Born in Fire (7 page)

“That isn’t necessary—”

“It is,” Maggie interrupted. “That was the agreement, Brie. I’ll not stand by and watch you dance to her tune for the rest of her life. A nurse and a place in the village.”

“If that’s what she wants.”

“That’s what she’ll have.” Maggie inclined her head. “She kept you up last night.”

“She was restless.” Embarrassed, Brianna turned back to prepare the chicken. “One of her headaches.”

“Ah, yes.” Maggie remembered her mother’s headaches well, and how well timed they could be. An argument Maeve was losing: instant headache. A family outing she didn’t approve of: the throbbing began.

“I know what she is, Maggie.” Brianna’s own head began to ache. “That doesn’t make her less of my mother.”

Saint Brianna, Maggie thought again, but with affection. Her sister might be younger than her own twenty-eight by a year, but it had always been Brianna who took responsibility. “And you can’t change what you are, Brie.” Maggie gave her sister a fierce hug. “Da always said you’d be the good angel and I the bad. He was finally right about something.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Tell Mr. Sweeney to come by the cottage in the morning. I’ll speak with him.”

“You’ll let him manage you, then?”

The phrase had Maggie wincing. “I’ll speak with him,” she repeated, and headed back into the rain.

If Maggie had a weakness, it was family. That weakness had kept her up late into the night and had awakened her early in the chill, murky dawn. To the outside world she preferred to pretend she had responsibilities only to herself and her art, but beneath the facade was a constant love of family, and the dragging, often bitter obligations that went with it.

She wanted to refuse Rogan Sweeney, first on principle. Art and business, to her mind, could not and should not mix. She wanted to refuse him secondly because his type—wealthy, confident and blue-blooded—irritated her. Thirdly, and most telling, she wanted to refuse him because to do otherwise was an admission that she lacked the skill to handle her affairs alone.

Oh, that was a pill that stuck bitterly in her throat.

She would not refuse him. She’d made the decision sometime during the long and restless night to allow Rogan Sweeney to make her rich.

It wasn’t as though she couldn’t support herself, and well, too. She’d been doing just that for more than five years. Brianna’s bed and breakfast was successful enough that keeping two homes was no heavy burden. But they could not between them afford a third.

Maggie’s goal, indeed her Holy Grail, was to establish their mother in a separate residence. If Rogan could help clear the path to her quest, she’d deal with him. She’d deal with the very devil.

But the devil might come to regret the bargain.

In her kitchen with the rain falling soft and steady outside, Maggie brewed tea. And plotted.

Rogan Sweeney had to be cleverly handled, she mused. With just the right amount of artistic disdain and feminine flattery. The disdain would be no problem at all, but the other ingredient would be hard coming.

She let herself picture Brianna baking, gardening, curled up with a book by the fire—without the whining, demanding voice of their mother to spoil the peace. Brianna would marry, have children. Which Maggie knew was a dream her sister kept locked in her heart. And locked it would stay as long as Brianna had the responsibility of a chronic hypochondriac.

While Maggie couldn’t understand her sister’s need to strap herself down with a man and a half a dozen children, she would do whatever it took to help Brianna realize the dream.

It was possible, just possible, that Rogan Sweeney could play fairy godfather.

The knock on the front door of the cottage was brisk and impatient. This fairy godfather, Maggie thought as she went to answer, wouldn’t make his entrance with angel dust and colored lights.

After opening the door, she smiled a little. He was wet, as he’d been the day before, and just as elegantly dressed. She wondered if he slept in a suit and tie.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Sweeney.”

“And to you, Miss Concannon.” He stepped inside, out of the rain and the swirl of mist.

“Shall I take your coat? It’ll dry out some by the fire.”

“Thank you.” He slipped out of his overcoat, watched her spread it over a chair by the fire. She was different today, he thought. Pleasant. The change put him on guard. “Tell me, does it do anything but rain in Clare?”

“We enjoy good soft weather in the spring. Don’t worry, Mr. Sweeney. Even a Dubliner shouldn’t melt in a west-county rain.” She sent him a quick, charming smile, but her eyes were wickedly amused. “I’m brewing tea, if you’d like some.”

“I would.” Before she could turn to the kitchen, he stopped her—a hand on her arm. His attention wasn’t on her, but on the sculpture on the table beside them. It was a long, sinuous curve in a deep icy blue. The color of an arctic lake. Glass clung to glass in waves at the tip then flowed down, liquid ice.

“An interesting piece,” he commented.

“Do you think so?” Maggie blocked the urge to shake off his hand. It held her lightly, with an understated possession that made her ridiculously uncomfortable. She could smell him, the subtle woodsy cologne he’d probably dashed on after shaving, with undertones of soap from his shower. When he ran a fingertip along the length of the curved glass, she suppressed a shudder. For a moment, a foolish one, it had felt as though he’d trailed a touch from her throat to her center.

“Obviously feminine,” he murmured. Though his eyes stayed on the glass, he was very aware of her. The coiled tension in her arm, the quick tremble she’d tried to mask, the dark, wild scent of her hair. “Powerful. A woman about to surrender sexually to a man.”

It flustered her because he was exactly right. “How do you find power in surrender?”

He looked at her then, those depthless blue eyes locked on her face. His hand remained light on her arm. “Nothing’s more powerful than a woman at that instant before she gives herself.” He stroked the glass again. “Obviously you’re aware of that.”

“And the man?”

He smiled then, just the faintest curve of lips. His grip on her arm seemed more of a caress now. A request. And his eyes, amused, interested, skimmed over her face. “That, Margaret Mary, would depend on the woman.”

She didn’t move, absorbed the sexual punch, acknowledged it with a slight nod. “Well, we agree on something. Sex and power generally depend on the woman.”

“That’s not at all what I said, or meant. What draws you to create something like this?”

“It’s difficult to explain art to a man of business.”

When she would have stepped back, he curled his fingers around her arm, tightened his grip. “Try.”

Annoyance pricked through her. “What comes to me comes. There’s no plot, no plan. It has to do with emotions, with passions and not with practicality or profit. Otherwise I’d be making little glass swans for gift shops. Jesus, what a thought.”

His smile widened. “Horrifying. Fortunately I’m not interested in little glass swans. But I would like that tea.”

“We’ll have it in the kitchen.” She started to step away again, and again his grip stopped her. Temper flashed into her eyes like lightning. “You’re blocking my way, Sweeney.”

“I don’t think so. I’m about to clear it for you.” He released her and followed her silently into the kitchen.

Her cottage was a far cry from the country comfort of Blackthorn. There were no rich smells of baking wafting in the air, no plumped pillows or gleaming woodwork. It was spartan, utilitarian and untidy. Which was why, he supposed, the art carelessly set here and there was that much more effective and striking.

He wondered where she slept, and if her bed was as soft and inviting as the one he’d spent the night in. And he wondered if he would share it with her. No, not if, he corrected himself.
When.

Maggie set the teapot on the table along with two thick pottery mugs. “Did you enjoy your stay at Blackthorn Cottage?” she asked as she poured.

“I did. Your sister’s charming. And her cooking memorable.”

Maggie softened, added three generous spoons of sugar to her tea. “Brie’s a homemaker in the best sense of the word. Did she make her currant buns this morning?”

“I had two of them.”

Relaxed again, Maggie laughed and propped one booted foot on her knee. “Our father used to say Brie got all the gold and I the brass. I’m afraid you won’t get any home-baked buns here, Sweeney, but I could probably dig out a tin of biscuits.”

“No need.”

“You’d probably rather get straight to business.” Cupping the mug in both hands, Maggie leaned forward. “What if I were to tell you plain I’m not interested in your offer?”

Rogan considered, sipping his tea black and strong. “I’d have to call you a liar, Maggie.” He grinned at the fire that erupted in her eyes. “Because if you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t have agreed to see me this morning. And I certainly wouldn’t be drinking tea in your kitchen.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “We’ll agree, however, that you don’t want to be interested.”

A clever man, she mused, only slightly mollified. Clever men were dangerous ones. “I’ve no wish to be produced, or managed, or guided.”

“We rarely wish for what we need.” He watched her over the rim of his cup, calculating even as he enjoyed the way the faint flush seemed to silken her skin, deepen the green of her eyes. “Why don’t I explain myself more clearly? Your art is your domain. I have no intention of interfering in any way with what you do in your studio. You create what you’re inspired to create, when you’re inspired to create it.”

“And what if what I create isn’t to your taste?”

“I’ve shown and sold a great number of pieces I wouldn’t care to have in my home. That’s the business, Maggie. And as I won’t interfere with your art, you won’t interfere with my business.”

“I’ll have no say in who buys my work?”

“None,” he said simply. “If you have an emotional attachment to a piece, you’ll have to get over it, or keep the piece for yourself. Once it’s in my hands, it’s mine.”

Her jaw clenched. “And anyone with the money can own it.”

“Exactly.”

Maggie slapped the mug down and sprang up to pace. She used her whole body, a habit Rogan admired. Legs, arms, shoulders all in rhythmically angry movements. He topped off his tea and sat back to enjoy the show.

“I pull something out of myself, and I create it, make it solid, tangible, real, and some idiot from Kerry or Dublin or, God help me, London, comes in and buys it for his wife’s birthday without having the least understanding of what it is, what it means?”

“Do you develop personal relationships with everyone who buys your work?”

“At least I know where it’s going, who’s buying it.” Usually, she added to herself.

“I’ll have to remind you that I bought two of your pieces before we met.”

“Aye. And look where that’s got me.”

Temperament, he thought with a sigh. As long as he’d worked with artists he’d never understood it. “Maggie,” he began, trying for the most reasonable of tones. “The reason you need a manager is to eliminate these difficulties. You won’t have to worry about the sales, only the creation. And yes, if someone from Kerry or Dublin, or God help you London comes into one of my galleries and takes an interest in one of your pieces, it’s his—as long as he meets the price. No résumé, no character references required. And by the end of a year, with my help, you’ll be a rich woman.”

“Is that what you think I want?” Insulted, infuriated, she whirled on him. “Do you think, Rogan Sweeney, that I pick up my pipe every day calculating how much profit there might be at the end of it?”

“No, I don’t. That’s precisely where I come in. You’re an exceptional artist, Maggie. And at the risk of inflating what appears to be an already titanic ego, I’ll admit that I was captivated the first time I saw your work.”

“Perhaps you have decent taste,” she said with a cranky shrug.

“So I’ve been told. My point is that your work deserves more than you’re giving it. You deserve more than you’re giving yourself.”

She leaned back on the counter, eyeing him narrowly. “And you’re going to help me get more out of the goodness of your heart.”

“My heart has nothing to do with it. I’m going to help you because your work will add to the prestige of my galleries.”

“And to your pocketbook.”

“One day you’ll have to explain to me the root of your disdain for money. In the meantime, your tea’s getting cold.”

Maggie let out a long breath. She wasn’t doing a good job of flattering him, she reminded herself, and returned to the table. “Rogan.” She let herself smile. “I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. Your galleries have a reputation for quality and integrity, which I’m sure is a reflection of yourself.”

She was good, he mused, and ran his tongue over his teeth. Very good. “I like to think so.”

“Doubtless any artist would be thrilled to be considered by you. But I’m accustomed to dealing for myself, for handling all the aspects of my work from making the glass to selling the finished piece—or at least placing it into the hands of someone I know and trust to sell it. I don’t know you.”

“Or trust me?”

She lifted a hand, let it fall. “I would be a fool not to trust Worldwide Galleries. But it’s difficult for me to imagine a business of that size. I’m a simple woman.”

He laughed so quickly, so richly, that she blinked. Before she could recover, he was leaning forward, taking one of her hands in his. “Oh, no, Margaret Mary, simple is exactly what you are not. Canny, obstinate, brilliant, bad-tempered and beautiful you are. But simple, never.”

“I say I am.” She yanked her hand free and struggled not to be charmed. “And I know myself better than you do or ever will.”

“Every time you finish a sculpture you’re shouting out this is who I am. At least for today. That’s what makes art true.”

She couldn’t argue with him. It was an observation she hadn’t expected from a man of his background. Making money from art didn’t mean you understood it. Apparently, he did.

“I’m a simple woman,” she said again, daring him to contradict her a second time. “And I prefer to stay that way. If I agree to your management, there will be rules. Mine.”