Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  "Frittered?" She gestured dangerously with her knife. "Do I look like a fritterer?"

  "Good God, no."

  "And what's that supposed to mean? That I haven't the taste or style to spend my money well?"

  He held up a hand for peace. "It means nothing more than no. But if you've wasted the money I gave you, I'd like to know how."

  "I wasted nothing, as if it were your business to begin with."

  "You are my business. If you can't manage your money, I'll do it for you."

  "You'll not. Why you pompous, penny-pinching ass, 'tis mine, isn't it? And it's gone, or most of it. So you'll just have to see that you sell my work and get me more."

  'That's precisely what I'll do. Now, where did it go?"

  "Away." Infuriated, embarrassed, she shoved back from the table. "I've expenses, don't I? I needed supplies, and I was foolish enough to buy a dress."'

  He folded his hands. "You spent, in a month's time, nearly two hundred thousand pounds on supplies and a dress."

  "I had a debt to pay," she raged at him. "And why should I have to explain to you? It says nothing of how I spend my money in your bloody contract."

  "The contract has nothing to do with it," he said patiently, because he could see it wasn't anger so much as mortification that was driving her. "I'm asking you where the money went. But you're certainly under no legal obligation to tell me."

  His reasonable tone only pinched harder at her humiliation. "I bought my mother a house, though she'll never thank me for it. And I had to furnish it for her, didn't I? She'd have taken every stick and cushion from Brianna otherwise." Frustrated, she dragged both hands through her hair and sent it into fiery tufts. "And I had to hire Lottie, and see they had a car. And she'll have to be paid every week, so I gave Brie enough for six months in salary and for food and such. Then there was the lien, though Brie will be furious when she finds I've paid it off. But it was mine to pay, as Da took it out for me. So it's done. I kept my word to him and I won't have you telling me what I should or shouldn't do with my own money."

  She'd stormed around the room while she spoke and came to a halt now by the table where Rogan continued to sit, silently, patiently.

  "If I might summarize?" he said. "You bought a house for your mother, furnished it, purchased a car and hired a companion for her. You've paid off a lien, which will displease your sister, but which you felt was your responsibility. You've given Brianna enough to keep your mother for six months, bought supplies. And with what was left, you bought yourself a dress."

  That's right. That's what I said. What of it?"

  She stood there, trembling with fury, her eyes sharp and bright and eager for battle. He could, he mused, tell her he admired her incredible generosity, her loyalty to her family. But he doubted that she'd appreciate the effort.

  That explains it." He picked up his coffee again. "I'll see that you get an advance."

  She wasn't at all sure she could speak. When she did, her voice came out in a dangerous hiss. "I don't want your bloody advance. I don't want it. I'll earn my own keep."

  "Which you're doing-and quite well. It's not charity, Maggie, or even a loan. It's a simple business transaction."

  "Be damned to your business." Her face was pink with embarrassment now. "I'll not take a penny until I've earned it. I've just gotten myself out of debt, I won't go into it again."

  "God, you're stubborn." He tapped his fingers on the table as he thought her reaction through, trying to understand her display of passion. If it was pride she needed so badly, he could help her keep it. "Very well, we'll do this another way entirely. We've had several offers on your Surrender, which I've turned down."

  "Turned down?"

  "Mmm. The last, I believe, was thirty thousand." "Pounds!" The word erupted from her. "I was offered thirty thousand pounds for it, and you turned it down? Are you mad? It may seem like little or nothing to you, Rogan Sweeney, but I could live handsomely on that amount for more than a year. If this is how you manage-"

  "Be quiet." And because he said it so casually, so absently, she did just that. "I refused the offer because I intended to buy the piece myself, after we'd toured it. I'll simply buy it now and it will continue on the tour as part of my collection. We'll make it thirty-five thousand."

  He tossed off the amount as though it was loose change casually dropped on a bureau.

  Something inside her was trembling like the heart of a frightened bird. "Why?"

  "I can't, ethically, purchase it for myself at the same amount offered by a client."

  "No, I mean why do you want it?"

  He stopped his mental calculations and looked up at her. "Because it's beautiful work, intimate work. And because whenever I look at it, I remember making love with you the first time. You didn't want to sell it. Did you think I couldn't see that in your face the day you showed it to me? Did you really think I couldn't understand how much it hurt you to give it up?"

  Unable to speak, she simply shook her head and turned away.

  "It was mine, Maggie, even before you finished it. As much, I think, as it was yours. And it'll go to no one else. I never intended it to go to anyone else."

  Still silent, she walked to the window. "I don't want you to pay me for it."

  "Don't be absurd-"

  "I don't want your money," she said quickly, while she could. "You're right-that piece was terribly special to me, and I'd be grateful if you'd accept it." She let out a long breath, staring hard through the glass. "I'd be pleased to know it was yours."

  "Ours," he said in a tone that drew her gaze back to his like a magnet. "As it was meant to be."

  "Ours, then." She sighed. "How can I stay angry

  with you?" she said quietly. "How can I fight what you do to me?"

  "You can't."

  She was afraid he was right about that. But she could, at least, take a stand on a smaller matter. "I'm grateful to you for offering an advance, but I don't want it. It's important to me to take only what I make, when I make it. I've enough left to get by. I want no more than that for now. What needed to be done is done. From this point on, what comes will be mine."

  "It's only money, Maggie."

  "So easy to say when you've more than you've ever needed." The edge in her voice, so much like her mother's, stopped her cold. She took a deep breath and let out what was in her own heart. "Money was like an open wound in my house-the lack of it, my father's skill for losing it, and my mother's constant nagging for more. I don't want to depend on pounds for my happiness, Rogan. And it frightens and shames me that I might."

  So, he thought, studying her, this was why she'd fought him every step of the way. "Didn't you tell me once that you didn't pick up your pipe each day thinking about the profit on the other end of it?"

  "Yes, but-"

  "Do you think of it now?"

  "No. Rogan-"

  "You're arguing against shadows, Maggie." He rose to cross to her. 'The woman you are has already decided that the future will be very different from the past."

  "I can't go back," she murmured. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't go back."

  "No, you can't. You'll always be one to go forward." He kissed her softly on the brow. "Will you get dressed now, Maggie? Let me give you Paris."

  He did. For nearly a week he gave her everything the city had to offer, from the magnificence of Notre Dame to the intimacy of dim cafes. He bought her flowers from the tight-lipped street vendor every morning until the suite smelled like a garden. They strolled along the Seine in the moonlight, Maggie with her shoes in her hand and the river's breeze on her cheeks. They danced in clubs to poorly played American music, and dined on glorious food and wine at Maxim's.

  She watched him pore over the sidewalk art, searching always for another diamond in the rough. And though he winced when she bought an undoubtedly bad painting of the Eiffel Tower, she only laughed and told him art was in the soul, not always in the execution.

  The hours she spent in the Paris gal
lery were just as exciting to her. While Rogan ordered, directed and arranged she saw her work shine under his vigilant eye.

  A vested interest, he'd said. She couldn't deny that he tended his interests well. He was as passionate and attentive to her art during those afternoons as he was to her body during the nights.

  When it was done, and the last piece was set to shine under the lights, she thought that the show was every bit as much a result of his efforts as of her own.

  But partnership didn't always equal harmony.

  "Damn it, Maggie, if you keep fussing in there

  we'll be late." For the third time in as many minutes, Rogan knocked on the bedroom door she'd locked.

  "And if you keep bothering me, we'll be later still," she called out. "Go away. Better yet, go on to the gallery yourself. I can get myself there when I'm ready."

  "You can't be trusted," he muttered, but her ears were sharp.

  "I don't need a keeper, Rogan Sweeney." She was breathless from struggling to reach the low zipper of her dress. "I've never seen a man so ruled by the hands of a clock."

  "And I've never seen a woman more careless of time. Would you unlock this door? It's infuriating to have to shout through it."

  "All right, all right." By nearly dislocating her arm, she managed to fasten the dress. She wriggled her feet into ridiculously high bronze heels, cursed herself for being fool enough to take Joseph's advice, then twisted the lock. "I wouldn't have taken so long if they made women's clothes with the same consideration they make men's. Your zippers are within easy reach." She stopped, tugged once on the short hem of the dress. "Well? Is it all right or not?"

  He said nothing at all, only twirled his finger to indicate he wanted her to circle. Rolling her eyes to heaven, she complied.

  The dress was strapless, nearly backless, with a skirt that halted teasingly at midthigh. It glittered, bronze, copper, gold, sparking fire at every breath. Her hair echoed the tone so that she seemed like a candle flame, slim and bright.

  "Maggie. You take my breath away."

  'The seamstress wasn't generous with material."

  "I admire her parsimony."

  When he continued to stare, she lifted her brows. "You said we were in a hurry."

  "I've changed my mind."

  Her brows lifted higher as he started toward her. "I'm warning you, if you get me out of this dress, it'll be your responsibility to get me back in."

  "As attractive as that sounds, it'll have to wait. I've a present for you, and it seems that the fates guided my hand. I believe this will complement your dress nicely."

  He reached into the inside pocket of his tux and took out a slim velvet box.

  "You've already bought me a present. That huge bottle of scent."

  That was for me." He leaned over to sniff her bare shoulder. The smoky perfume might have been created with her in mind. "Very much for me. This is for you."

  "Well, since it's too small to be another answering machine, I'll take it." But when she opened the box, the chuckle died in her throat. Rubies, square flames of them, simmered with white-hot diamonds in a three-tiered choker tied together by twists of glinting gold. No delicate bauble, but a bold flash, a lightning flash of color arid heat and gleam.

  "Something to remember Paris by," Rogan told her as he slipped it from the box. The necklace ran like blood and water through his fingers.

  "It's diamonds. Rogan, I can't wear diamonds."

  "Of course you can." He brought it to her throat, his eyes on hers as he fastened the clasp. "Not alone perhaps. They'd be cold and wouldn't suit you. But with the other stones ..." He stepped back to take

  in the effect. "Yes, exactly right. You look like a pagan goddess."

  She couldn't stop her hand from reaching up, from running across the gems. They felt warm against her skin. "I don't know what to say to you."

  "Say thank you, Rogan. It's lovely."

  "Thank you, Rogan." Her smile bloomed and spread. "It's a great deal more than lovely. It's dazzling."

  "And so are you." He leaned into the kiss, then patted her bottom. "Now get a move on, or we'll be late. Where's your wrap?"

  "I haven't got one."

  'Typical," he murmured, and pulled her out the door.

  Maggie thought she handled her second showing with a great deal more panache than she had the first. Her stomach wasn't nearly as jittery, her temper not nearly as short. If she did, once or twice, think wistfully of escape, she covered it well.

  And if she pined for something she couldn't have, she reminded herself that success sometimes had to be enough in itself.

  "Maggie."

  She turned from the heavily accented ramblings of a Frenchman whose eyes had rarely left her cleavage and stared dumbstruck at her sister.

  "Brianna?"

  "It certainly is." Smiling, Brianna gathered her astonished sister in an embrace. "I would have been here an hour ago, but there was a delay at the airport."

  "But how? How are you here at all?"

  "Rogan sent his plane for me."

  "Rogan?" Baffled, Maggie scanned the room until she found him. He only smiled at her, then at Brianna, before returning his attention to an enormous woman in fuchsia lace. Maggie nudged her sister to a corner of the room. "You came on Rogan's plane?"

  "I thought I would have to let you down again, Maggie." More than a little overwhelmed by the sight of Maggie's work glittering in a roomful of exotic strangers, Brianna slipped her hand into her sister's. "I was trying to think of how to manage it. Mother's fine with Lottie, of course, and I knew I could leave Con with Murphy. I even asked Mrs. McGee if she'd look after Blackthorn for a day or two. But then there was the how to get here."

  "You wanted to come," Maggie said softly. "You wanted to."

  "Of course I did. I wanted nothing more than to be with you. But I never imagined it would be like this." Brie stared at the white-coated waiter who offered her champagne from his silver tray. 'Thank you."

  "I didn't think it mattered to you." To clear the emotion from her throat, Maggie drank deeply. "I was, just now, standing here thinking I wished it mattered to you."

  "I'm proud of you, Maggie, so proud. I've told you."

  "I didn't believe you. Oh God." She felt the tears well up and blinked them furiously away.

  "You should be ashamed of yourself, thinking so little of my feelings," Brie scolded.

  "You never showed any interest," Maggie fired

  back.

  "I showed all the interest I could. I don't understand what you do, but that doesn't mean it doesn't make me proud that you do it." Coolly, Brianna tipped back her glass. "Oh," she murmured, staring at the bubbling wine, "but that's lovely. Who'd have thought anything could taste like that?"

  With a hoot of laughter, Maggie kissed her sister hard on the mouth. "Jesus save us, Brie, what are we doing here? The two of us, drinking champagne in

  Paris."

  "I for one am going to enjoy it. I have to thank Rogan. Do you think I could interrupt him for a moment?"

  "After you've told me the rest. When did you call

  him?"

  "I didn't, he called me. A week ago."

  "He called you?"

  "Aye, and before I could wish him good morning, he was telling me what I would do and how I would do it."

  "That's Rogan."

  "He said he'd be sending the plane, and that I was to meet his driver at the airport in Paris. I tried to get a word in, but he rolled right over me. The driver would take me to the hotel. Have you ever seen the like of that place, Maggie? It's like a palace."

  "I nearly swallowed my tongue when I walked in. Go on."

  "Then, I was to get myself ready, and the driver would bring me here. Which he did, though I thought for certain he'd kill me along the way. And there was this in the hotel room, with a note from

  him telling me it would please him if I'd wear it." She brushed a hand down the misty blue silk of the evening suit she wore. "I wouldn't have
taken it, but he put the request in such a way I'd have felt rude not to."

  "He's good at that. And you look wonderful in it."

  "I feel wonderful in it. I confess, my head's still spinning from planes and cars and all this. All of this," she said again, staring around the room. These people, Maggie, they're all here for you."

  "I'm glad you are. Shall I take you around so you can charm them for me?"

  "They're charmed already, just seeing the two of you." Rogan stepped beside them and took Brianna's hand. "It's delightful to see you again."

  "I'm grateful to you for arranging it. I can't begin to thank you."

  "You just have. You don't mind if I introduce you around? Mr. LeClair - there, the rather flamboyant-looking man by Maggie's Momentum? He's just confessed to me that he's fallen in love with you."

  "He certainly falls easily, but I'll be pleased to meet him. I'd like to wander about as well. I've never seen Maggie's work shown like this."

  It took only minutes before Maggie was able to draw Rogan aside again. "Don't tell me I need to circulate," she said before he could do just that. "I have something I need to say to you."

  to monopolize the artist."

  "It won't take long for me to tell you that this was the kindest thing anyone has every done for me. I'll never forget it."

  He ignored the distraction of the rapid French a

  woman chattered at his shoulder and took Maggie's hand to his lips. "I didn't want you unhappy again, and it was the simplest thing in the world to arrange for Brianna to be here."

  "It might have been simple." She remembered the ragged artist he'd escorted up the elegant steps of the gallery. That, too, had been simple. 'That doesn't make it any less kind. And to show you what it means to me, I'll not only stay through the whole evening, until the last guest toddles out the door, I'll talk to every one of them."

  "Nicely?"

  "Nicely. No matter how often I hear the word visceral"

  "That's my girl." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Now get to work."

  Chapter Sixteen

  IF Paris had staggered her, the south of France with its sweep of beaches and snow-covered mountains left Maggie awestruck. There was no rattle of traffic here in Rogan's sparkling villa overlooking the searing blue waters of the Mediterranean, no crowds bustling toward shops or cafes.