Born in Fire Page 19

  "You have your own. You can't hide it from me, I've seen your work."

  She grimaced, then slipped her arm through his. "Listen now, I'd not admit this to just anyone, but I've never traveled. In Venice I only had to worry about learning and not wearing anything that would catch fire. And paying the rent. If I'm going to have a trip to Paris, I don't want to make a fool of myself."

  "You won't. You'll be going with Rogan, I take it, and he knows Paris as well as a native. You've only to act a bit arrogant, a bit bored, and you'll fit right in."

  "I've come to you for fashion advice. Oh, it's humiliating to say it, but I can't go looking like this. Not that I want to paint myself up like a mannequin, but I don't want to look like Rogan's country cousin either."

  "Hmm." Joseph took the question seriously, drawing her back to arm's length for a slow, careful study. "You'd do just fine as you are, but . . ."

  "But?"

  "Buy yourself a silk blouse, very tailored, but soft. Vivid colors, my girl, no pastels for you. Slacks of the same type. Use your eye for color. Go for the clash. And that short skirt is a must. You've got that black dress?"

  "I didn't bring it with me."

  He clucked his tongue like a maiden aunt. "You should always be prepared. All right, that's out, so go for glitter this time. Something that dazzles the eye." He tapped the sculpture beside them. 'These metal tones would suit you. Don't go for classic, go for bold." Pleased with the thought, he nodded. "How's that?"

  "Confusing. I'm ashamed to find it matters to me."

  "There's nothing shameful about it. It's simply a matter of presentation."

  "That may be, but I'd be grateful to you if you didn't mention this to Rogan."

  "Consider me your confessor, darling." He looked over her shoulder, and Maggie saw joy leap into his eyes.

  Patricia came in, hesitated, then crossed the glossy tiles.

  "Hello, Maggie. I didn't know you were coming to Dublin."

  "Neither did I." What change was this? Maggie wondered. Gone was the shadowed sadness, the fragile reserve. It only took a moment, seeing the way Patricia's eyes lighted on Joseph's, to give her the answer.

  Aha, she thought. So there's where the wind blows.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to tell Joseph . . ."Patricia sputtered to a halt. "Ah, that is, I was passing by and remembered the business we'd discussed. The seven o'clock appointment?"

  "Yes." Joseph dipped his hands into his pockets to keep them from reaching for her. "Seven o'clock."

  "I'm afraid I have to make it seven-thirty. I've a bit of a conflict. I wanted to be sure that wouldn't upset the schedule."

  "I'll adjust it."

  "Good. That's good." She stood for a moment, staring foolishly at him before she remembered Maggie and her manners. "Will you be in town long?"

  "No, actually, I'm leaving tomorrow." The way the air was sizzling, Maggie thought, it was a wonder the sculptures didn't melt. "In fact, I'm leaving now."

  "Oh, no, please, don't run off on my account. I've got to go." Patricia sent one more longing look in Joseph's direction. "I've people waiting for me. I just wanted to—well, goodbye."

  Maggie waited one beat. "Are you just going to stand here?" she hissed at Joseph as Patricia headed for the door.

  "Hmm? What? Excuse me." He made the dash to the door in two seconds flat. She watched Patricia turn, blush, smile. Then they were in each other's arms.

  The romantic heart Maggie refused to believe she had, swelled. She waited until Patricia hurried out and Joseph stood staring after her like a man recently struck by lighting.

  "So your heart belongs to me, does it?"

  The dazed look cleared from his eyes. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

  There's no denying it."

  "I've been in love with her so long, even before she married Robbie. I never thought, never believed . . ." He laughed a little, still dazzled by love. "I thought it was Rogan."

  "So did I. It's plain to see you make her happy." She kissed his cheek. "I'm glad for you."

  "It's—we're trying to keep it between us. At least until . . . for a while. Her family ... I can guarantee her mother won't approve of me."

  "The hell with her mother."

  "Patricia said nearly the same thing." It brought a smile to his lips to remember it. "But I'll not be the cause of any trouble there. So I'd appreciate it if you'd say nothing."

  "Not to Rogan either?"

  "I work for him, Maggie. He's a friend, yes, but I work for him. Patricia's the widow of one of his oldest friends, a woman he's escorted himself. A great many people thought she'd become his wife."

  "I don't believe Rogan was among them."

  "Be that as it may, I'd rather tell him myself when the time's right."

  "It's your business, Joseph. Yours and Patricia's. So we'll trade confession for confession."

  "I'm grateful to you."

  "No need. If Rogan's stiff-necked enough to disapprove, he deserves to be fooled."

  Chapter Fifteen

  PARIS was hot, muggy and crowded. The traffic was abominable. Cars, buses, motorbikes screeched and swerved and sped, their drivers seemingly bent on challenging each other to endless roadway duels. Along the sidewalks, people strolled and swaggered in a colorful pedestrian parade. Women in those short skirts Joseph seemed so fond of looked lean and bored and impossibly chic. Men, equally fashionable, watched them from little cafe tables where they sipped red wine or strong black coffee. Flowers bloomed everywhere—roses, gladiolus, marigolds, snapdragons, begonias tumbling out of vendors' stalls, sunning on banks, spilling out of the arms of young girls whose legs flashed bright as blades in the sunshine. Boys skated by with yards of golden bread spearing up out of bags. Packs of tourists aimed cameras like so many shotguns to blast away at their shutter view of Paris life. And there were dogs. The city seemed a veritable den of them, prancing on leashes, skulking in alley ways, darting by shops. Even the lowliest cur ap peared exotic, wonderfully foreign and arrogantly French.Maggie took it all in from her window overlooking the Place de la Concorde. She was in Paris. The air was full of sound and scent and gaudy light. And her lover was sleeping like a stone in the bed behind her. Or so she thought.

  He'd been watching her watch Paris for some time. She leaned out of the grand window, heedless of the cotton nightshirt falling off her left shoulder. She'd acted wholly indifferent to the city when they'd arrived the evening before. Her eyes had widened at the lush lobby of the Hotel de Crillon, but she'd made no comment when they'd checked in. She'd said little more when they entered the plush and lofty suite, and wandered away when Rogan tipped the bellman. When he asked her if the room suited her, she'd simply shrugged and said it would do well enough. It made him laugh and drag her off to bed. But she wasn't quite so blase now, he noted. He could all but see the excitement shimmering around her as she stared out at the street and absorbed die bustling life of the city. Nothing could have pleased him more than to give her Paris.

  "If you lean out much farther, you'll stop traffic."

  She jolted and, dragging her hair from her eyes, looked around to where he lay among rumpled sheets and a mountain of pillows.

  "A bomb couldn't stop that traffic. Why do diey want to kill each other?"

  "It's a matter of honor. What do you think of the city in daylight?"

  "It's crowded. Worse than Dublin." Then she relented and grinned at him. "It's lovely, Rogan. Like an old, bad-tempered woman holding court. There's a vendor down there with an ocean of flowers. And every time someone stops to look or buy, he ignores them, like it's beneath his dignity to notice them. But he takes their money, and counts every coin." She crawled back into bed and stretched herself over him. "I know exactly how he feels," she murmured. "Nothing makes you more irritable than selling what you love."

  "If he didn't sell them, they'd die." He tipped up her chin. "If you didn't sell what you love, part of you would die, too."

  "Well, the part that need
s to eat would without a doubt. Are you going to call up one of those fancy waiters and have him bring us breakfast?"

  "What would you like?"

  Her eyes danced. "Oh, everything. Starting with this . . ." She tugged the sheets away and fell on him.

  Quite a bit later she stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in the plush white robe that had hung on the back of the door. She found Rogan at a table by the parlor window, pouring coffee and reading the paper.

  "That newspaper's in French." She sniffed at a basket of croissants. "You read French and Italian?"

  "Mmm." His brows were knit over the financial pages. He was thinking of calling his broker.

  "What else?"

  "What else what?"

  "What else do you read—speak. Language I mean."

  "Some German. Enough Spanish to get by."

  "Gaelic?"

  "No." He turned the page, scanning for news of art auctions. "Do you?"

  "My father's mother spoke it, so I learned." Her shoulders moved restlessly as she slathered jam onto a steaming croissant. "It's not much good, I suppose, except for cursing. It won't get you the best table in a French restaurant."

  "It's valuable. We've lost a considerable amount of our heritage." Which was something he thought about, often. "It's a pity that there are only pockets in Ireland where you can hear Irish spoken." Because this reminded him of an idea he'd been toying with, he folded his paper and set it aside. "Say something in Gaelic."

  "I'm eating."

  "Say something for me, Maggie, in the old tongue."

  She made a little sound of impatience, but obliged him. It was musical, exotic and as foreign to him as Greek.

  "What did you say?"

  "That you've a pleasing face to see of a morning." She smiled. "You see it's a language as useful for flattery as it is for cursing. Now say something to me in French."

  He did more than speak. He leaned over, touched his lips softly to hers, then murmured, "Me reveiller a cote de toi, c'est le plus beau de tons les reves. " Her heart did a long, slow swirl in her chest.

  "What does it mean?"

  'That waking beside you is more lovely than any dream."

  She lowered her eyes. "Well. It seems French is a tongue more given to pretty sounds than plain English."

  Her quick, unplanned feminine reaction both amused and allured. "I've touched you. I should have tried French before."

  "Don't be foolish." But he had touched her, deeply. She combated the uneasy weakness by attacking her meal. "What am I eating?"

  "Eggs Benedict."

  "It's good," she said with her mouth full. "A bit on the rich side, but good. What are we after doing today, Rogan?"

  "You're still blushing, Maggie."

  "I'm not." She met his eyes narrowly, in a dare. "I'd like to know what the plans are. I'm assuming this time you'll discuss them with me first instead of just tugging me along like an idiot dog."

  "I'm growing very fond of that wasp you call a tongue," he said pleasantly. "I'm probably losing my mind. And before you sting me again, I thought you'd enjoy seeing some of the city. You'd no doubt enjoy the Louvre. So I've left the morning quite clear for sight-seeing, or shopping, or whatever you'd like. Then we'll go by the gallery later this afternoon."

  The notion of strolling through the great museum pleased her. She topped off Rogan's coffee, then heated up her own cup of tea. "I'd like to wander about, I suppose. As for shopping, I'll want to find something to take back for Brie."

  "You should have something for Maggie as well."

  "Maggie doesn't need anything. Besides, I can't afford it."

  That's absurd. You've no need to deny yourself a present or two. You've earned it."

  "I've spent what I've earned." She grimaced over her cup. "Do they have the nerve to call this tea?"

  "What do you mean you've spent it?" He set down his fork. "Only a month ago I gave you a check in the six figures. You can hardly have frittered that away."

  "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