Two hundred and fifty pounds," she decided. A hundred of that was due to his gold cuff links.
"I'll write you a check," Then he smiled, and Maggie realized she was grateful he didn't seem to use that particular weapon often. Lethal, she thought, watching the way his lips curved, his eyes darkened. Charm floated down on him, light and effortless as a cloud. "And though I'll add it to my personal collection—for sentiment, shall we say?—I could easily get double that for it at my gallery."
" 'Tis a wonder you stay in business, Mr. Sweeney, soaking your clients that way."
"You underestimate yourself, Miss Concannon." He crossed to her then, as if he knew he'd suddenly gained the upper hand. He waited until she'd tipped her head back to keep her eyes level with his. "That's why you need me."
"I know exactly what I'm doing."
In here." He lifted an arm to encompass the room. I've aeen that quite dramatically for myself. But the business world is a different matter."
"I'm not interested in business."
"Precisely," he told her, smiling again as if she'd answered a particularly thorny question. "I, on the other hand, am fascinated by it"
She was at a disadvantage, sitting on the bench with him hovering over her. And she didn't care for it "I don't want anyone messing in my work, Mr. Sweeney. I do what I choose, when I choose, and I get along very well."
"You do what you choose, when you choose." He picked up a wooden form from the bench as if to admire the grain. "And you do it very well. What a lots it would be for someone with your talent to merely get along. As to ... messing about with your work, I have no intention of doing so. Though watching you work was certainly interesting." His eyes cut from the mold back to her with a speed that made her jolt. "Very interesting."
She pushed off the bench, the better to stand on her own feet To gain the room required, she shoved him aside. "I don't want a manager."
"Ah, but you need one, Margaret Mary. You need one badly/'
"A lot you know about what I'd be needing," she mumbled, and began to pace. "Some Dublin sharpie with fancy shoes."
Twice as much, he'd said; her mind replayed his earlier words. Twice what she'd asked. And there was Mother to care for, and the bills to pay, and Sweet Jesus, the price of chemicals was murderous.
"What I need's peace and quiet. And room." She whirled back at him. His very presense in the studio was crowding her. "Room. I don't need someone like you coming along and telling me we need three vases for next week, or twenty paperweights, or a half dozen goblets with pink stems. I'm not an assembly line, Sweeney, I'm an artist."
Very calmly, he took a pad and a gold pen out of his pocket and began to write.
"What are you doing there?"
"I'm noting down that you're not to be given orders for vases, paperweights or goblets with pink stems."
Her mouth twitched once before she controlled it "I won't take orders, at all.
His eyes flicked to hers. "I believe that's understood. I own a factory or two, Miss Concannon, and know the difference between an assembly line and art. I happen to make my living through both."
That's fine for you then." She waved both arms before setting her fists on her hips. "Congratulations. Why would you be needing me?"
"I don't." He replaced the pen and pad. "But I want you."
Her chin angled up. "But I don't want you."
"No, but you need me. And there is where we'll complement each other. I'll make you a rich woman, Miss Concannon. And more than that, a famous one."
He saw something flicker in her eyes at that. Ah, he thought, ambition. And he turned the key easily in the lock. "Do you create just to hide your gift on your own shelves and cupboards? To sell a few pieces here and there to keep the wolf from the door, and horde the rest? Or do you want your work appreciated, admired, even applauded?" His voice changed, subtly, into a tone of sarcasm so light it stabbed bloodlessly. "Or . . . are you afraid it won't be?"
Her eyes went molten as the blade struck true. I'm not afraid. My work stands. I spent three years apprenticing in a Venice glass house, sweating as a pontil boy. I learned the craft there, but not the art. Because the art is in me." She thumped a hand on her chest "It's in me, and I breathe in and out into the glass. Any who don't like my work can jump straight into hell."
"Fair enough. I'll give you a show at my gallery, and we'll see how many take the jump."
A dare, damn him. She hadn't been prepared for it "So a bunch of art snobs can sniff around my work while they slurp champagne."
"You are afraid."
She hissed through her teeth and stomped to the door. "Go away. Go away so I can think. You're crowding my head.'"
"We'll talk again in the morning." He picked up hii coat "Perhaps you can recommend a place I could stay the night. Close by."
"Blackthorn Cottage, at the end of the road."
"Yes, I saw it." He slipped into his coat. "Lovely garden, very trim."
"Neat and tidy as a pin. You'll find the beds soft and the food good. My sister owns it, and she has a practical, homemaking soul."
He lifted a brow at the tone, but said nothing. Then I trust I'll be comfortable enough until morning."
"Just get out" She pulled open the door to the rain. "I'll call the cottage in the morning if I want to talk to you again."
"A pleasure meeting you, Miss Concannon." Though it wasn't offered, he took her hand, held it while he looked into her eyes. "A greater one watching you work." On an impulse that surprised both of them, he lifted her hand to his lips, lingered just a moment over the taste of her skin. I'll be back tomorrow."
"Wait for an invitation," she said, and closed the door smartly behind him.
Chapter Four
AT Blackthorn Cottage, the scones were always warm, the flowers always fresh and the kettle always On the boil. Though it was early in the season for guests, Brianna Concannon made Rogan comfortable in her serenely efficient manner, as she had all the other guests she's welcomed since that first summer after her father's death. She served him tea in the tidy, polished parlor where a fire burned cheerfully and a vase full of freesia scented the air.
"I'll be serving dinner at seven, if that suits you, Mr. Sweeney." She was already thinking of ways to stretch the chicken she'd planned to cook so it would feed one more.
That will be fine, Miss Concannon." He sipped die lea and found it perfect, a far cry from the chilly, sugar-laden soft drink Maggie had tossed at him. "You have a lovely place here."
Thank you." It was, if not her only pride, perhaps her only joy. "If you need anything, anything at all, you've only to ask."
"If I could make use of the phone?"
"Of course." She started to step away to give him privacy, when he held up a hand, a signal of command to anyone who has served.
The vase there on the table—your sister's work?"
Brianna's surprise at the question showed only in the quick widening of her eyes. "It is, yes. You know of Maggie's work?"
"I do. I have two pieces myself. And I've just purchased another even as it was made." He sipped his tea again, measuring Brianna. As different from Maggie as one piece of her work was from another. Which meant, he assumed, that they were the same somewhere beneath what the eye could see. "I've just come from her workshop."
"You were in Maggie's workshop?" Only true shock would have driven Brianna to ask a question of a guest with such a tone of disbelief. "Inside?"
"Is it so dangerous, then?"
A hint of a smile crossed Brianna's face, lightening her features. "You seem to be alive and well."
"Well enough. Your sister is an immensely talented woman."
"That she is."
Rogan recognized the same undercurrent of pride and annoyance in the statement as he had when Maggie had spoken of her sister. "Do you have other pieces of hers?"
"A few. She brings them by when the mood strikes her. If you'll not be needing anything else at the moment, Mr. Sweeney, I'll see about d
inner."
Alone, Rogan settled back with his excellent tea. An interesting pair, he thought, the Concannon sisters. Brianna was taller, slimmer and certainly more lovely than Maggie. Her hair was rose gold rather than flame and fell in soft curls to her shoulders. Her eyes were a wide, pale green, almost translucent Quiet, he thought, even a trifle aloof, like her manner. Her features were finer, her limbs softer, and she'd smelled of wildflowers rather than smoke and sweat. All in all she was much more the type of woman he found appealing. Yet he found his thoughts trailing back to Maggie with her compact body, her moody eyes and her uncertain temper. Artists, he mused, with their egos and insecurities, needed guidance, a firm hand. He let his gaze roam over the rose-colored vase with its swirls of glass from base to lip. He was very much looking forward to guiding Maggie Concannon.
"So, is he here?" Maggie slipped out of the rain into the warm, fragrant kitchen.
Brianna continued to peel potatoes. She'd been expecting the visit "Who is he?"
"Sweeney." Crossing to the counter, Maggie snatched a peeled carrot and bit in. "Tall, dark, handsome and rich as sin. You can't miss him."
"In the parlor. You can take in a cup and join him for tea."
"I don't want to talk to him." Maggie hitched herself up on the counter, crossed her ankles.