Born in Fire, Page 5

  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. Td have to call you a liar, Maggie." He grinned at the Are 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 pour 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 resume, 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 obse
rvation 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."

  He had her, and he knew it. But a wise negotiator was never a smug one. "What are they?" he asked.

  "I'll do no publicity, unless it suits me. And I can promise you it won't."

  "It'll add to the mystery, won't it?"

  She very nearly grinned before she recovered. "I'll not be after dressing up like some fashion plate for showings—if I come at all."

  This time he tucked his tongue firmly in his cheek. Tin sure your sense of style will reflect your artistic nature."

  It might have been an insult, but she couldn't be sure. "And I won't be nice to people if I don't want to be."

  Temperament, again artistic." He toasted her with his tea. "Should add to sales." ' Though she was amused, she sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "I will never, never duplicate a piece or create something out of someone else's fancy."

  He frowned, shook his head. That may be a deal breaker. I had this idea for a unicorn, with a touch of gold leaf on the horn and hooves. Very tasteful." She snickered, then gave up and laughed out loud. "All right, Rogan. Maybe by some miracle we'll be able to work together. How do we do it?"

  "I'll have contracts drawn up. Worldwide will want exclusive rights to your work." She winced at that. It felt as though she were surrendering a part of herself. Perhaps the best part. "Exclusive rights to the pieces I choose to sell."

  "Of course."

  She looked past him, out the window toward the fields beyond. Once, long ago, they, like her art, had

  felt like part of her. Now they were just part of a lovely view. "What else?"

  He hesitated. She looked almost unbearably sad. "It won't change what you do. It won't change who you are."

  "You're wrong," she murmured. With an effort, she shook off the mood and faced him again. "Go on. What else?"

  "I'll want a show, within two months, at the Dublin gallery. Naturally, I'll need to see what you have finished, and I'll arrange for shipping. I'll also need you to keep me apprised of what you've completed over the next few weeks. We'll price the pieces, and whatever inventory is left after the show will be displayed in Dublin and our other galleries."

  She took a long, calming breath. I'd appreciate it, if you'd not refer to my work as inventory. At least in my presence."

  "Done." He steepled his fingers. "You will, of course, be sent a complete itemization of pieces sold. You may, if you choose, have some input as to which ones we photograph for our catalog. Or you can leave it up to us."

  "And how and when am I paid?" she wanted to know.

  "I can buy the pieces outright. I have no objection to that since I have confidence in your work,"

  She remembered what he'd said before, about getting twice as much as what he'd paid her for the sculpture she'd just finished. She might not have been a businesswoman, but she wasn't a fool.

  "How else do you handle it?"

  "By commission. We take the piece, and when and if we sell it, we deduct a percentage."

  More of a gamble, she mused. And she preferred a gamble. "What percentage do you take?"

  Hoping for a reaction, he kept his eyes level with hers. Thirty-five percent."

  She made a strangled sound in her throat. Thirty-five? Thirty-five? You thief. You robber." She shoved back from the table and stood. "You're a vulture, Rogan Sweeney. Thirty-five percent be damned and you with it"

  I take all the risks, I have all the expenses." He spread his hands, steepled them again. "You have merely to create."

  "Oh, as if all it takes is sitting on me ass and waiting lor the inspiration to come fluttering down like raindrops. You know nothing, nothing about it." She began to pace again, swirling the air with temper and energy. "I'll remind you, you'd have nothing to sell without me. And it's my work, my sweat and blood that they'll spend good money for. You'll get fifteen percent"

  "I'll get thirty."

  "Plague take you, Rogan, for a horse thief. Twenty."

  Twenty-five." He rose then to stand toe to toe with her. "Worldwide will earn a quarter of your sweat and Mood, Maggie, I promise you."

  " A quarter." She hissed through her teeth. That's a businessman for you, preying on art."

  "And making the artist financially secure. Think of It, Maggie. Your work will be seen in New York, in Rome and Paris. And no one who sees it will forget it"

  "Oh, it's clever you are, Rogan, taking a quick turn from money into fame." She scowled at him then

  stuck out her hand. The hell with it and you, you'll have your twenty-five percent"

  Which was exactly what he'd planned on. He look her hand, held it. "We're going to do well together, Maggie."

  Well enough, she hoped, to settle her mother in the village and away from Blackthorn Cottage. "If we don't, Rogan, I'll see that you pay for it."

  Because he'd enjoyed the taste of her, he lifted her hand to his lips. "I'll risk it."

  His lips lingered there long enough to make her pulse stutter. "If you were going to try to seduce me, you'd have been smarter to start before we had a deal."

  The statement both surprised and annoyed him. "I prefer to keep personal and professional matters separate."

  "Another difference between us." It pleased her to see she'd scratched the seamlessty polite exterior. "My personal and professional lives are always fusing. And I indulge both when the whim strikes." Smiling, she slipped her hand from his. "It hasn't as yet— personally speaking. I'll let you know if and when it does."

  "Are you baiting me, Maggie?"

  She stopped as if thinking it through. "No, I'm explaining to you. Now I'll take you to the glass house so you can choose what you want shipped to Dublin." She turned to pull a jacket from a peg by the back door. "You might want your coat. It'd be a shame to get that fancy suit wet." He stared at her a moment, wondering why he should feel so completely insulted. Without a word he turned on his heel and strode back into the living room for his coat.

  Maggie took the opportunity to step outside and cool her blood in the chilly rain. Ridiculous, she told herself, to get so sexually tied up over having her hand kissed. Rogan Sweeney was smooth, too smooth. It was a fortunate thing he lived on die other side of the country. More fortunate yet, he wasn't her type.

  Not at all.

  Chapter Five

  THE high grass beside the ruined abbey made a lovely resting place for the dead. Maggie had fought to have her father buried there, rather than in the tidy and cold ground near the village church. She had wanted the peace, and the touch of royalty for her father. For once, Brianna had argued with her until their mother had sullenly closed her mouth and washed her hands of the arrangements.

  Maggie visited there only twice a year, once on her father's birthday and once on her own. To thank him for the gift of her life. She never came on the anniversary of his death, nor did she allow herself to mourn in private. Nor did she mourn him now, but sat down on the grass beside him, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The sun fought through layers of clouds to gild the graves and the wind was fresh, smelling of wildflowers. She hadn't brought flowers with her, never did. Brianna had planted a bed right over him, so that as spring warmed the earth, his grave sprang with color and beauty.

  Tender buds were just forming on the primroses. The fairy heads of columbine nodded gently among the tender shoots of larkspur and betony. She watched a magpie dart over headstones and sway toward a field. One for sorrow, she thought, and searched the sky fruitlessly for the second that would stand for joy. Butterflies fluttered nearby, flashing thin, silent wings. She watched them for a time, taking comfort in the color and the movement. There had been no place to bury him near the sea, but this, she thought, this place would have pleased him. Maggie
leaned back comfortably on the side of her father's headstone and closed her eyes. I wish you were still here, she thought, so I could tell you what I'm doing. Not that I'd listen to any of your advice, mind. But it would be good to hear it. If Rogan Sweeney's a man of his word—and I can't see how he'd be anything else—I'll be a rich woman. How you'd enjoy that. There'd be enough for you to open your own pub like you always wanted. Oh, what a poor farmer you were, darling. But the best of fathers. The very best. She was doing her best to keep her promise to him, she thought. To take care of her mother and her sister, and to follow her dream.

  "Maggie."

  She opened her eyes and looked up at Brianna. Tidy as a pin, she thought, studying her sister. Her lovely hair all scooped up, her clothes neatly pressed. "You look like a school teacher," Maggie said, and laughed at Brianna's expression. "A lovely one."

  "You look like a ragpicker," Brianna retorted, scowling at Maggie's choice of ripped jeans and a tattered sweater. "A lovely one."

  Brianna knelt beside her sister and folded her hands. Not to pray, just for neatness' sake. They sat in silence for a moment while the wind breathed through the grass and floated through the tumbled stones.

  "A lovely day for grave sitting," Maggie commented. He'd have been seventy-one today, she thought "His flowers are blooming nicely."

  "Needs some weeding." And Brianna began to do so. "I found the money on the kitchen counter this morning, Maggie. It's too much."

  "It was a good sale. You'll put some of it by."

  "I'd rather you enjoyed it."

  "I am, knowing you're that much closer to having her out"

  Brianna sighed. "She isn't a burden to me." Catching her sister's expression, she shrugged. "Not as much as you think. Only when she's feeling poorly."

  "Which is most of the time. Brie, I love you."

  "I know you do."

  The money's the best way I know how to show it Da wanted me to help you with her. And the good Lord knows I couldn't live with her as you do. She'd lend me to the madhouse, or I'd send myself to prison by murdering Her in her sleep."

  This business with Rogan Sweeney, you did it for her."

  "I did not." Maggie bristled at the thought of it. "Because of her, perhaps, which is a different matter altogether. Once she's settled and you have your life back, you'll get married and give me a horde of nieces and nephews."

  "You could have your own children."

  "I don't want marriage." Comfortable, Maggie closed her eyes again. "No, indeed. I prefer coming and going as it suits me and answering to no one. I'll spoil your children, and they'll come running to

  Aunt Maggie whenever you're too strict with them." She opened one eye. "You could marry Murphy."

  Brianna's laugh carried beautifully over the high grass. "It would shock him to know it."

  "He was always sweet on you."

  "He was, yes—when I was thirteen. No, he's a lovely man and I'm as fond of him as I would be of a brother. But he's not what I'm looking for in a husband."

  "You've got it all planned then?"

  "I've nothing planned," Brianna said primly, "and we're getting off the subject. I don't want you to join hands with Mr. Sweeney because you feel obliged to me. I might think it's the best thing you could do for your work, but I won't have you unhappy because you think I am. Because I'm not."

  "How many times did you have to serve her a meal in bed this month?"

  "I don't keep an accounting—"

  "You should," Maggie interrupted. "In any case, it's done. I signed his contracts a week ago. I'm now being managed by Rogan Sweeney and Worldwide Galleries. I'll have a show in his Dublin gallery in two weeks."

  "Two weeks. That's so fast."