sure you wouldn't be more comfortable?" The clash of voices from the next room rose, bringing a flush of embarrassment to Brianna's cheeks. Rogan merely lifted his cup. "Who's she shouting at this time?" Brianna managed a smile. "Our mother. They don't get on very well." "Does Maggie get along with anyone?"
"Only when it suits her. But she has a heart, a wonderful, generous heart. It's only that she guards it so carefully." Brianna sighed. If Rogan wasn't embarrassed by the shouting, neither would she be.
"I'll cut you that cake."
"You never change." Maeve stared at her oldest child through narrowed eyes. "Just like your father."
If you think that's an insult to me, you're wrong."
Maeve sniffed and brushed at the lace cuffs of her bed gown. The years and her own dissatisfactions had stolen the beauty of her face. It was puffy and pale. with lines dug deeply around the pursed mouth. Her hair, once as golden as sunlight, had faded to gray and was scraped back ruthlessly into a tight bun. She was plumped onto a mountain of pillows, her Bible at one hand and a box of chocolates at the The television across the room murmured.
"So, it's Dublin, is it? Brianna told me you were going off. Frittering money away on hotels, I imagine."
"It's my money."
"Oh, and you won't let me forget it." Bitterness reared as Maeve pushed up in bed. For her whole life, someone else had held the purse strings, her parents, her husband, and now, most demeaning of all, her own daughter. "To think of all he tossed away on you, buying you glass, sending you off to that foreign country. And for what? So you could play at being an artist and superior to the rest of us."
"He tossed nothing away on me. He gave me the chance to learn."
"While I stayed on the farm, working my fingers to the bone."
"You never worked a blessed day in your life. It was Brianna who did it all while you took to your bed with one ailment after another."
"Do you think I enjoy being delicate?"
"Oh, aye," Maggie said with relish. "I think you revel in it."
"It's my cross to bear." Maeve picked up her Bible, pressed it to her chest like a shield. She had paid for her sin, she thought. A hundred times over she had paid for it. Yet if forgiveness had come, comfort had not. That and an ungrateful child."
"What am I supposed to be grateful for? The fact that you complained every day of your life? That you made your dissatisfaction for my father and your disappointment in me clear with every word, every look."
"I gave birth to you!" Maeve shouted. "I nearly died giving you life. And because I carried you in my womb, I married a man who didn't love me, and who I didn't love. I sacrificed everything for you."
"Sacrificed?" Maggie said wearily. "What sacrifices have you made?"
Maeve cloaked herself in the bitter rage of her pride. "More than you know. And my reward was to have children who have no love for me."
"Do you think because you got pregnant and married to give me a name, I should overlook everything you've done? Everything you haven't done?" like love me even a litde, Maggie thought, and ruthlessly pushed the ache away. "It was you on four back, Mother. I was the result, not the cause."
"How dare you speak to me that way?" Maeve's face flushed hot, her fingers dug into the blankets. "You never had any respect, any kindness, any com-passion."
"No." Because her eyes were stinging, Maggie's voice was sharp as a whip. "And it's that lack I inherited from you. I only came today to tell you that you won't run Brie ragged while I'm gone. If I find you have, I'll stop the allowance."
"You'd take food out of my mouth?" Maggie leaned over to tap the box of chocolates. "Yes. Be sure of it."
"Honor thy father and thy mother." Maeve hugged the Bible close. "You're breaking a commandment, Margaret Mary, and sending your soul to hell." "Then I'll give up my place in heaven rather than live a hypocrite on earth."
"Margaret Mary!" Maeve shouted when Maggie had reached the door. "You'll never amount to anything. You're just like him. God's curse is on you, Maggie, for being conceived outside the sacrament of marriage."
"I saw no sacrament of marriage in my house," Maggie tossed back. "Only the agony of it. And if there was a sin in my conception, it wasn't mine."
She slammed the door behind her, then leaned back against it a moment to steady herself. It was always the same, she thought. They could never be in the same room together without hurling insults. She had known, since she was twelve, why her mother disliked her, condemned her. Her very existence was the reason Maeve's life had turned from dream to harsh reality. A loveless marriage, a seven-month baby and a farm without a farmer. It was that her mother had thrown in her face when Maggie had reached puberty. It was that they had never forgiven each other for. Straightening her shoulders, she walked back into the kitchen. She didn't know her eyes were still angry and overbright or her face pale. She walked to her sister and kissed her briskly on the cheek.
"I'll call you from Dublin."
"Maggie." There was too much to say, and nothing to say. Brianna only squeezed her hands. "I wish I could be there for you."
"You could if you wished it enough. Rogan, are you ready?"
"Yes." He rose. "Goodbye, Brianna. Thank you."
"I'll just walk you—" Brianna broke off when her mother called out.
"Go see to her," Maggie said, and walked quickly out of the house. She was yanking at the door of Rogan's car when he laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
"No, but I don't want to talk about it." With a final tug, she jerked the door open and climbed inside.
He hurried around the hood and slipped onto die driver's seat. "Maggie—"
"Don't say anything. Anything at all. There's nothing you can do or say to change what's always been. Just drive the car and leave me alone. It would be a great favor to me." She began to weep then, passionately, bitterly, while he struggled with the urge to comfort her and the wish to comply with her request. In the end, he drove, saying nothing, but holding her hand. They were nearing the airport when her sobs died and her tensed fingers went limp. Glancing over, he saw she was sleeping. She didn't awaken when he carried her inside his company jet, or when he setded her in a seat. Nor did she awaken all through the flight as he watched her. And wondered.
Chapter Six
MAGGIE awoke in the dark. The only thing she was certain of in those first groggy minutes was that she wasn't in her own bed. The scent of the sheets, the texture of them was wrong. She didn't have to sleep oh fine linen habitually to recognize the difference, or to notice the faint, restful scent of verbena that clung to the pillowslip in which she'd buried her face.
As an uncomfortable thought zeroed into her brain, she stretched out a cautious hand to make certain she was the only occupant of the bed. The mattress flowed on, a veritable lake of smooth sheets and cozy blankets. An empty lake, thank Jesus, she thought, and rolled over to the center of the bed. Her last clear memory was of crying herself empty in Rogan's car, and the hollow feeling that had left her drifting like a broken reed in a stream. A good purge, she decided, for she felt incredibly better—steady and rested and clean.
It was tempting to luxuriate in the soft dark on soft sheets with soft scents. But she decided she'd best find out where she was and how she'd arrived. After sliding her way over to the edge of the bed, she groped around the smooth wood of the night table, eased her fingers over and up until she located a lamp and its switch. The light was gently shaded, a warm golden hue that subtly illuminated a large bedroom with coffered ceiling, dainty rosebud wallpaper and the bed itself, a massive four-poster. The veritable queen of beds, she thought with a smile. A pity she'd been too tired to appreciate it.
The fireplace across the room was unlit, but scrubbed clean as a new coin and set for kindling. Long-stemmed pink roses, fresh as a summer morning, stood in a Waterford vase on a majestic bureau along with a silver brush set and gorgeous little colored bottles with fancy stoppers. The mirror above it reflected Maggie, rumpled and heavy-eyed among the sheets. You look a bit out of place, my girl, she decided, and grinning, tugged on the sleeve of her cotton nightshirt. Someone, it seemed, had had the good sense to change her before dumping her into the royal bed.
A maid perhaps, or Rogan himself. It hardly mattered, she thought practically, since the deed was done and she'd certainly benefited from it. In all likelihood, her clothes were gracing the carved rosewood armoire. As out of place there, she decided with a chuckle, as she was in the glorious lake of smooth linen sheets. If she was in a hotel, it was certainly the finest that had ever had her patronage. She scrambled up, stumbled toward the closest door over a deep-piled Aubusson.
The bath was as sumptuous as the bedroom, all gleaming rose and ivory tiles, a huge tub fashioned for lounging and a separate shower constructed from a wavy glass block. With a sigh of pure greed, she stripped off her nightshirt and turned on the spray. It was heaven, the hot water beating on the back of her neck, her shoulders, like the firm fingers of an expert masseuse. A far cry from the stingy trickle her own shower managed at home. The soap smelled of lemon and glided over her skin like silk. She saw with some amusement that her few meager toiletries had been set out on the generous counter by the shell-shaped pink sinks. Her robe, such as it was, hung on a brass hook beside the door. Well, someone was taking care of her, she realized, and at the moment she could find no cause for complaint.After a steamy fifteen minutes while the water ran hot, she reached for one of the thick towels folded over a warming bar. It was big enough to wrap her from breast to calf. She combed her wet hair back from her face, made use of the cream in a crystal decanter, then exchanged the towel for her tattered flannel robe.
Barefoot and curious, she set out to explore. Her room was off a long wide hall. Low lights tossed shadows over the gleaming floor and its regal red runner. She heard not a sound as she wandered toward the stairs that curved graciously up to another story, and down. She chose down, letting her fingers play along the polished railing. Quite obviously she wasn't a guest in a luxury hotel, but in a private home. Rogan's home, she concluded, with an envious glance at the art that graced the foyer and main hall. The man had a Van Gogh and a Matisse, she realized as her mouth watered. She found the front parlor, with its wide windows open to the balmy night, a sitting room, its chairs and sofas arranged in conversation groupings. Across the hall was what she supposed would be called the music room, as it was dominated by a grand piano and a gilded harp. Beautiful it all was, with enough artwork to keep Maggie entranced for days. But at the moment she had another priority. She wondered how long she would have to search before she found the kitchen.
The light under a door drew her closer. When she looked in, she saw Rogan seated behind a desk, papers arranged in tidy piles before him. It was a two-level room, with his desk on the first and steps leading up to a small sitting area. The walls were lined with books. Acres of them, she thought at a glance, in a room smelling of leather and beeswax. The room was done in burgundies and dark woods that suited the man as much as it suited the literature. She watched him, interested in the way he scanned the page in front of him, made quick, decisive notes. He was, for the first time in their acquaintance, without a suit coat or tie. He'd been wearing them, certainly, she mused, but now his collar was unbuttoned, the sleeves of his crisp shirt rolled up to the elbows. His hair, glinting darkly in the lamplight, was a bit mussed. As if he'd run his hands impatiently through it while he worked. Even as she watched he did so again, raking the fingers through, scowling a bit. Whatever he was working on absorbed him, for he worked in a steady, undistracted rhythm that was, in some odd way, fascinating. He wasn't a man to let his mind wander, she thought. Whatever he chose to do, he would do with the utmost concentration and skill. She remembered the way he had kissed her. Concentration and skill indeed.
Rogan read the next clause in the proposal and frowned. The wording wasn't quite right. A modification . . . He paused, considered, crossed out a phrase and reworded it. The expansion of his factory in Limerick was crucial to his game plan, and needed to be implemented before the end of the year. Hundreds of jobs would be created, and with the construction of moderate-income apartments that a subsidiary of Worldwide was planning, hundreds of families would have homes as well. One branch of the business would feed directly into the other, he thought. It would be a small but important contribution to keeping the Irish—sadly, his country's biggest export—in Ireland. His mind circled around the next clause, had nearly zeroed in, when he caught himself drifting. Something pulled at his brain, distracting it from the business at hand.
Rogan glanced toward the doorway and saw it was not something, but someone. He must have sensed her standing there, barefoot and sleepy-eyed in a ratty gray robe. Her hair was slicked back, shining red fire, in a style that should have been severe but instead was striking. Unadorned and fresh-scrubbed, her face was like ivory with a blush of rose beneath. Her lashes were spiked with damp around her slumberous eyes. His reaction was swift and brutal and human. Even as the heat blasted through him he checked it, ruthlessly.
"Sorry to interrupt." She flashed him a quick, cheeky smile that tortured his already active libido. "I was looking for the kitchen. I'm half-starved."
"It's hardly a wonder." He was forced to clear his throat. Her voice was husky, as sleepily sexy as her eyes. "When did you eat last?"
"I'm not certain." Leaning lazily on the doorjamb, she yawned. "Yesterday, I think. I'm still a bit foggy."
"No, you slept yesterday. All of yesterday—from the time we left your sister's—and all of today."
"Oh." She shrugged. "What time is it?"
"Just past eight—Tuesday."
"Well." She walked into the room and curled up in a big leather chair across from his desk, as if she'd been joining him there for years.
"Do you often sleep for thirty-odd hours straight?"
"Only when I've been up too long." She stretched her arms high to work out kinks she was just beginning to feel. "Sometimes a piece grabs you by the throat and it won't let you go until you've finished."
Resolutely, he shifted his gaze from the flesh the fall of her robe had revealed, and looked down blindly at the paperwork before him. He was appalled that he would react like some hormone-mad teenager. "It's dangerous, in your line of work."
"No, because you're not tired. You're almost unbearably alert. When you've simply worked too long, you lose the edge. You have to stop, rest. This is different. And when I'm done, I fall down and stay down until I've slept it off." She smiled again. "The kitchen, Rogan? I'm ravenous."
Instead of an answer, he reached for the phone and punched in a number. "Miss Concannon is awake," he said. "She'd like a meal. In the library, please."
That's grand," she said when he replaced the receiver. "But I could have scrambled myself some eggs and saved your staff the bother."
"They're paid to bother."
"Of course." Her voice was dry as dust. "How smug you must be to have round-the-clock servants." She waved a hand before he could answer. "Best we don't get into that on an empty stomach. Tell me, Rogan, how exactly did I come to be in that big bed upstairs?"
"I put you there."
"Did you now?" If he was hoping for a blush or stutter, he'd be disappointed. "I'll have to thank you."
"You slept like a stone. At one point I nearly held a mirror up to your lips to be certain you were alive." She was certainly alive now, vibrant in the lamplight. "Do you want a brandy?"
"Better not, before I've eaten."
He rose, went to a sideboard and poured a single snifter from a decanter. "You were upset before we left."
She cocked her head. "Now, that's a fine and diplomatic way of phrasing it." The weeping spell didn't embarrass her. It was simply emotion, passion, as real and as human as laughter or lust. But she remembered that he had held her hand and had offered no useless words to stem the storm. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."
She had, miserably, but he shrugged it off. "You didn't want to talk about it."
"Didn't, and don't." She took a quiet breath because her voice had been sharp. He didn't deserve such rudeness after his kindness. "It's nothing to do with you, Rogan, just old family miseries. Since I'm feeling mellow, I'll tell you it was comforting to have you hold my hand. I didn't think you were the type to offer."
His eyes flicked back to hers. "It seems to me we don't know each other well enough to generalize."
"I've always considered myself a quick and accurate judge, but you may be right. So tell me"—she propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, cocked her chin on her fist—"who are you, Rogan Sweeney?"
He was relieved when the need to answer was postponed by the arrival of her dinner. A tidy, uniformed maid wheeled in a tray, settling it in front of Maggie with no more than a whisper of sound and a jingle of silverware. She bobbed once when Maggie thanked her, then disappeared the moment Rogan told her that would be all.
"Ah, what a scent." Maggie attacked the soup first, a rich, thick broth swimming with chunks of vegetables. "Do you want some?"
"No, I've eaten." Rather than go back around the desk, he sat in the chair beside hers. It was oddly cozy, he realized, to sit with her while she ate and the house seemed to settle quietly around them. "Since you're back among the living, perhaps you'd like to go by the gallery in the morning."
"Umm." She nodded, her mouth full of crusty roll. "When?"
"Eight—I have appointments midmorning, but I can take you in and leave a car at your disposal."
"A car at my disposal." Tickled, she pressed a fist to her mouth as she laughed. "Oh, I could get used to that quick enough. And what would I do with the car at my disposal?"
"What you like." God knew why her reaction annoyed him, but it did. "Or you can wander around Dublin on foot, if you prefer."
"A bit touchy this evening, are we?" She moved from the soup to the entree of honeyed chicken. "Your cook's a treasure, Rogan. Do you diink I can charm this recipe out of him—or her—for Brie?"
"Him," Rogan said. "And you're welcome to try. He's French, insolent and given to tantrums."
"Then we have all but nationality in common. Tell me, will I be moving to a hotel tomorrow?"
He'd thought about that, a great deal. It would certainly be more comfortable for him if she were tucked away in a suite at the Westbury. More comfortable, he thought, and much more dull. "You're welcome to stay in the guest room if it suits you."
"It suits me down to the ground." She studied him as she speared a tiny new potato. He looked relaxed here, she realized. Very much the complacent king of the castle. "Is it just you in this big house?"
"It is." He lifted a brow. "Does that worry you?"
"Worry me? Oh, you mean because you might come knocking on my door one lustful night?" She chuckled, infuriating him. "I'm able to say yes or no, Rogan, the same as you would be if I came knocking on yours. I only asked because it seems a lot of room for one man."
"It's my family home," he said stiffly. "I've lived here all my life."
"And a fine place it is." She pushed the tray back and rose to go to the small sideboard. Lifting the top of a decanter, she sniffed. Sighed at the fine scent of Irish whiskey. After pouring herself a glass, she came back and curled up her legs. "Slainte," she said, and tossed the whiskey back. It set a good, strong fire kindling in her gut.
"Would you like another?"
"One'11 do me. One warms the soul, two warms the brain, my father often said. I'm in the mood for a cool head." She set the empty glass on the tray, shifted her body more comfortably. Her frayed flannel robe slid open at the curve of her knee. "You haven't answered my question."
"Which was?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm a businessman, as you remind me with regularity." He settled back, making a determined effort not to let his mind or his gaze wander to her bare legs. "Third generation. Born and bred in Dublin, with love and respect for art nurtured in me from the cradle."
"And that love and respect was augmented by the idea of making a profit."
"Precisely." He swirled his brandy, sipped, and looked exactly like what he was. A man comfortable with his own wealth and content with his life. "While making a profit brings its own sense of satisfaction, there's another, more spiritual satisfaction that comes from developing and promoting a new artist. Particularly one you believe in passionately."
Maggie touched her tongue to her top lip. He was entirely too confident, she decided, much too sure of himself and his place in the world. All that tidy certainty begged for a bit of shaking.
"So, I'm here to satisfy you, Rogan?"
He met her amused eyes, nodded. "I have no doubt you will, Maggie, eventually. On every level."
"Eventually." She hadn't meant, really, to steer them onto this boggy ground, but it seemed irresistible, sitting with him in the quiet room with her body so rested, her mind so alert. "Your choice of time and place, then?"
"It's traditional, I believe, for the man to choose when to advance."
"Hah!" Bristling, she leaned over to jab a finger in his chest. Any thoughts she'd had of easing into romance vanished like smoke. "Stuff your traditions in your hat and wear it well. I don't cater to them. You might be interested to know that as we approach the twenty-first century, women are doing their own choosing. The fact is we've been doing so since time began, those of us sharp enough, and men are just catching on to it." She plopped back in her chair. "I'll have you, Rogan, in my time, and in my place."
It baffled him why such an incredible statement should both arouse him and make him uneasy. "Your father was right, Maggie, about you getting the brass. You have it to spare."
"And what of it? Oh, I know your type." Contempt colored her tone. "You like a woman to sit quietly by, mooning a bit, catering to your whims, to be sure, and hoping, while her romantic heart beats desperately in her breast, that you'll look twice in her direction. She'll be proper as a saint in public, never a sour word slipping through her rosy lips. Then, of course, when you've decided on that time and that place, she's to transform herself into a veritable tiger, indulging your most prurient fantasies until the lights switch on again and she turns into