She'd have the paintings, too. Her first study of the stone dance was finished. When she'd stepped back from the completed canvas, she'd been stunned that the power and scope of it, the sheer passion of it, had come from her.
She'd never painted that vividly before, or felt such a fierce emotional attachment to any of her work.
And it had driven her to start another even as the paint was drying on the first. The sketch she'd done of Brianna in her garden was now a muted, undeniably romantic watercolor, nearly complete.
There were so many other ideas, varied subjects. How could she resist the luminescent light, the varied shades of green-the old man with the thick ash stick she'd seen herding his cows down a twisting road? All of it, every thing and every face she saw cried out to be painted.
She didn't see the harm in extending her stay another week, or two. A busman's holiday, she liked to think of it, where she could explore a side of her art that had been largely ignored throughout her career.
Her financial freedom was an excellent justification for lengthening her time in Ireland. If her record at Ry-Tilghmanton wasn't strong enough to hold for her sabbatical, then she'd simply find another-better-position when she returned to New York.
Now she walked down the road with Murphy's jacket over her arm. She'd meant to get it back to him before, but as she'd been working closer to the inn the last couple of days, there hadn't been the opportunity.
And it had seemed too cowardly to pass such a petty chore onto Brianna or Gray.
In any case, she was heading for the front of the house and imagined he would be out in the fields, or in the barn. Leaving it on his porch with a quick note of thanks pinned to it seemed an easy way out.
But, of course, he wasn't in the fields or in the barn.
She supposed she should have known he wouldn't be with the way her luck ran when applied to him.
As she bypassed his garden gate for the driveway, she could see his scarred, worn-down boots poking out from under the pitiful little car.
"Fuck me!"
Her eyes widened, then danced with humor at the steady and imaginative stream of curses that flew from beneath the car.
"Bloody buggerin' hell. Stuck like the cock of a cur in a bitch." There was the ping of metal striking metal, the crash of a tool falling. "Biggest pile of shit outside of the pigsty."
With that, Murphy shoved himself from under the car. His face, smeared with grease, fired with frustration, underwent several rapid transformations when he spotted Shannon.
Consternation turned to embarrassment, and that to a delightfully sheepish grin.
"Didn't know you were there." He wiped the back of his hand over his chin, smearing grease and a trace of blood. "I'd have taken a bit more care with my language."
"I've been known to use a few of the same words," she said easily. "Though not with that nice, rolling lilt. Having problems?"
"Could be worse." He sat where he was a moment, then unfolded himself and rose in what was nearly balletic grace. "I've promised my nephew Patrick I'd get it on the road for him, but it's going to take a bit longer than I thought."
She studied the car again. "If you can get that running, you're working miracles."
"It's just the transmission. I can fix that." He gave the car one final scowl. "It's not my job to make it pretty. Thank Jesus."
"I won't keep you. I just-you're bleeding." She closed the distance between them in a leap, snagging his hand and fretting over the shallow slice in his thumb that was seeping blood.
"Tore it some on the bleeding-on one of the bolts."
"The one that was stuck like-"
"Aye." His color rose, amusing her. "On that one."
"You'd better clean it up." It was her turn to be embarrassed by the way she'd clamped on to his hand. She let it drop.
"I'll get to it." Watching her, he took a bandanna out of his back pocket to staunch the flow. "I was wondering when you'd come by. You've been avoiding me."
"No, I've been busy. I did mean to get this back to you before."
He took the jacket she handed him, tossed it onto the hood of the car. "It's no problem. I have another." With a half smile on his face he leaned against the car and took out a cigarette. "Sure and looking lovely today, Shannon Bodine. And safe you are as well, since I'm too filthy to bother you. Did you dream of me?"
"Don't start that, Murphy."
"You did." He lighted a match, cupping his hand over the tip of the cigarette. "I had dreams of you from now, and from before. They'd be comforting if you were in the bed beside me."
"Then you're going to be uncomfortable, because that's not going to happen."
He only tugged on his ear and smiled at her. "I saw you a few days ago, walking across the fields with Maggie. You looked more easy with her."
"We were just going over to her shop. I wanted to see it."
His brow shot up. "And she showed you?"
"That's right. We made a paperweight."
"We." Now his mouth fell open. "You touched her tools and your fingers aren't broken? I see how it was," he decided. "You overpowered her and tied her up first."
Feeling a bit smug, Shannon plucked at her sleeve. "It wasn't necessary to resort to violence."
"Must be those fairy eyes of yours." He angled his head. "There's not as much sorrow in them now. You're healing."
"I think about her every day. My mother. I was away from her and Dad so much the last few years."
"It's the nature of things, Shannon, for children to grow and move out on their own."
"I keep thinking I should have called more often, made more time to go out there. Especially after my father died. I knew how short life could be after that, but I still didn't make the time."
She turned away to look at the flowers that were blooming riotously in the softness of spring. "I lost them both within a year, and I thought I'd never get over the misery of that. But you do. The hurt dulls, even when you don't want it to."
"Neither of them would want you to mourn too long. Those who love us want to be remembered, but with joy."
She looked over her shoulder. "Why is it so easy to talk to you about this? It shouldn't be." Turning to face him, she shook her head. "I was going to dump that jacket off, figuring you'd be off somewhere. And I was going to stay away from you."
He dropped the cigarette on the drive, crushed it out. "I'd have come after you, when I'd reckoned you'd had time to settle."
"It's not going to work. Part of me is almost sorry, because I'm beginning to think you're one in a million. But it's not going to work."
"Why don't you come over here and kiss me, Shannon?" The invitation was light, friendly, and confident. "Then tell me that nonsense again."
"No." She said it firmly, then a laugh bubbled out. "That kind of cockiness should irritate the hell out of me." She tossed her hair back. "I'm going."
"Come inside, have a cup of tea. I'll wash up." He stepped forward, but took care not to touch her. "Then I'll kiss you."
The shout of joy had him checking. Looking around, he spotted Liam scrambling up the driveway. With an effort, Murphy put desire on hold.
"Well, here's a likely lad come to visit." Murphy crouched down for the noisy kiss. "How's it all going then, Liam? I'd haul you up, boy-o," he told Liam as the child lifted his arms. "But your mother'd have my skin for it."
"How about me?"
Liam shifted affections and climbed happily into Shannon's arms. She settled him onto her hip as Rogan turned into the drive.
"He's like a bullet out of a gun when he gets within ten yards of this place." Rogan lifted a brow as he scanned the little car. "How's this going?"
"A great deal more than slow. Shannon was just coming in for a cup of tea. Will you have a cup?"
"We wouldn't mind that, would we, Liam?"
"Tea," Liam said, grinning, and kissed Shannon dead on the mouth.
"It's the idea of the cake that might go with it that makes him affectionate
," Rogan said dryly. "It's you I
was coming to see, Shannon. You've saved me a bit of a walk."
"Oh." It looked as though she were stuck now. Taking it philosophically, she carried Liam into the house.
"Go on into the kitchen," Murphy told them. "I need to clean up."
While Liam chattered in earnest gibberish, Shannon settled into the kitchen with Rogan. It surprised her to see him fill the kettle, measure out tea, heat the pot. She supposed it shouldn't have, but he was so ... smooth, she decided. His clothes might have been casual, but everything about him spoke of money, privilege, and power.
"Can I ask you a question?" she said quickly, before she could change her mind.
"Of course."
"What is a man like you doing here?"
He smiled, so quickly, so stunningly, she had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open. That smile, she realized, was a major weapon.
"Not an office building," he began, "not a theater or a French restaurant in sight."
"Exactly. Not that it's not a beautiful spot, but I keep expecting someone to say 'cut,' then the screen will go blank and I'll realize I've been walking through a movie."
Rogan opened a tin, took out one of Murphy's biscuits to entertain Liam. "My initial reaction to this part of the world wasn't quite as romantic as that. The first time I came out here, I was cursing every muddy mile. Christ, it seemed it would never cease to rain, and a long way from Dublin is the west, in more than miles. Here, let me take him. He'll have crumbs all over you."
"I don't mind." Shannon snuggled Liam closer. "But you settled here," she prompted Rogan.
"We've a home here, and a home in Dublin. I'd wanted the new gallery, been working on the concept of it before I met Maggie. And after I had her under contract, fell in love with her, badgered her into marrying me, the concept became Worldwide Galleries Clare."
"You mean it was a business decision?"
"That was secondary. She's rooted here. If I'd torn her out, it would have broken her heart. So we have Clare, and Dublin, and it contents us."
He rose, going to the kettle that was shooting steam, to finish making the tea. "Maggie showed me the sketch you did of Liam. It takes skill to put so much into a few lines and shadings."
"Charcoal's simple, and kind of a hobby of mine."
"Ah, a hobby." Keeping his cards close to his vest, Rogan turned when Murphy came in. "Is your music a hobby, Murphy?"
"It's my heart." He stopped by the table to ruffle Liam's hair. "Stealing my biscuits. You'll have to pay for that." He snatched the boy up, tickling his ribs and sending Liam into squeals of laughter.
"Truck," Liam demanded.
"You know where it is, don't you? Go on then and get it." Murphy set Liam down, patted his butt. "Sit on the floor in there and play with it. If I hear anything I shouldn't, I'm coming after you."
As Liam toddled off, Murphy opened a cabinet for cups. "He's partial to an old wooden truck I had as a boy," he explained. "Partial enough that it can keep him quiet and out of trouble for ten or fifteen minutes at a go. Sit down, Rogan, I'll tend to the rest of this."
Rogan joined Shannon at the table, smiled at her again. "I had a look at the painting you've finished, the one of the standing stones? I hope you don't mind."
"No." But her brow creased.
"You do some, and Brie wasn't happy about my insisting on going up to look when she mentioned it to me. She said I was to tell you myself I'd invaded your privacy, and apologize for it."
"It doesn't matter, really." She looked up at Murphy as he filled cups. "Thanks."
"I'll offer you a thousand pounds for it."
She was grateful she'd yet to sip tea. Surely she'd have choked on it. "You're not serious."
"I'm always serious about art. If you've anything else finished, or in progress, I'd be interested in having first look."
She was beyond baffled. "I don't sell my paintings."
Rogan nodded, sipped contentedly at his tea. "That's fine. I'll sell them for you. Worldwide would be pleased to represent your work."
Speech was impossible, at least until her mind stopped spinning. She knew she had talent. She would never have risen so far at Ry-Tilghmanton if she'd been mediocre. But painting was for Saturday mornings, or vacations.
"We'd very much like," Rogan went on, knowing precisely how and when to press his advantage, "to feature your work in the Clare gallery."
"I'm not Irish." Because her voice wasn't strong, Shannon frowned and tried again. "Maggie said that you feature only Irish artists there, and I'm not Irish." That statement was met with respectful silence. "I'm American," she insisted, a little desperately.
His wife had told him Shannon would react in precisely this way. Rogan was, as he preferred to be, two steps ahead of his quarry. "If you agree, we could feature you as our American guest artist, of Irish extraction. I have no problem buying your work outright, on a piece by piece basis, but I believe it would be to our mutual benefit to have a more formal agreement, with precise terms."
"That's how he got Maggie," Murphy told Shannon, enjoying himself. "But I wish you wouldn't sell him that painting, Shannon, until I've seen it for myself. Might be I could outbid him."
"I don't think I want to sell it. I don't know. I've never had to think about this." Confused, she pushed at her hair. "Rogan, I'm a commercial artist."
"You're an artist," he corrected. "And you're foolish to put limitations on yourself. If you prefer to think about the standing stones-"
"It's The Dance," she murmured. "I titled it just The Dance."
It was then, by the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes, that Rogan knew he had her. But he wasn't one to gloat. "If you'd prefer to think about that particular work," he continued in the same mild, reasonable tone, "I wonder if you'd let me take it on loan and display it in the gallery."
"I... Well-" It seemed not only stupid, but ungracious to object. "Sure. If you'd like to, I don't have a problem with that."
"I'm grateful." He rose, half his mission complete. "I need to get Liam home for his nap. Maggie and I are switching shifts about this time today. She's been working this morning, and now I'm going into the gallery. Shall I go by and pick up the painting on my way?"
"I suppose. Yes, all right. It isn't framed."
"We'll take care of that. I'm going to be drafting up a contract for you to look over."
Confused, she stared at him. "A contract? But-"
"You'll take all the time you need to read it through, think it over, and naturally, we'll negotiate any changes you might want. Thanks for the tea, Murphy. I'm looking forward to the ceili."
Murphy only grinned at him, then turned the grin on Shannon when Rogan went out to collect his son. "He's slippery, isn't he?"
She was staring straight ahead, fumbling through the conversation that had just taken place. "What did I agree to?"
"Depending on how you look at it, nothing. Or everything. He's cagey, our Rogan. I was waiting for it, watching, and still I never saw him outflank you until it was done."
"I don't know how to feel about this," Shannon muttered.
"Seems to me if I was an artist, and a man who has a reputation around the world for being an expert on it, and for having an affection and understanding of the best of it, found my work of value, I'd be proud."
"But I'm not a painter."
Patient, Murphy folded his arms on the table. "Why is it, Shannon, you make such a habit of saying what you're not. You're not Irish, you're not sister to Maggie and Brie, you're not a painter. You're not in love with me."
"Because it's easier to know what you're not than what you are."
He smiled at that. "Now, that's a sensible thing you've said. Do you always want it easier?"
"I never used to think so. I was always smug about the fact that I went after the challenges." Confused and a little frightened, she closed her eyes. "Too much is changing on me. I can't get solid footing. Every time I seem to, it all shifts a
gain."
"And it's hard to move with it when you're used to standing firm." He rose, then pulled her into his arms. "No, don't worry." His voice was quiet when she stiffened. "I'm not going to do anything but hold you. Just rest your head a minute, darling. Let some of the care out of it."
"My mother would have been thrilled."
"You can't feel her feelings." Gently he stroked her hair, hoping she'd take the caress as it was meant. In friendship. "Do you know, my mother once hoped I'd go off to town and make my living in music."
"Really?" She found her head nestled perfectly in the curve of his shoulder. "I would have thought your whole family would have expected-wanted-you to farm."
"It was a hope she had, when I showed an interest in instruments and such. She wanted her children to go beyond what she'd known, and she loved me more, you see, than the farm."
"And she was disappointed?"
"Maybe some, until she saw this was what I wanted." He smiled into her hair. "Maybe some even after. Tell me, Shannon, are you happy in your work?"
"Of course. I'm good at it, and I've got a chance to move up. In a few years I'll have the choice between top level at Ry-Tilghmanton, or starting a business of my own.
"Mmm. Sounds more like ambition than happiness."
"Why do they have to be different?"
"I wonder." He drew her away because he was tempted to kiss her again, and it wasn't what she needed just then. "Maybe you should ask yourself, and think it through, if drawing for somebody else puts the same feeling inside you that drawing what pulls you does."
He did kiss her, but lightly, on the brow. "Meanwhile, you should be smiling instead of worrying. Rogan takes only the best for his galleries. You haven't been out to Ennistymon yet, have you?"
"No." She was sorry he'd let her go. "Is that where the gallery is?"
"Near. I'll take you if you like. I can't today," he said with a wince at the wall clock. "I've got a bit to do around here yet, and I've promised to go by Feeney's and lend him a hand with the tractor." "No, and I've kept you long enough anyway."
"You can keep me as long as you want." He took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. "Maybe you'd come down to the pub tonight. I'll buy you a drink to celebrate."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 130