Born in Fire (13 page)

I
T
was impossible not to be impressed by Worldwide Gallery, Dublin. The architecture alone was worth a visit to the place. Indeed, photographs of the building had appeared in dozens of magazines and art books around the world as a shining example of the Georgian style that was part of Dublin’s architectural legacy.

Though Maggie had seen it reproduced in glossy pages, the sight of it, the sheer grandeur of it in three dimensions, took her breath away.

She’d spent hours of her free time during her apprenticeship in Venice haunting galleries. But nothing compared in splendor with Rogan’s.

Yet she made no comment at all while he unlocked the imposing-looking front doors and gestured her inside.

She had to resist the urge to genuflect, such was the churchlike quiet, the play of light, the scented air in the main room. The Native American display was beautifully and carefully mounted—the pottery bowls, the gorgeous baskets, the ritual masks, shaman rattles and beadwork. On the walls were drawings at once primitive and sophisticated. Maggie’s attention and her admiration focused on a buckskin dress the color of cream, adorned with beads and smooth, bright stones. Rogan had ordered it hung like a tapestry. Maggie’s fingers itched to touch.

“Impressive” was all she said.

“I’m delighted you approve.”

“I’ve never seen American Indian work outside of books and such.” She leaned over a water vessel.

“That’s precisely why I wanted to bring the display to Ireland. We too often focus on European history and culture and forget there’s more to the world.”

“Hard to believe people who could create this would be the savages we see in those old John Wayne movies. Then again”—she smiled as she straightened—“my ancestors were savage enough, stripping naked and painting themselves blue before they screamed into battle. I come from that.” She tilted her head to study him, the perfectly polished businessman. “We both do.”

“One could say that such tendencies become more diluted in some than in others over the centuries. I haven’t had the urge to paint myself blue in years.”

She laughed, but he was already checking his watch again.

“We’re using the second floor for your work.” He started toward the stairs.

“For any particular reason?”

“For several particular reasons.” Impatience shimmering like a wave of heat around him, he paused until she joined him on the staircase. “I prefer a show like this to have some sense of a social occasion. People tend to appreciate art, at least feel it’s more accessible, if they’re relaxed and enjoying themselves.” He stopped at the top of the steps, lifting a brow at her expression. “You’ve a problem with that?”

“I’d like people to take my work seriously, not think of it as a party favor.”

“I assure you, they’ll take it seriously.” Particularly with the prices he’d decided to demand for it, the strategy he intended to employ. “And the marketing of your work is, after all, my province.” He turned, sliding open double pocket doors, then stepped back so that Maggie could enter first.

She quite simply lost her voice. The wonderfully enormous room was flooded with light from the domed central skylight above. It poured down over the dark, polished floor and tossed back stunning reflections, almost mirrorlike, of the work Rogan had chosen to display.

In all of her dreams, in her wildest and most secret hopes, she’d never imagined that her work would be showcased so sensitively, or so grandly.

Thick-based pedestals of creamy white marble stood around the room, lifting the glass to eye level. Rogan had chosen only twelve pieces to grace the lofty space. A canny move, she realized, as it made each piece seem all the more unique. And there, in the center of the room, glistening like ice heated by a core of fire, was Maggie’s
Surrender
.

There was a dull ache in her heart as she studied the sculpture. Someone would buy it, she knew. Within days someone would pay the price Rogan was asking and steal it completely and finally from her life.

The price of wanting more, she thought, seemed to be the loss of what you already had. Or perhaps of what you were.

When she said nothing, only walked through the room with her boots echoing, Rogan stuck his hands in his pockets. “The smaller pieces are displayed in what we call the upper sitting rooms. It’s a more intimate space.” He paused, waiting for some response, then hissed through his teeth when he received none. Damn the woman, he thought. What did she want? “We’ll have an orchestra at the show. Strings. And champagne and canapes, of course.”

“Of course,” Maggie managed. She kept her back to him, wondering why she should stand in such a magnificent room and want to weep.

“I’ll ask you to attend, at least for a short time. You needn’t do or say anything that would compromise your artistic integrity.”

Her heart was beating much too loudly for her to catch his tone of annoyance. “It looks…” She couldn’t think of a word. Simply couldn’t. “Fine,” she said lamely. “It all looks fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes.” She turned back, sober-eyed and, for the first time in recent memory, terrified. “You have a nice aesthetic sense.”

“A nice aesthetic sense,” he repeated, amazed at her tepid response. “Well, Margaret Mary, I’m so gratified. It’s only taken three incredibly difficult weeks and the combined efforts of more than a dozen highly qualified people to make everything look ‘fine.’”

She ran an unsteady hand through her hair. Couldn’t he see she was speechless, that she was completely out of her realm and scared as a rabbit faced by a hound? “What do you want me to say? I’ve done my job and given you the art. You’ve done yours and utilized it. We’re both to be congratulated, Rogan. Now perhaps I should look about in your more intimate rooms.”

He stepped forward, blocking her path as she started for the doorway. The fury that rose up in him was so molten, so intense, he was surprised it didn’t melt her glass into puddles of shine and color.

“You ungrateful peasant.”

“A peasant, am I?” Emotions swirled inside her, contradictory and frightening. “You’re right enough on that, Sweeney. And if I’m ungrateful because I don’t fall at your feet and kiss your boots, then it’s ungrateful I’ll stay. I don’t want or expect any more from you than what it said in your cursed contracts with your bloody exclusive clauses, and you’ll get no more from me.”

She could feel the hot tears boiling up, ready to erupt. She was certain that if she didn’t get out of the room quickly, her lungs would quite simply collapse from the strain. In her desperation to escape, she shoved at him.

“I’ll tell you what I expect.” He snagged her shoulder, whirled her around. “And what I’ll have.”

“I beg your pardon,” Joseph said from the doorway. “I seem to be interrupting.”

He couldn’t have been more amused, or more fascinated, as he watched his coolheaded boss spit fire and rage at the small, dangerous-eyed woman whose fists had already raised as if for a bout.

“Not at all.” Using every ounce of willpower, Rogan released Maggie’s arm and stepped back. In the wink of an eye, he had gone from fury to calmness. “Miss Concannon and I were just discussing the terms of our contract. Maggie Concannon, Joseph Donahoe, the curator of this gallery.”

“A pleasure.” All charm, Joseph stepped forward to take Maggie’s hand. Though it trembled a bit, he kissed it lavishly, dashingly, and set his gold tooth flashing with a grin. “A pure pleasure, Miss Concannon, to meet the person behind the genius.”

“And a pleasure for me, Mr. Donahoe, to meet a man so sensitive to art, and to the artist.”

“I’ll be leaving Maggie in your capable hands, Joseph. I have appointments.”

“You’ll be doing me an honor, Rogan.” Joseph’s eyes twinkled as he kept Maggie’s hand lightly in his.

The gesture wasn’t lost on Rogan, nor was the fact that Maggie made no move to break the contact. She was, in fact, smiling up at Joseph flirtatiously.

“You’ve only to tell Joseph when you require the car,” Rogan said stiffly. “The driver’s at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Rogan,” she said without looking at him. “But I’m sure Joseph can keep me entertained for some time.”

“There’s no way I’d rather spend the day,” Joseph quickly put in. “Have you seen the sitting rooms, Miss Concannon?”

“I haven’t, no. You’ll call me Maggie, I hope.”

“I will.” His hand still linked with hers, Joseph drew her through the doorway. “I believe you’ll appreciate what we’ve done here. With the showing only days away, we want to be certain you’re happy. Any suggestions you have will be most welcomed.”

“That’ll be a change.” Maggie paused, glanced over her shoulder to where Rogan remained standing. “Don’t let us keep you from your business, Rogan. I’m sure it’s pressing.” With a toss of her head, she beamed at Joseph. “I know a Francis Donahoe, from near Ennis. A merchant he is, with the same look around the eyes as you. Would you be related?”

“I’ve cousins in Clare, on my father’s side, and my mother’s. They’d be Ryans.”

“I know scores of Ryans. Oh.” She stopped, sighed as she stepped through an archway into a tidy little room complete with fireplace and love seat. Several of her smaller pieces, including the one Rogan had bought at their first meeting, graced the antique tables.

“An elegant setting, I think.” Joseph moved inside to switch on the recessed lighting. The glass jumped into life under the beams, seemed to pulse. “The ballroom makes a breathless statement. This, a delicate one.”

“Yes.” She sighed again. “Do you mind if I sit a moment, Joseph? For the truth is I have lost my breath.” She settled on the love seat and closed her eyes. “Once when I was a child, my father bought a billy goat, with some idea of breeding. I was in the field with it one morning, paying it no mind, and it got its dander up. Butted me hard, he did, and sent me flying. I felt just that way when I stepped into that other room. As if something had butted me hard and sent me flying.”

“Nervous, are you?”

She opened her eyes and saw the understanding in Joseph’s. “I’m frightened to death. And damned if I’ll let himself know it. He’s so damned cocksure, isn’t he?”

“He’s confident, our Rogan. And with reason enough. He’s got an uncanny sense for buying the right piece, or patronizing the right artist.” A curious man, and one who enjoyed a good gossip, Joseph made himself comfortable beside her. He stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankle in a posture inviting relaxation and confidence. “I noticed the two of you were butting heads, so to speak, when I interrupted.”

“We don’t seem to have a lot of common ground.” Maggie smiled a little. “He’s pushy, our Rogan.”

“True enough, but usually in such a subtle way one doesn’t know one’s been pushed.”

Maggie hissed through her teeth, “He hasn’t been subtle with me.”

“I noticed. Interesting. You know, Maggie, I don’t think I’d be giving away any corporate secrets if I told you Rogan was determined to sign you with Worldwide. I’ve worked for him for more than ten years, and never recall seeing him more focused on a single artist.”

“And I should be flattered.” She sighed and closed her eyes again. “I am, most of the time, when I’m not busy being infuriated with his bossy ways. Always prince to peasant.”

“He’s used to having things his way.”

“Well, he won’t be having me his way.” She opened her eyes and rose. “Will you show me the rest of the gallery?”

“I’d be happy to. And perhaps you’ll tell me the story of your life.”

Maggie cocked her head and studied him. A mischief maker, she thought, with his dreamy eyes and piratical demeaner. She’d always enjoyed a mischief-making friend. “All right, then,” she said, and linked her arm through his as they strolled through the next archway. “There once was a farmer who wanted to be a poet….”

There were just too damn many people in Dublin for Maggie’s taste. You could hardly take a step without bumping into someone. It was a pretty city, she couldn’t deny it, with its lovely bay and spearing steeples. She could admire the magnificence of its architecture, all the red brick and gray stone, the charm of its colorful storefronts.

She was told by her driver, Brian Duggin, that the early Dubliners had a sense of order and beauty as keen as their sense of profit. And so, she thought, the city suited Rogan even as he suited it.

She settled back in the quiet car to admire the dazzling front gardens and copper cupolas, the shady greens and the busy River Liffey, which split the city in two.

She felt her pulse quicken to the pace around her, respond to the crowds and the hurry. But the bustle excited her only briefly before it exhausted. The sheer number of people on O’Connell Street, where everyone seemed to be in a desperate rush to get somewhere else, made her yearn for the lazy, quiet roads of the west.

Still, she found the view from O’Connell Bridge spectacular, the ships moored at the quays, the majestic dome of the Four Courts glinting in the sun. Her driver seemed happy enough to obey her request simply to cruise, or to pull over and wait while she walked through parks and squares.

She stopped on Grafton Street among the smart shops and bought a pin for Brianna, a simple silver crescent with a curve of garnets. It would, Maggie thought as she tucked the box in her purse, suit her sister’s traditional taste.

For herself, she mooned briefly over a pair of earrings, long twists of gold and silver and copper, accented top and bottom with fire opals. She had no business spending good money on such frivolous baubles. No business at all, she reminded herself, when she had no real guarantee when she might sell another piece.

So, of course, she bought the earrings, and sent her budget to the devil.

To round off her day, she visited museums, wandered along the river and had tea in a tiny shop off FitzWilliam Square. She spent her last hour watching the sunlight and reflections from Half Penny Bridge and sketching in a pad she’d picked up in an art store.

It was after seven when she returned to Rogan’s house. He came out of the front parlor and stopped her before she’d reached the stairs.

“I’d begun to wonder if you’d had Duggin drive you all the way back to Clare.”