Born in Fire

  linger over dressing."

  "I suppose." A ghost of a smile played around Maggie's mouth. "It makes me sound like a frivolous fool, but it's better than the alternative."

  "Leave Rogan to me."

  "There's just one other thing." She'd been putting this off, Maggie admitted. She might as well face it now when she was feeling as low as she imagined she could possibly feel. "Do you think you might be able to find those clippings you spoke of? The ones about my mother?"

  "I think I could. I should have thought of it myself. Of course, you'd like to read them."

  "I would, yes. I'd be grateful."

  "I'll see that you get them. Now go fix your face. I'll scoot Rogan along." She sent Maggie a bolstering smile before closing the door.

  When Christine found him, Rogan was still furiously pacing in the foyer. "Where the devil is she?" he demanded the moment he spotted his grandmother. "She's been primping up there for two hours."

  "Well, of course she has." Christine gestured grandly. The impression she makes tonight is vital, isn't it?"

  "It's important, naturally." If she made the wrong one, his dreams would slide down the drain along with Maggie's. He needed her here, now, and ready to dazzle. "But why should it take her so long? She's only to put on her clothes and fuss with her hair."

  "You've been a single man too long, my darling, if you truly believe such nonsense." Affectionately,

  Christine reached out to straighten his already perfect tie. "How handsome you look in a tuxedo."

  "Grandmother, you're stalling."

  "No, not at all." Beaming at him, she brushed at his spotless lapels. "I've just come down to tell you to go along without us. We'll follow when Maggie's ready."

  "She should be ready now."

  "But she's not. Besides, how much more effective might it be if she arrived just late enough to make an entrance? You appreciate the theater of these events, Rogan."

  There was truth in that. "All right then." He checked his watch, swore lightly. If he didn't go within the minute he'd most certainly be late. It was his responsibility to be there, he reminded himself, to see to any last minute details, no matter how much he wanted to wait and take Maggie to the gallery himself. "I'll leave her in your more than capable hands. I'll have the car come back for you as soon as I've been dropped off. See that she's there within the hour, won't you?"

  "You can count on me, darling."

  "I always do." He kissed her on the cheek, stepped back.

  "By the way, Mrs. Sweeney, I haven't mentioned how beautiful you look."

  "No, you haven't. I was quite deflated."

  "You will be, as always, the most stunning woman in the room."

  "Well said. Now, run along with you and leave Maggie to me."

  "With pleasure." He shot one look up the stairs as he headed for the door. It was not a gentle look.

  "I wish you good luck with her."

  As the door closed Christine let out a sigh. She thought she might need all the luck she could get.

  Chapter Nine

  NO detail had been overlooked. The lighting was perfect, leaping and bounding off the curves and swirls of glass. The music, a waltz now, flowed as softly as happy tears through the room. Fizzing glasses of champagne crowded the silver trays carried gracefully by liveried waiters. The sound of clinking crystal and murmuring voices set up a gracious counterpoint to the weeping violins. It was, in a word, perfect, not a detail missing. Except, Rogan thought grimly, the artist herself.

  "It's wonderful, Rogan." Patricia stood beside him, elegant in a narrow white gown shivering with bugle beads. "You have a smashing success."

  He turned to her, smiling. "So it would seem."

  His eyes lingered on hers long enough, intensely enough, to make her uneasy.

  "What is it? Have I smudged my nose?"

  "No." He lifted his own glass quickly, cursing Maggie for putting ridiculous thoughts in his head and making him wary of one of his oldest friends. In love with him? Absurd.

  "I'm sorry. I suppose my mind was wandering. I can't imagine what's keeping Maggie"

  "I'm sure she'll be along any moment." Patricia laid a hand on his arm. "And in the meantime, everyone's being dazzled by our combined efforts."

  "It's a lucky thing. She's always late," he added under his breath. "No more than a child's sense of time."

  "Rogan, dear, there you are. I see my Patricia found you."

  "Good evening, Mrs. Connelly." Rogan took Patricia's mother's delicate hand in his own. "I'm delighted to see you. No gallery showing can be a success without your presence."

  "Flatterer." Pleased, she swept up her mink stole. Anne Connelly held on as tightly to her beauty as she did to her vanity. She considered it as much a woman's duty to preserve her looks as it was to make a home and bear children. Ann never, never neglected her duties, and as a result, she had the dewy skin and the youthful figure of a girl. She fought a constant battle with the years and had, for half a century, emerged the victor.

  "And your husband?" Rogan continued. "Did Dennis come with you?"

  "Naturally, though he's already off somewhere puffing on one of his cigars and discussing finance."

  She smiled when Rogan signaled for a waiter and offered her a glass of champagne.

  "Even his fondness for you doesn't change his apathy toward art. This is fascinating work." She gestured to the sculpture beside them, an explosion of color, mushrooming up from a twisted base. "Gorgeous and disturbing all at once. Patricia tells me she met the artist briefly yesterday. I'm dying to do so myself."

  "She's yet to arrive," Rogan covered his own impatience smoothly. "You'll find Miss Concannon as contradictory and as interesting, I think, as her work."

  "And I'm sure as fascinating. We haven't seen nearly enough of you lately, Rogan. I've badgered Patricia unmercifully about bringing you by." She shot her daughter a veiled look that spoke volumes. Get a move on, girl, it said. Don't let him slip away from you.

  "I'm afraid I've been so obsessed with getting this show together quickly that I've neglected my friends."

  "You're forgiven, as long as we can expect you to dine with us one evening next week."

  "I'd love to." Rogan caught Joseph's eye. "Excuse me just a moment, won't you?"

  "Must you be so obvious. Mother?" Patricia murmured into her wine as Rogan slipped through the crowd.

  "Someone has to be. Merciful heavens, girl, he treats you like a sister." Beaming a smile across the room at an acquaintance, Anne continued to speak in undertones. "A man doesn't marry a woman he thinks of as his sister, and it's time you were wed again. You couldn't ask for a better match. Keep loitering around, and someone else will scoop him up from under your nose. Now smile, will you? Must you always look as though you're in mourning?"

  Dutifully, Patricia forced her lips to curve.

  "Did you reach them?" Rogan demanded the moment he'd cornered Joseph.

  "On the car phone." Joseph's gaze skimmed the room, brushed over Patricia, lingered, then moved on. "They'll be here any moment."

  "More than an hour late. Typical."

  "Be that as it may, you'll be pleased to know that we have sales on ten pieces already, and at least that many offers on Surrender."

  That piece is not for sale." Rogan studied the flamboyant sculpture that stood in the center of the room. "We'll tour it first, in our galleries in Rome, Paris and New York, but along with the other pieces we've chosen it is not to be sold."

  "It's your decision," Joseph said easily enough.

  "But I should tell you that General Fitzsimmons offered us twenty-five thousand pounds for it."

  "Did he? Make sure that gets around, won't you?"

  "Count on it In the meantime I've been entertaining some of the art critics. I think you should ..."

  Joseph trailed off when he saw Rogan's eyes darken as he looked intently at something over his shoulder. Joseph turned, saw the object of his boss's gaze and let out a low whistle.
/>   "She may be late, but she's certainly a showstopper."

  Joseph looked back at Patricia and saw from the expression on her face that she, too, had noted Rogan's reaction. His heart bled a little for the woman. He knew from personal experience how miserable it was to love someone who thought of you as only a friend.

  "Shall I go take her around?" Joseph asked.

  "What? No—no. I'll do it myself."

  Rogan had never imagined Maggie could look like that—sleek and stunning and sensual as sin. She'd chosen black, unrelieved and unadorned. The dress took all its style from the body it covered. It draped from throat to ankle, but no one would call it prim, not with the glossy black buttons that swirled the length of it, the buttons that she'd left daringly unfastened to the swell of her breast, and up to the top of one slim thigh. Her hair was a tousled crown of fire, carelessly curled around her face. As he drew closer he saw that her eyes were already scanning, assessing and absorbing everything in the room.

  She looked fearless, defiant and completely in control. And so she was . . . now. The bout of nerves had served to embarrass her so much that she'd beaten them back with nothing more than sheer willfulness. She was here. And she meant to succeed.

  "You're impossibly late." The complaint was a last line of defense, delivered in a mutter as he took her

  hand and raised it to his lips. Their eyes met. "And incredibly beautiful."

  "You approve of the dress?"

  That's not the word I would have chosen, but yes, I do."

  She smiled then. "You were afraid I'd wear boots and torn jeans."

  "Not with my grandmother standing guard."

  "She's the most wonderful woman in the world. You're lucky to have her."

  The emotional force of the statement more than the words caused Rogan to study her curiously.

  "I'm aware of that."

  "You can't be. Not really, for you've never known any different." She took a deep breath. "Well." There were eyes on her already, dozens of them, bright with curiosity. "It's into the lions' den, isn't it? You needn't worry," she said before he could speak. "I'll behave. My future depends on it."

  This is only the beginning, Margaret Mary."

  As he drew her into the room with its whirl of light and color, she was very much afraid he was right. But behave she did. The evening seemed to go well as she shook hands, accepted compliments, answered questions. The first hour seemed to float by like a dream, what with the sparkle of wine, the glitter of glass and the flash of jewels. Drifting through it was easy, as Maggie felt slightly removed from the reality, somewhat disconnected, as much audience as actor in a sumptuously produced play.

  "This, ah this." A bald man with a drooping mustache and a fussy British accent expounded on a piece. It was a series of glowing blue spears trapped within a sheer glass globe. "Imprisoned, you call it. Your creativity, your sexuality, fighting to set itself free. Man's eternal struggle, after all. It's triumphant, even as it's melancholy."

  "It's the six counties," Maggie said simply.

  The bald man blinked. "I beg your pardon."

  "The six counties of Ireland," she repeated with a wicked rebel gleam in her eyes. "Imprisoned."

  "I see."

  Standing beside this would-be critic, Joseph muffled a laugh. "I found the use of color here so striking, Lord Whitfield. The translucence of it creates an unresolved tension between its delicacy and its boldness."

  'Just so." Lord Whitfield nodded, cleared his throat. "Quite extraordinary. Excuse me."

  Maggie watched him retreat with a broad smile.

  "Well, I don't think he'll be after buying it and setting it in his den, do you, Joseph?"

  "You're a wicked woman, Maggie Concannon."

  "I'm an Irishwoman, Joseph." She winked at him. "Up the rebels."

  He laughed delightedly and, slipping an arm around her waist, led her around the room. "Ah, Mrs. Connelly." Joseph gave Maggie a subtle squeeze to signal her. "Looking stunning as always."

  "Joseph, always a smooth word. And this—" Anne Connelly shifted her attention from Joseph, whom she considered a mere factotum to Maggie. "This is the creative drive. I'm thrilled to meet you, my dear.

  I'm Mrs. Dennis Connelly—Anne. I believe you met my daughter, Patricia, yesterday."

  "I did, yes." Maggie found Anne's handclasp as delicate and soft as a brush of satin.

  "She must be off with Rogan somewhere. They're a lovely couple, aren't they?"

  "Very." Maggie lifted a brow. She knew a warning when she heard one.

  "Do you live in Dublin, Mrs. Connelly?"

  "I do indeed. Only a few houses away from the Sweeney mansion. My family has been a part of Dublin society for generations. And you're from the west counties?"

  "Clare, yes."

  "Lovely scenery. All those charming quaint villages and thatched roofs. Your family are farmers, I'm told?" Anne lifted a brow, obviously amused.

  "Were."

  "This must be so exciting for you, particularly with your rural upbringing. I'm sure you've enjoyed your visit to Dublin. You'll be going back soon?"

  "Very soon, I think."

  "I'm sure you miss the country. Dublin can be very confusing to one unused to city life. Almost like a foreign land."

  "At least I understand the language," Maggie said equably. "I hope you'll enjoy your evening, Mrs. Connelly. Excuse me, won't you?" And if Rogan thought he would sell that woman anything that Maggie Concannon created, Maggie thought as she walked away, he'd hang for it. Exclusive rights be damned. She'd smash every last piece into dust before she saw any in Anne Connelly's hands. Talking to her as though she were some slack-jawed milkmaid with straw in her hair. She held her temper back as she made her way out of the ballroom and toward one of the sitting rooms. Each was crowded with people, talking, sitting, laughing, discussing her. Her head began to throb as she marched down the stairs. She'd get herself a beer out of the kitchen, she decided, and have a few minutes of peace. She strode straight in, only to come up short when she saw a portly man puffing on a cigar and nursing a pilsner.

  "Caught," he said, and grinned sheepishly.

  That makes two of us then. I was coming down for a quiet beer myself."

  "Let me fetch you one." Gallantly, he heaved his bulk out of the chair and pulled a bottle out for her.

  "You don't want me to put out the cigar, do you?"

  The plea in his voice made her laugh. "Not at all. My father used to smoke the world's worst pipe.

  Stunk to high heaven. I loved it."

  'There's a lass." He found her a beer and a glass. "I hate these things." He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. "M'wife drags me."

  "I hate them, too."

  "Pretty enough work, I suppose," he said as she drank. "Like the colors and shapes. Not that I know a damn thing about it. Wife's the expert. But I liked the look of it, and that should be enough, I'd say."

  "And I"

  "Everyone's always trying to explain it at these blasted affairs. What the artist had in mind and such. Symbolism." He rolled his tongue over the word as if it were a strange dish he wasn't quite ready to sample. "Don't know what the devil they're talking about."

  Maggie decided the man was half-potted and that she loved him. "Neither do they."

  "That's it!" He raised his glass and drank deeply. "Neither do they. Just blustering. But if I was to say that to Anne—that's my wife—she'd give me one of those looks."

  He narrowed his eyes, lowered his brows and scowled. Maggie hooted with laughter.

  "Who cares what they think anyway?" Maggie propped her elbow on the table and held a fist to her chin. "It's not as if anyone's life depended on it." Except mine, she thought, and pushed the idea away. "Don't you think affairs like this are just an excuse for people to get all dressed up and act important?"

  "I do absolutely." So complete was his agreement that he rapped his glass sharply to hers. "As for me,

  do you know what I wanted to be doing toni
ght?"

  "What?"

  "Sitting in my chair, with my feet on the hassock and Irish in my glass, watching the television."

  He sighed, regretfully. "But I couldn't disappoint Anne—or Rogan, for that matter."

  "You know Rogan, then?"

  "Like my own son. A fine man he's turned out to be. He wasn't yet twenty when I saw him first. His father and I had business together, and the boy couldn't wait to be part of it." He gestured vaguely to encompass the gallery. "Smart as a whip, he is."

  "And what business are you in?"

  "Banking."

  "Excuse me." A female voice interrupted them. They looked up to see Patricia standing in the doorway, her hands folded neatly.

  "Ah, there's my love."

  While Maggie looked on, goggle-eyed, the man lunged out of his chair and enfolded Patricia in a hug that could have felled a mule. Patricia's reaction, rather than stiff rejection or cool disgust, was a quick, musical laugh.

  "Daddy, you'll break me in half."

  Daddy? Maggie thought. Daddy? Patricia Henessy's father? Anne's husband? This delightful man was married to that—that icy stick of a woman? It only went to prove, she decided, that the words till death do us part were the most foolish syllables human beings were ever forced to utter.

  "Meet my little girl." With obvious pride, Dennis whirled Patricia around. "A beauty, isn't she? My Patricia."

  "Yes, indeed." Maggie rose, grinning. "It's nice to see you again."

  "And you. Congratulations on the wonderful success of your show."

  "Your show?" Dennis said blankly.

  "We never introduced ourselves." Laughing now, Maggie stepped forward and offered Dennis her hand.

  "I'm Maggie Concannon, Mr. Connelly."

  "Oh." He said nothing for a moment as he racked his brain trying to recall if he'd said anything insulting. "A pleasure," he managed to say as his brain stalled.

  "It was, truly. Thank you for the best ten minutes I've had since I walked in the door."

  Dennis smiled. This woman seemed downright human, for an artist. "I do like the colors, and the shapes," he offered hopefully.