It took only minutes before Maggie was able to draw Rogan aside again. "Don't tell me I need to circulate," she said before he could do just that. "I have something I need to say to you."
to monopolize the artist."
"It won't take long for me to tell you that this was the kindest thing anyone has every done for me. I'll never forget it."
He ignored the distraction of the rapid French a woman chattered at his shoulder and took Maggie's hand to his lips. "I didn't want you unhappy again, and it was the simplest thing in the world to arrange for Brianna to be here."
"It might have been simple." She remembered the ragged artist he'd escorted up the elegant steps of the gallery. That, too, had been simple. 'That doesn't make it any less kind. And to show you what it means to me, I'll not only stay through the whole evening, until the last guest toddles out the door, I'll talk to every one of them."
"Nicely?"
"Nicely. No matter how often I hear the word visceral"
"That's my girl." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Now get to work."
Chapter Sixteen
IF Paris had staggered her, the south of France with its sweep of beaches and snow-covered mountains left Maggie awestruck. There was no rattle of traffic here in Rogan's sparkling villa overlooking the searing blue waters of the Mediterranean, no crowds bustling toward shops or cafes. The people who dotted the beach were no more than part of the painting that encompassed water and sand, bobbing boats and an endless, cloudless sky.
The countryside, which she could see from one of the many terraces that graced the villa, spread out in neat square fields bordered by stone fences like the ones she saw from her own doorway in Clare. But here, the ground rose up in terraced slopes, from orchards on sunny embankments to the higher green of the forests and on to the foothills of the magnificent Alps.
Rogan's grounds were lush with blooms and flowering herbs, exotic with olive and box trees and the sparkle of fountains. The quiet was disturbed only by the call of gulls and the music of falling water. Content, Maggie lounged in one of the padded chaises on a sun-washed terrace and sketched.
"I thought I'd find you here." Rogan stepped out and dropped a kiss, both casual and intimate, on the top of her head.
"It's impossible to stay inside on such a day." She squinted up at him until he took the shaded glasses she'd tossed on a table and slipped them on her nose. "Did you finish your business?"
"For now." He sat beside her, shifting so as not to block her view. "I'm sorry I've been so long. One call seemed to lead to another."
"No matter. I like being on my own."
"I've noticed." He peeked into the sketchbook. "A seascape?"
"It's irresistible. And I thought I'd draw some of the scenery, so Brie could see it. She had such a wonderful time in Paris."
"I'm sorry she could only stay one day."
"One lovely day. It's hard to believe I strolled along the Left Bank with my sister. The Concannon sisters in Paris." It still made her laugh to think of it."She'll not forget it, Rogan." Tucking her pencil behind her ear, Maggie took his hand. "Neither will I."
"You've thanked me, both of you. And the truth is I did nothing more than make a few calls. Speaking of calls, one that kept me away just now was from Paris." Reaching over, Rogan selected a sugared grape from the basket of fruit beside them. "You've an offer, Maggie, from the Comte de Lorraine."
"De Lorraine?" Lips pursed, she searched her memory. "Ah, the skinny old man with a cane who talked in whispers."
"Yes." Rogan was amused to hear her describe one of the wealthiest men in France as a skinny old man. "He'd like to commission you to make a gift for his granddaughter's wedding this December."
Her hackles rose instinctively. "I'll take no commissions, Rogan. I made that clear from the start."
"You did, yes." Rogan took another grape and popped it into Maggie's mouth to keep her quiet. "But it's my obligation to inform you of any requests. I'm not suggesting you agree, though it would be quite an impressive feather in your—and Worldwide's— cap. I'm simply fulfilling my duties as your manager."
Eyeing him, Maggie swallowed the grape. His tone, she noted, was as sugarcoated as the fruit. "I'll not do it."
'Your choice, naturally." He waved the entire matter away. "Shall I ring for something cold? Lem onade perhaps, or iced tea?"
"No." Maggie took the pencil from behind her ear, tapped it on her pad. "I'm not interested in made-to-order."
"And why should you be?" he responded, all reason. "Your Paris showing was every bit as successful as the one in Dublin. I have every confidence that this will continue in Rome and beyond. You're well on your way, Margaret Mary." He leaned down and kissed her. "Not that the comte's request has anything to do with made-to-order. He's quite willing to leave it completely in your hands."
Cautious, Maggie tipped down her glasses and studied him over the tip. "You're trying to sweet-talk me into it."
"Hardly." But, of course, he was. "I should add, however, that the comte—a very well-respected art connoisseur, by the way—is willing to pay hand somely."
"I'm not interested." She shoved her glasses in place again, then swore. "How much is handsome?"
"Up to the equivalent of fifty thousand pounds. But I know how adamant you are about the money angle, so you needn't give it a thought. I told him it was unlikely you'd be interested. Would you like to go down to the beach? Take a drive?"
Before he could rise, Maggie snagged his collar. "Oh, you're a sneaky one, aren't you, Sweeney?"
"When needs be."
"It would be whatever I choose to make? Whatever came to me?"
"It would." He traced a finger over her bare shoulder, which was beginning to turn the color of a peach in the sun. "Except . . ."
"Ah, here we are."
"Blue," Rogan said, and grinned. "He wants blue."
"Blue, is it?" The laugh began to shake her. "Any particular shade?"
"The same as his granddaughter's eyes. He claims they are as blue as the summer sky. It seems she's his favorite, and after he saw your work in Paris, nothing would do but that she have something made for her alone from your lovely hands."
"His words or yours?"
"A bit of both," Rogan answered, kissing one of those lovely hands.
"I'll think about it."
"I'd hoped you would." No long
er concerned with blocking her view, he leaned over to nibble at her lips. "But think about it later, will you?"
"Excusez-moi, monsieur." A bland-faced servant stood on the edge of the terrace, his hands at his sides and his eyes discreetly aimed toward the sea.
"Oui, Henri?"
"Vous et mademoiselle, voudriez-vous dejeuner sur la terrasse maintenant?"
"Non, nous allons dejeuner plus tard. "
"Tres bien, monsieur." Henri faded away, silent as a shadow into the house.
"And what was that about?" Maggie asked.
"He wanted to know if we wanted lunch. I said we'd eat later." When Rogan started to lean down again, Maggie stopped him with a hand slapped to his chest. "Problem?" Rogan murmured. "I can call him back and tell him we're ready after all."
"No, I don't want you to call him." It made her uneasy to think of Henri, or any of the other servants, lurking in a corner, waiting to serve. She wriggled off the chaise. "Don't you ever want to be alone?"
"We are alone. That's exactly why I wanted to bring you here."
"Alone? You must have six people puttering around the house. Gardeners and cooks, maids and butlers. If I were to snap my fingers right now, one of them would come running."
"Which is exactly the purpose in having servants."
"Well, I don't want them. Do you know one of those little maids wanted to wash out my underwear?"
'That's because it's her job to tend to you, not because she wanted to riffle your drawers."
"I can tend to myself. Rogan, I want you to send them away. All of them."
He rose at that. "You want me to fire the help?"
"No, for pity sakes, I'm not a monster, tossing innocent people out on the street. I want you to send them off, that's all. On a holiday, or whatever you'd call it."
"I can certainly give the staff a day off, if you'd like."
"Not a day, the week." She blew out a breath, seeing his puzzlement. "It doesn't make any sense to you, and why should it? You're so used to them, you don't even see them."
"His name was Henri, the cook is Jacques, the maid who so cheekily offered to wash your lingerie is Marie." Or possibly, he thought, Monique.
"I wasn't after starting a quarrel." She came forward, her hands reaching for his. "I can't relax as you do with all these people hovering about. I'm just not used to it—I don't think I want to be. Do this for me, please, Rogan. Give them a few days off."
"Wait here a moment."
When he left, she stood on the terrace, feeling foolish. Here she was, she mused, lounging in a Mediterranean villa with anything she could ask for within her reach. And she still wasn't satisfied. She'd changed, she realized. In the few short months since she met Rogan, she had changed. She not only wished for more now, she coveted more of what she didn't have. She wanted the ease and the pleasure money could bring, and not just for her family. She wanted it for herself. She'd worn diamonds and had danced in Paris. And she wanted to do so again. Yet, deep within her, there remained that small, hot need to be only herself, to need nothing and no one. If she lost that, Maggie thought with a whip of panic, she would have lost everything. She snatched up her sketch pad, flipped pages. But for a moment, a terrifying moment, her mind was as blank as the sheet in front of her. Then she began to draw frantically, with a violent intensity that burst from her like a gale. It was herself she drew. The two parts, twisted together, pulled apart and so desperately trying to meet again. But how could