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 demandingly 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.
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 irresponsible, 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 supposed 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?"
"There were a couple of reasons. One, I've been swamped here. I had several matters I wanted to clear up so I'd have a block of free time. Second, I wanted to stay away from you for a while."
"Oh, did you?" She kept her eyes trained on the bold colors. "Did you now?"
"Because I didn't want to admit how much I wanted to be with you." He waited, shook his head. "No response to that, I see. No I-wanted-to-be-with-you-as-well?"
"I did. Not that I don't have a life of my own. But there were odd moments when I would have liked your company."
And he would, it seemed, have to settle for that. "You're about to get it. Would you sit now, Maggie? There are some things we need to discuss."
"All right, then." She turned back, sat in front of his desk. He looked perfect there, she thought. Dignified, competent, in charge. Not at all like a man who would have indulged in a wild tussle on the office rug. The idea made her smile.
"What?"
"I was just wondering what your secretary might be thinking out there."
He lifted a brow. "I'm sure she assumes we're having a civilized business discussion."
"Hah! She looked like a sensible woman to me, but you go right on believing that." Pleased by the way his eyes flickered to the door, she propped her ankle on her knee. "So, what business are we about to discuss?"
"Ah—your work over the last few weeks has been exceptional. As you know, we held back ten pieces from the first showing with the purpose of touring them over the next year. I would like to keep a few of your newest pieces in Dublin, but the rest is already on its way to Paris."
"So your very efficient and very sensible Eileen told me." She began to tap her fingers on her ankle. "You didn't call me all the way to Dublin to tell me again—nor do I think you called me here for a spot of hot sex on the office rug."
"No, I didn't. I would have preferred discussing the plans with you over the phone, but you never bothered to return my calls."
"I was out a good deal of the time. You may have exclusive rights to my work, but not to me, Rogan. I do have my own life, as I've already explained."
"A number of times." He could feel the temper seeping back into him. "I'm not interfering with your life. I'm managing your career. And to that purpose, I'll be traveling to Paris to oversee the display, and the showing."
Paris. She'd barely had an hour with him and he was already talking about leaving. Distressed by her own plummeting heart, she spoke crisply. "'Tis a wonder you keep your business thriving, Rogan. I'd think you'd be hiring people capable of handling details like that without you feeling the need to peek over their shoulders."
"I assure you, I have very competent people. As it happens, I have a vested interest in your work, and I want to handle those details myself. I want it done right."
"Which means you want it done your way."
"Precisely. And I want you to come with me."
The sarcastic little comment that had sprung to her lips slipped off. "With you? To Paris?"
"I realize you have some artistic or possibly moral objection to promoting your own work, but you did well enough at the Dublin show. It would be advantageous to have you appear, however briefly, at your first international show."
"My first international show," she repeated, dumbfounded as the phrase sank into her head. "I don't—I don't speak French."
"That won't be a problem. You'll have a look at the Paris gallery, dispense a bit of charm and have plenty of time to see the sights." He waited for her answer, received nothing but a blank stare. "Well?"
"When?"
'Tomorrow."
Tomorrow." The first skitter of panic had her pressing a hand to her stomach.
"You want me to go with you to Paris tomorrow?"
"Unless you've some pressing previous engagement."
"I don't, no."
'Then it's settled." The relief was almost brutal. "After we've satisfied ourselves that the Paris show is successful, I'd like you to go south with me."
"South?"
"I've a villa on the Mediterranean. I want to be alone with you, Maggie. No distractions, no interruptions. Just you."
Her eyes lifted to his. 'The block of time you've been working on for these weeks?"
"Yes."
"I wouldn't have shouted at you if you'd explained it to me."
"I had to explain it to myself first. Will you come?"
"Yes, I'll come with you." She smiled. "You'd only to ask."
An hour later she burst into the gallery, only to stop and simmer with frustration as she waited for Joseph to finish with a client. While he charmed a woman old enough to be his mother, Maggie wandered around the main room, noting that the American Indian display had been replaced by a selection of metal sculptures. Intrigued by the shapes, she lost her sense of urgency in admiration.
"A German artist," Joseph said from behind her.
"This particular work is, I feel, both visceral and joyous. A celebration of elemental forces."
"Earth, fire, water, the suggestion of wind in the feathering of the copper." She put on an airy accent to match his. "Powerful indeed in scope, but with an underlying mischief that suggests satire."
"And it can be yours for a mere two thousand pounds."
"A bargain. A pity I'm without a farthing to me name." She turned, laughing, and kissed him.
'You're looking fit, Joseph. How many hearts have you broken since I left you?"
"Nary a one. Since mine belongs to you."
"Hah! A good thing for us both that I know you're full of blarney. Have you a minute to spare?"
"For you, days. Weeks." He kissed her hand. 'Years."
"A minute will do me. Joseph, what do I need for Paris?"
"A tight black sweater, a short skirt and very high heels."
"That'll be the day. Really, I'm to go, and I haven't a clue what I'll need. I tried to reach Mrs. Sweeney, but she's out today."
"So I'm your second choice. You devastate me." He signaled to one of his staff to take the room.
"All you need for Paris, Maggie, is a romantic heart."
"Where can I buy one?"