a doorstop."
Rogan waited to be sure she'd run down, then hid a smile in his brandy. 'That sums it up amazingly well."
"Jackass."
"Shrew," he said pleasantly. "Would you care for some dessert?"
The chuckle tickled her throat, so she set it free. Who would have thought she'd actually come to like him? "No, damn you. I'll not drag that poor maid away again from her television or her flirtation with the butler or however she spends her evenings."
"My butler is seventy-six, and well safe from flirtations with a maid."
"A lot you know." Maggie rose again and wandered toward a wall of books. Alphabetized by author, she noted, and nearly snorted. She should have known. "What's her name?"
"Whose?"
'The maid's."
"You want to know my maid's name?"
Maggie stroked a finger down a volume of James Joyce. "No, I want to see if you know your maid's name. It's a test." He opened his mouth, closed it again, grateful that Maggie's back was to him. What difference did it make if he knew the name of one of his maids?
Colleen? Maureen? Hell! The domestic staff was his butler's domain. Bridgit? No, damn it, it was . . .
"Nancy." He thought—was nearly certain. "She's fairly new. I believe she's been here about five months. Would you like me to call her back in for an introduction?"
"No." Casually, Maggie moved from Joyce to Keats. "It was a curiosity to me, that's all. Tell me, Rogan, do you have anything in here other than classics? You know, a good murder mystery I might pass some time with?"
His library of first editions was considered one of the finest in the country, and she was criticizing it for lacking a potboiler. With an effort, he schooled his temper and his voice. "I believe you'll find some of Dame Agatha's work."
"The British." She shrugged. "Not bloodthirsty enough as a rule—unless they're sacking casdes like those damn Cromwellians. What's this?" She bent down, peered. This Dante's in Italian."
"I believe it is."
"Can you read it, or is it just for show?"
"I can fumble through it well enough."
She passed by it, hoping for something more contemporary. "I didn't pick up as much of the language as I should have in Venice. Plenty of slang, little of the socially correct." She glanced over her shoulder and grinned. "Artists are a colorful lot in any country."
"So I've noticed." He rose and crossed to another shelf of books. "This might be more what you're looking for."
He offered Maggie a copy of Thomas Harris's Red Dragon. "I believe several people are murdered horribly."
"Wonderful." She tucked the book under her arm. "I'll say good night then so you can get back to work. I'm grateful for the bed and the meal."
"You're welcome." He sat behind his desk again, lifted a pen and ran it through his fingers while he watched her. "I'd like to leave at eight sharp. The dining room's down this hall and to the left. Breakfast will be served anytime after six."
"I can guarantee it won't be served to me at that hour, but I'll be ready at eight." On impulse she crossed to him, placed her hands on the arms of his chair and leaned her face close to his. "You know, Rogan, we're precisely what each other doesn't need or want—on a personal level."
"I couldn't agree more. On a personal level." Her skin, soft and white where the flannel parted at her throat, smelled like sin.
"And that's why, to my way of thinking, we're going to have such a fascinating relationship. Barely any common ground at all, wouldn't you say?"
"No more than a toehold." His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered, rose to hers again. "A shaky one at that."
"I like dangerous climbs." She leaned forward a little more, just an inch, and nipped his bottom lip with her teeth.
A spear of fire arrowed straight to his loins. "I prefer having my feet on the ground."
"I know." She leaned back again, leaving him with a tingle on his lips and the heat in his gut. "We'll try it your way first. Good night."
She strolled out of the room without looking back. Rogan waited until he was certain she was well away before he lifted his hands and scrubbed them over his face. Good Christ, the woman was tying him into knots, slippery tangled knots of pure lust. He didn't believe on acting on lust alone, at least not since his adolescence. He was, after all, a civilized man, one of taste and breeding. He respected women, admired them. Certainly he'd developed relationships that had culminated in bed, but he'd always tried to wait until the relationships had developed before making love. Reasonably, mutually and discreedy. He wasn't an animal to be driven by instinct alone. He wasn't even certain he liked Maggie Concan-non as a person. So what kind of man would he be if he did what he was burning to do at this moment? If he stalked up those stairs, threw open die door to her bedroom and ravished her good and proper. A satisfied man, he thought with grim humor. At least until morning when he had to face her, and himself, and the business they had to complete. Perhaps it was more difficult to take the high road. Perhaps he would suffer, as he was damn well certain she expected him to. But when the time came for him to take her to bed, he would have the upper hand. That, most certainly, was worth something. Even, he thought as he shoved papers aside, a miserably sleepless night.
Maggie slept like a baby. Despite the images evoked by the novel Rogan had given her, she'd dropped off to sleep just after midnight and had slept dreamlessly until nearly seven. Flushed with energy and anticipation, she searched out the dining room and was pleased to see a full Irish breakfast warming on the sideboard.
"Good morning, miss." The same maid who had served her the night before scurried in from the kitchen. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
Thank you, no. I can serve myself." Maggie picked up a plate from the table and moved toward the tempting scents on the sideboard.
"Shall I pour you coffee or tea, miss?"
'Tea would be lovely." Maggie took the lid off a silver warmer and sniffed appreciately at the thick rashers of bacon. "Nancy, is it?"
"No, miss, it's Noreen."
Failed that test, Squire Sweeney, Maggie mused. "Would you tell the cook, Noreen, that I've never had a better meal than my dinner last night."
"I'd be happy to, miss."
Maggie moved from server to server, heaping her plate. She often skipped meals altogether, so indifferent was her own cooking. But when food was available in such quantity, and food of such quality, she made up for it.
"Will Mr. Sweeney be joining me for breakfast?" she asked as she carried her plate back to the table.
"He's already eaten, miss. Mr. Sweeney breakfasts every day at half-six, precisely."
"A creature of habit, is he?" Maggie winked at the maid and slathered fresh jam on her warmed toast.
"He is, yes," Noreen answered, flushing a bit. "I'm to remind you, miss, he'll be ready to leave at eight."
"Thank you, Noreen, I'll keep it in mind."
"You've only to ring if you need anything."
Quiet as a mouse, Noreen faded back into the kitchen. Maggie applied herself to a breakfast she felt was fit for a queen and perused the copy of the Irish Times that had been neatly folded beside her plate. A cozy way to live, she supposed, with servants only the snap of a finger away. But didn't it drive Rogan mad to know they were always about the house? That he was never alone? The very idea made her wince. She'd go mad for sure, Maggie decided, without solitude. She looked over the room with its dark and glossy wainscoting, the glitter from the twin crystal chandeliers, the gleam from the silver on the antique sideboard, the sparkle of china and Waterford glass. Yes, even in this lush setting, she'd go stark, raving mad. She lingered over a second cup of tea, read the paper from back to front and cleaned every crumb from her plate. From somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour. She debated having just one more serving of bacon, called herself a glutton and resisted. She took a few moments to study the art on the Walls. There was a watercolor she found particularly exquisite. Taking a last, leisurely
turn around the room, she started out, down the hall. Rogan stood in the foyer, immaculate in a gray suit and navy tie. He studied her, studied his watch.
"You're late."
"Am I?"
"It's eight past the hour."
She lifted her brows, saw he was serious and dutifully muffled a chuckle. "I should be flogged."
He skimmed a gaze up her, from the half boots and dark leggings to the mannish white shirt that reached to midthigh and was cinched with two leather belts. Glittering translucent stones swung at her ears, and she had, for once, added a touch of makeup. She hadn't, however, bothered with a watch.
"If you don't wear a timepiece, how can you be on time?"
"You've a point there. Perhaps that's why I don't"
Still watching her, he took out a pad and his pen.
"What are you doing?"
"Noting down that we have to supply you with a watch, as well as a phone-answering machine and a calendar."
"That's very generous of you, Rogan." She waited until he opened the door and gestured her out "Why?"