"And that's the nicest compliment I've had all evening."
"Daddy, Mother's looking for you." Patricia brushed a stray ash from his lapel. The gesture, one she had carelessly used with her own father countless times, arrowed straight into Maggie's heart.
"I'd better let her find me, then." He looked back at Maggie, and when she grinned at him, he grinned back. "I hope we meet again. Miss Concannon."
"So do I."
"Won't you come up with us?" Patricia asked.
"No, not just now," Maggie answered, not wishing to socialize further with Patricia's mother.
The bright look faded the moment their footsteps died away on the polished floor. She sat down, alone, in the light-flooded kitchen. It was quiet there, so quiet she could nearly fool herself into believing the building was empty but for her. She wanted to believe she was alone. More, she wanted to believe the sadness she suddenly felt was just that she missed the solitude of her own green fields and quiet hills, the endless hours of silence with only the roar of her own kiln and her own imagination to drive her. But it wasn't only that. On this, one of the brightest nights of her life, she had no one. None of the chattering, brilliant crowd of people upstairs knew her, cared for her, understood her. There was no one abovestairs waiting for Maggie Concannon. So she had herself, she thought, and rose. And that was all anyone needed. Her work was well received. It wasn't so difficult to cut through all the fancy and pompous phrases to the core. Rogan's people liked what she did, and that was the first step. She was on her way, she told herself as she swung out of the kitchen. She was rushing down the path toward fame and fortune, the path that had eluded the Concannons for the last two generations. And she would do it all herself. The light and the music sparkled down the staircase like fairy dust along the curve of a rainbow. She stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand clutched on the rail, her foot on the first tread. Then, with a jerk, she turned to hurry outside, into the dark.
When the clock struck one, Rogan yanked at his elegant black tie and swore. The woman, he thought as he paced the darkened parlor, deserved murder and no less. She'd vanished like smoke in the middle of a crowded party arranged for her benefit. Leaving him, he remembered with boiling resentment, to make foolish excuses. He should have known that a woman of her temperament couldn't be trusted to behave reasonably. He certainly should have known better than to give her such a prominent place in his own ambitions, his hopes for the future of his business. How in hell could he hope to build a gallery for Irish art when the first Irish artist he'd personally selected, groomed and showcased had fled her own opening like an irresponsible child? Now it was the middle of the night, and he'd not had a word from her. The brilliant success of the show, his own satisfaction with a job well done, had clouded over like her precious west county sky. There was nothing he could do but wait. And worry. She didn't know Dublin. For all its beauty and charm there were still sections dangerous to a woman alone. And there was always the possibility of an accident—the thought of which brought on a vicious, throbbing headache at the base of his skull.
He'd taken two long strides toward the phone to telephone the hospitals when he heard the click of the front door. He pivoted and rushed into the hallway. She was safe, and under the dazzle of the foyer chandelier, he could see she was unharmed. Visions of murder leaped back into his aching head.
"Where in the sweet hell have you been?"
She'd hoped he be out at some high-class club, clinking glasses with his friends. But since he wasn't, she offered him a smile and a shrug. "Oh, out and about. Your Dublin's a lovely city at night."
As he stared at her, his hands closed into ready fists.
"You're saying you've been out sightseeing until one in the morning?"
"Is it so late then? I must have lost track. Well then, I'll say good night."
"No, you won't." He took a step toward her.
"What you will do is give me an explanation for your behavior."
"That's something I don't have to explain to anyone, but if you'd be more clear, perhaps I'd make an exception."
"There were nearly two hundred people gathered tonight for your benefit. You were unbelievably rude."
"I was nothing of the kind." More weary than she wanted to admit, she strolled past him into the parlor, slipped out of the miserably uncomfortable heels and propped her tired feet on a tassled stool. 'The truth is, I was so unbelievably polite, my teeth nearly fell out of my head. I hope to Christ I don't have to smile at another bloody soul for a month. I wouldn't mind one of your brandies now, Rogan. It's chilly out this time of night." He noticed for the first time that she wore nothing over the thin black dress.
"Where the devil is your wrap?"
"I didn't have one. You'll have to mark that down in your little book. Acquire Maggie a suitable evening wrap." She reached up for the snifter he'd poured.
"Damn it, your hands are frozen. Have you no sense?"
"They'll warm quick enough." Her brows arched as he stalked over to the fireplace and crouched down to start a fire. "What, no servants?"
"Shut up. The one thing I won't tolerate from you tonight is sarcasm. I've taken all I plan to take."
Flames licked into life to eat greedily at dry wood. In the shifting light Maggie saw that his face was tight with anger. The best way to meet temper, she'd always thought, was to match it.
"I've given you nothing to take." She sipped the brandy, would have sighed over the welcome heat of the liquor if she and Rogan hadn't been glaring at each other. "I went to your showing, didn't I? In a proper dress, with a proper foolish smile pasted on my face."
"It was your showing," he shot back. "You ungrateful, selfish, inconsiderate brat."
However weary her body, she wouldn't allow him to get away with such language. She stood rigidly and faced him. "I won't contradict you. I'm exactly as you say, and have been told so most of my life.
Fortunately for both of us, it's only my work you have to be concerned about."
"Do you have any idea the time and effort and expense that went into putting that show together?"
That's your province." Her voice was as stiff as her spine. "As you're always so quick to tell me. And I was there, stayed above two hours, rubbing elbows with strangers."
"You'd better learn that a patron is never a stranger, and that rudeness is never attractive."
The quiet, controlled tone cut through her defensive armor like a sword.
"I never agreed to stay the whole evening. I needed to be alone, that's all."
"And to wander the streets all night? I'm responsible for you while you're here, Maggie. For God's sake, I'd nearly called out the garda."
"You're not responsible for me, I am." But she could see now that it wasn't simply anger darkening his eyes, but concern as well. "If I caused you worry, I'll apologize. I simply went for a walk."
"You went out strolling and left your first major show without a by-your-leave?"
"Yes." The snifter was out of her hand and hurtling toward the stone hearth before she realized it. Glass shattered, rained like bullets. "I had to get out! I couldn't breathe. I couldn't bear it. All those people, staring at me, at my work, and the music, the lights. Everything so lovely, so perfect. I didn't know it would scare me so. I thought I'd gotten over it since that first day you showed me the room, and my work set up like something out of a dream."
"You were frightened."
"Yes, yes, damn you. Are you happy to hear it? I was terrified when you opened the door and I looked inside and saw what you'd done. I could barely speak. You did this to me," she said furiously. "You opened this Pandora's box and let out all my hopes and my fears and my needs. You can't know what it's like to have needs, terrible ones, you don't even think you should have."
He studied her now, ivory and flame in a slim black dress. "Oh, but I can," he said quietly. "I can.
You should have told me, Maggie." His voice was gentle now as he stepped toward her.
She t
hrew up both hands to ward him off. "No, don't. I couldn't bear you to be kind just now. Especially when I know I don't deserve it. It was wrong of me to leave that way. It was selfish and ungrateful." She dropped her hands helplessly at her sides.
"But there was no one for me up those stairs. No one. And it broke my heart."
She looked so delicate all at once, so he did what she asked and didn't touch her. He was afraid if he did, however gently, she might snap in his hands.
"If you'd let me know how important it was to you, Maggie, I'd have arranged to have your family here."
"You can't arrange Brianna. God knows you can't bring my father back." Her voice broke, shaming her. With a strangled sound she pressed a hand to her mouth. "I'm overtired, that's all." She fought a bitter war to control her voice. "Overstimulated with all the excitement. I owe you an apology for leaving the way I did, and gratitude for all the work you did for me."
He preferred her raging or weeping to this suited politeness. It left him no choice but to respond in kind. "The important thing is that the show was a success."
"Yes." Her eyes glittered in the firelight.
"That's the important thing. If you'll excuse me now, I'll go up to bed."
"Of course. Maggie? One more thing."
She turned back. He stood before the fire, the flames leaping gold behind him. "Yes?"
"I was there for you, up those stairs. Perhaps next time you'll remember that, and be content."
She didn't answer. He heard only the rustle other dress as she hurried across the hall and up the stairs, then the quick click of her bedroom door closing. He stared at the fire, watched a log break apart, cut through by flame and heat. Smoke puffed once, stirred by the wind. He continued to stare as a shower of sparks rained against the screen, scattered over stone and winked out. She was, he realized, every bit as capricious, moody and brilliant as that fire. As dangerous and as elemental.
And he was, quite desperately, in love with her.
Chapter Ten
WHAT do you mean, gone?" Rogan pushed away from his desk and scraped Joseph with a look of
outrage. "Of course she's not gone."
"But she is. She stopped by the gallery to say goodbye only an hour ago." Reaching into his pocket,
Joseph drew out an envelope. "She asked me to give you this."