this office."

  Her heart began a fast hard tattoo in her throat. "You are not."

  So, he thought, he'd finally shocked her. He watched her gaze slide to the door, then made his grab. "You can rage at me once I've finished with you."

  "Finished with me?" Even as she took a swing at him he was crushing his mouth to hers. "Get off me, you ham-handed brute."

  "You like my hands." And he used them to tug her sweater up. "You told me so."

  "That's a lie. I won't have this, Rogan." But the denial ended in a moan as his lips skimmed hot over her throat. Then, "I'll shout down the roof," once she got her breath back.

  "Go ahead." He bit her, none too gently. "I like it when you shout."

  "Curse you," she muttered, and went willingly when he lowered her to the floor.

  It was fast and hot, a frantic coupling that was over almost as soon as it had begun. But the speed didn't diminish the power. They lay tangled together a moment longer, limbs vibrating. Rogan turned his head to press a kiss to her jaw.

  "Nice of you to drop by, Maggie."

  She summoned up the strength to bounce her fist off his shoulder. "Get off of me, you brute." She would have shoved him, but he was already shifting, drawing her with him until she was straddled across his lap.

  "Better?"

  Than what?" She grinned, then remembered she was furious with him. Pushing away, she sat on the rug and tidied her clothes. "You've a nerve, you do, Rogan Sweeney."

 
; "Because I dragged you to the floor?"

  "No." She snapped her jeans. "It'd be foolish to say that when it's obvious I enjoyed it."

  "Very obvious."

  She sent him a steely look as he rose and offered her a hand.

  "That's neither here nor there. Who do you think you are, ordering me about, telling me what to do without a will you or a won't you?"

  He bent down and pulled her to her feet. "You're here, aren't you?"

  "I'm here, you swine, to tell you that I won't tolerate it. Here it's been nearly a month since you walked away from my door whistling, and-"

  "You missed me."

  She hissed at him. "I did not. I have more than enough to keep my time filled. Oh, straighten that silly tie. You look like a drunkard."

  He obliged her. "You missed me, Margaret Mary, though you never bothered to say so whenever I managed to reach you by phone."

  "I can't talk on the phone. How am I supposed to say anything to someone I can't see? And you're evading the issue."

  "What is the issue?" He leaned back comfortably against his desk.

  "I won't be given orders. I'm not one of your servants or one of your staff, so get that through your head. Mark it down in that fancy leather notebook of yours if you need reminding. But don't you ever tell me what to do again." She let out a short, satisfied breath. "Now that I've made that clear, I'll be on my way."

  "Maggie. If you'd no intention to stay, why did you pack a suitcase?"

  He had her there. Patiently he waited while annoyance, dismay and confusion flitted across her face.

  "Maybe I've a mind to stay in Dublin for a day or two. I can come and go as I please, can't I?"

  "Mmm. Did you bring your passport?"

  She eyed him warily. "And what if I did?"

  "Good." He circled around his desk, sat. "It'll save time. I thought you might have been stubborn and left it at home. It would have been a nuisance to go back and get it." He leaned back, smiling. "Why don't you sit down? Shall I ask Eileen to bring in some tea?"

  "I don't want to sit, and I don't want tea." Folding her arms, she turned away from him and stared hard at the Georgia O'Keeffe on the wall. "Why didn't you come back?"