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."