they, when one was so completely opposed to the other? Art for art's sake, solitude for sanity, independence for pride. And on the other side—ambition, hungers and needs. She stared at the completed sketch, dumbfounded that it had poured out of her so swiftly. And now that it had, she was oddly calm. Perhaps it was those two opposing forces that made her what she was. And perhaps if she were ever really at peace, she'd be less than she could be.
They've gone."
Her mind still drifting, she looked blankly up at Rogan. "What? Who's gone?"
On a half laugh, he shook his head. "The staff. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"The staff? Oh." Her mind cleared, settled. "You've sent them off? All of them?"
"I did, though God alone knows how we'll eat over the next few days. Still—" He broke off when she leaped into his arms. As she'd shot at him like a bullet from a gun, he staggered back, overbalancing to keep them from crashing through the beveled-glass door behind him and nearly tumbling them over the railing.
"You're a wonderful man, Rogan. A prince of a man."
He shifted her in his arms and looked wearily at the drop over the rail. "I was nearly a dead man."
"We're alone? Completely?"
"We are, and I've earned the undying gratitude of everyone from the butler down. The parlor maid wept with joy." As he supposed she should, with the holiday bonus he'd given her and the rest of the servants. "So now they're off to the beach or to the country or to wherever their hearts lead them. And we've the house to ourselves."
She kissed him, hard. "And we're about to use every inch of it. We'll start with that sofa in the room just through there."
"Will we?" Amused, he made no protest as she began unbuttoning his shirt. "You're full of demands today, Margaret Mary."
"The business with the servants was a request. The sofa's a demand."
He cocked a brow. "The chaise is closer."
"So it is." She laughed as he lowered her to it. "So it is."
Over the next few days they sunned on the terrace, walked on the beach or swam lazy laps in the lagoonlike pool to the music of the fountains. There were ill-prepared meals to be eaten in the kitchen and afternoon drives through the countryside. There were also, to Maggie's mind, entirely too many telephones. It might have been a holiday, but Rogan was never farther than a phone or a fax away from business. There was something about a factory in Limerick, something else about an auction in New York, and unintelligible mutters about property he was looking for in order to add another branch to Worldwide Galleries. It might have annoyed her if she hadn't begun to see that his work was as much a part of his identity as her work was to hers. All differences aside, she could hardly complain about him spending an hour or two closeted in his office when he took her absorption in her sketches in stride. If she had believed in a man and woman finding the kind of harmony that was needed to last a lifetime, she might have believed she'd found it with Rogan.
"Let me see what you've done."
With a contented yawn, Maggie offered him her sketchbook. The sun was setting, drowning colors sweeping the western sky. Between them the bottle of wine he'd chosen from his cellar nestled in a silver bucket frosty with ice. Maggie lifted her glass, sipped and settled back to enjoy her last evening in France.
"You'll be busy when you get home," Rogan commented as he studied each sketch. "How will you choose which one to work on first?"
"It will choose me. And as much as I've enjoyed being lazy, I'm itching to get back and fire up my furnace."
"I can have the ones you've drawn up for Brianna matted and framed. For simple pencil sketches they're quite good. I particularly like . . ." He trailed off when he turned a page and came across something entirely different from a sketch of the sea or a landscape. "And what have we here?"
Almost too lazy to move, she glanced over. "Oh, yes, that. I don't do portraits often, but that one was irresistible."
It was himself, stretched over the bed, his arm flung out as if he'd been reaching for something. For her.
Taken by surprise and not entirely pleased, he frowned down at the sketch. "You drew this while I was asleep."
"Well, I didn't want to wake you and spoil the moment." She hid her grin in her glass. "You were sleeping so sweetly. Perhaps you'd like to hang that one in your Dublin gallery." "I'm naked."
"Nude is the word, I'll remind you. When it's art. And you look very artistic nude, Rogan. I've signed it, you see, so you may get a nice price for it." "I think not."
She tucked her tongue in her cheek. "As my manager it's your duty to market my work. You're always saying so yourself. And this, if I do say so, is one of my finest drawings. You'll note the light, and the way it plays on the muscles of your—"
"I see," he said in a strangled voice. "And so would everyone else."
"No need to be modest. You've a fine form. I think I captured it even better in this other one."
His blood, quite simply, ran cold. "Other one?" "Aye. Let's see now." She reached over to flip pages herself. "Here we are. Shows a bit more . . . contrast when you're standing, I think. And a bit of that arrogance comes through as well."
Words failed him. She'd drawn him standing on the terrace, one arm resting on the rail behind him, the other cupping a brandy snifter. And a smile—a particularly smug smile—on his face. It was all he was wearing.
"I never posed for this. And I've never stood naked on the terrace drinking brandy."
"Artistic license," she said airly, delighted that she'd flummoxed him so completely. "I know your body well enough to draw it from memory. It would have spoiled the theme to bother with clothes."
"The theme? Which is?"
"Master of the house. I thought that's what I'd title it Both of them actually. You might offer them as a set"
"I won't be selling them."
"And why not? I'd like to know? You've sold several of my other drawings that aren't nearly as well done. Those I didn't want you to sell, but I'd signed on the dotted line, so you did. I want you to market these." Her eyes danced. "In fact, I insist, as I believe is my right, contractually speaking."
"I'll buy them myself, then."
"What's your offer? My dealer tells me my price is rising."
"You're blackmailing me, Maggie."
"Oh, aye." She toasted him then sipped more wine. "You'll have to meet my price."
He glanced at the sketch again before firmly closing the book. "Which is?"
"Let's see now. ... I think if I was taken upstairs and made love to until moonrise, we might have a deal."
"You've a shrewd business sense."
"I've learned it from a master." She started to stand, but he shook his head and scooped her into his arms.
"I want no slipping through loopholes on this deal. I believe your terms were that you be taken upstairs."
"Right you are. I suppose that's why I need a manager." She wound a lock of his hair around her fingers as he carried her into the house. "You know, of course, if I'm not satisfied with the rest of the terms, the deal's off."
"You'll be satisfied."
At the top of the stairs he stopped to kiss her. Her response was, as always, fast and urgent, and as always, it quickened his blood. He stepped into the bedroom, where the softened light of sunset swam through the windows. Soon the light would go gray with dusk. Their last night alone would not be spent in the dark. Thinking this, he laid her on the bed, and when she reached for him, he slipped away to light candles. They were scattered through the room, some stubs, some slim tapers, all burned down to varying lengths. Maggie knelt on the bed while Rogan struck the flames and sent the light dancing gold.
"Romance." She smiled and felt oddly touched. "It seems a spot of blackmail's been well worth the effort."
He paused, a flaring match between his fingers. "Have I given you so little romance, Maggie?"
"I was only joking." She tossed back her breeze-ruffled hair. His voice had been much too serious. "I've no need f
or romance. Honest lust is quite good enough for me."
"Is that what we have?" Thoughtfully he set the match to the wick then shook it out. "Lust."
Laughing, she held out her arms. "If you'd stop wandering about the room and come over here, I'll show you exactly what we have."
She looked dazzling in the candle glow with the last colors of day bleeding through the windows beside the bed. Her hair afire, her skin kissed by her days in the sun and her eyes aware, mocking and unquestionably inviting. On other days and other nights he would have dived into that invitation, accepted it, reveled in it and the firestorm they could make between them. But his mood had shifted. He crossed slowly to her, taking her hands before they could tug him eagerly into the bed with her, lifting them to his lips as his eyes watched her.
"That wasn't the bargain, Margaret Mary. I was to make love to you. It's time I did." He kept her hands in his, drawing her arms down to her sides as he leaned forward to toy with her lips. "It's time you let me."
"What foolishness is that?" Her voice wasn't steady. He was kissing her as he had once before, slowly, gently, and with the utmost concentration. "I've done more than let you a great many times before."
"Not like this." He felt her hands flex against his, her body draw back. "Are you so afraid of tenderness, Maggie?"
"Of course I'm not." She couldn't get her breath, yet she could hear it, feel it coming slow and heavy through her lips. Her whole body was tingling, yet he was barely touching her. Something was slipping away from her. "Rogan, I don't want to—"