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 gallery 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. The people who dotted the beach were no more than part of the painting that encompassed water and sand, bobbing boats and an endless, cloudless sky.
The countryside, which she could see from one of the many terraces that graced the villa, spread out in neat square fields bordered by stone fences like the ones she saw from her own doorway in Clare. But here, the ground rose up in terraced slopes, from orchards on sunny embankments to the higher green of the forests and on to the foothills of the magnificent Alps.
Rogan's grounds were lush with blooms and flowering herbs, exotic with olive and box trees and the sparkle of fountains. The quiet was disturbed only by the call of gulls and the music of falling water. Content, Maggie lounged in one of the padded chaises on a sun-washed terrace and sketched.
"I thought I'd find you here." Rogan stepped out and dropped a kiss, both casual and intimate, on the top of her head.
"It's impossible to stay inside on such a day." She squinted up at him until he took the shaded glasses she'd tossed on a table and slipped them on her nose. "Did you finish your business?"
"For now." He sat beside her, shifting so as not to block her view. "I'm sorry I've been so long. One call seemed to lead to another."
"No matter. I like being on my own."
"I've noticed." He peeked into the sketchbook. "A seascape?"
"It's irresistible. And I thought I'd draw some of the scenery, so Brie could see it. She had such a wonderful time in Paris."
"I'm sorry she could only stay one day."
"One lovely day. It's hard to believe I strolled along the Left Bank with my sister. The Concannon sisters in Paris." It still made her laugh to think of it."She'll not forget it, Rogan." Tucking her pencil behind her ear, Maggie took his hand. "Neither will I."
"You've thanked me, both of you. And the truth is I did nothing more than make a few calls. Speaking of calls, one that kept me away just now was from Paris." Reaching over, Rogan selected a sugared grape from the basket of fruit beside them. "You've an offer, Maggie, from the Comte de Lorraine."
"De Lorraine?" Lips pursed, she searched her memory. "Ah, the skinny old man with a cane who talked in whispers."
"Yes." Rogan was amused to hear her describe one of the wealthiest men in France as a skinny old man. "He'd like to commission you to make a gift for his granddaughter's wedding this December."
Her hackles rose instinctively. "I'll take no commissions, Rogan. I made that clear from the start."
"You did, yes." Rogan took another grape and popped it into Maggie's mouth to keep her quiet. "But it's my obligation to inform you of any requests. I'm not suggesting you agree, though it would be quite an impressive feather in your—and Worldwide's— cap. I'm simply fulfilling my duties as your manager."
Eyeing him, Maggie swallowed the grape. His tone, she noted, was as sugarcoated as the fruit. "I'll not do it."
'Your choice, naturally." He waved the entire matter away. "Shall I ring for something cold? Lem onade perhaps, or iced tea?"
"No." Maggie took the pencil from behind her ear, tapped it on her pad. "I'm not interested in made-to-order."
"And why should you be?" he responded, all reason. "Your Paris showing was every bit as successful as the one in Dublin. I have every confidence that this will continue in Rome and beyond. You're well on your way, Margaret Mary." He leaned down and kissed her. "Not that the comte's request has anything to do with made-to-order. He's quite willing to leave it completely in your hands."
Cautious, Maggie tipped down her glasses and studied him over the tip. "You're trying to sweet-talk me into it."
"Hardly." But, of course, he was. "I should add, however, that the comte—a very well-respected art connoisseur, by the way—is willing to pay hand somely."
"I'm not interested." She shoved her glasses in place again, then swore. "How much is handsome?"
"Up to the equivalent of fifty thousand pounds. But I know how adamant you are about the money angle, so you needn't give it a thought. I told him it was unlikely you'd be interested. Would you like to go down to the beach? Take a drive?"
Before he could rise, Maggie snagged his collar. "Oh, you're a sneaky one, aren't you, Sweeney?"
"When needs be."
"It would be whatever I choose to make? Whatever came to me?"
"It would." He traced a finger over her bare shoulder, which was beginning to turn the color of a peach in the sun. "Except . . ."
"Ah, here we are."
"Blue," Rogan said, and grinned. "He wants blue."
"Blue, is it?" The laugh began to shake her. "Any particular shade?"
"The same as his granddaughter's eyes. He claims they are as blue as the summer sky. It seems she's his favorite, and after he saw your work in Paris, nothing would do but that she have something made for her alone from your lovely hands."
"His words or yours?"
"A bit of both," Rogan answered, kissing one of those lovely hands.
"I'll think about it."
"I'd hoped you would." No longer concerned with blocking her view, he leaned over to nibble at her lips. "But think about it later, will you?"
"Excusez-moi, monsieur." A bland-faced servant stood on the edge of the terrace, his hands at his sides and his eyes discreetly aimed toward the sea.
"Oui, Henri?"
"Vous et mademoiselle, voudriez-vous dejeuner sur la terrasse maintenant?"
"Non, nous allons dejeuner plus tard. "
"Tres bien, monsieur." Henri faded away, silent as a shadow into the house.
"And what was that about?" Maggie asked.
"He wanted to know if we wanted lunch. I said we'd eat later." When Rogan started to lean down again, Maggie stopped him with a hand slapped to his chest. "Problem?" Rogan murmured. "I can call him back and tell him we're ready after all."
"No, I don't want you to call him." It made her uneasy to think of Henri, or any of the other servants, lurking in a corner, waiting to serve. She wriggled off the chaise. "Don't you ever want to be alone?"
"We are alone. That's exactly why I wanted to bring you here."
"Alone? You must have six people puttering around the house. Gardeners and cooks, maids and butlers. If I were to snap my fingers right now, one of them would come running."
"Which is exactly the purpose in having servants."
"Well, I don't want them. Do you know one of those little maids wanted to wash out my underwear?"
'That's because it's her job to tend to you, not because she wanted to riffle your drawers."
"I can tend to myself. Rogan, I want you to send them away. All of them."
He rose at that. "You want me to fire the help?"
"No, for pity sakes, I'm not a monster, tossing innocent people out on the street. I want you to send them off, that's all. On a holiday, or whatever you'd call it."
"I can certainly give the staff a day off, if you'd like."
"Not a day, the week." She blew out a breath, seeing his puzzlement. "It doesn't make any sense to you, and why should it? You're so used to them, you don't even see them."
"His name was Henri, the cook is Jacques, the maid who so cheekily offered to wash your lingerie is Marie." Or possibly, he thought, Monique.
"I wasn't after starting a quarrel." She came forward, her hands reaching for his. "I can't relax as you do with all these people hovering about. I'm just not used to it—I don't think I want to be. Do this for me, please, Rogan. Give them a few days off."
"Wait here a moment."
When he left, she stood on the terrace, feeling foolish. Here she was, she mused, lounging in a Mediterranean villa with anything she could ask for within her reach. And she still wasn't satisfied. She'd changed, she realized. In the few short months since she met Rogan, she had changed. She not only wished for more now, she coveted more of what she didn't have. She wanted the ease and the pleasure money could bring, and not just for her family. She wanted it for herself. She'd worn diamonds and had danced in Paris. And she wanted to do so again. Yet, deep within her, there remained that small, hot need to be only herself, to need nothing and no one. If she lost that, Maggie thought with a whip of panic, she would have lost everything. She snatched up her sketch pad, flipped pages. But for a moment, a terrifying moment, her mind was as blank as the sheet in front of her. Then she began to draw frantically, with a violent intensity that burst from her like a gale. It was herself she drew. The two parts, twisted together, pulled apart and so desperately trying to meet again. But how could