Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1)

Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1) Page 28

In all of her dreams, in her wildest and most secret hopes, she’d never imagined that her work would be showcased so sensitively, or so grandly.

Thick-based pedestals of creamy white marble stood around the room, lifting the glass to eye level. Rogan had chosen only twelve pieces to grace the lofty space. A canny move, she realized, as it made each piece seem all the more unique. And there, in the center of the room, glistening like ice heated by a core of fire, was Maggie’s Surrender.

There was a dull ache in her heart as she studied the sculpture. Someone would buy it, she knew. Within days someone would pay the price Rogan was asking and steal it completely and finally from her life.

The price of wanting more, she thought, seemed to be the loss of what you already had. Or perhaps of what you were.

When she said nothing, only walked through the room with her boots echoing, Rogan stuck his hands in his pockets. “The smaller pieces are displayed in what we call the upper sitting rooms. It’s a more intimate space.” He paused, waiting for some response, then hissed through his teeth when he received none. Damn the woman, he thought. What did she want? “We’ll have an orchestra at the show. Strings. And champagne and canapes, of course.”

“Of course,” Maggie managed. She kept her back to him, wondering why she should stand in such a magnificent room and want to weep.

“I’ll ask you to attend, at least for a short time. You needn’t do or say anything that would compromise your artistic integrity.”

Her heart was beating much too loudly for her to catch his tone of annoyance. “It looks…” She couldn’t think of a word. Simply couldn’t. “Fine,” she said lamely. “It all looks fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes.” She turned back, sober-eyed and, for the first time in recent memory, terrified. “You have a nice aesthetic sense.”

“A nice aesthetic sense,” he repeated, amazed at her tepid response. “Well, Margaret Mary, I’m so gratified. It’s only taken three incredibly difficult weeks and the combined efforts of more than a dozen highly qualified people to make everything look ‘fine.’”

She ran an unsteady hand through her hair. Couldn’t he see she was speechless, that she was completely out of her realm and scared as a rabbit faced by a hound? “What do you want me to say? I’ve done my job and given you the art. You’ve done yours and utilized it. We’re both to be congratulated, Rogan. Now perhaps I should look about in your more intimate rooms.”

He stepped forward, blocking her path as she started for the doorway. The fury that rose up in him was so molten, so intense, he was surprised it didn’t melt her glass into puddles of shine and color.

“You ungrateful peasant.”

“A peasant, am I?” Emotions swirled inside her, contradictory and frightening. “You’re right enough on that, Sweeney. And if I’m ungrateful because I don’t fall at your feet and kiss your boots, then it’s ungrateful I’ll stay. I don’t want or expect any more from you than what it said in your cursed contracts with your bloody exclusive clauses, and you’ll get no more from me.”

She could feel the hot tears boiling up, ready to erupt. She was certain that if she didn’t get out of the room quickly, her lungs would quite simply collapse from the strain. In her desperation to escape, she shoved at him.

“I’ll tell you what I expect.” He snagged her shoulder, whirled her around. “And what I’ll have.”

“I beg your pardon,” Joseph said from the doorway. “I seem to be interrupting.”

He couldn’t have been more amused, or more fascinated, as he watched his coolheaded boss spit fire and rage at the small, dangerous-eyed woman whose fists had already raised as if for a bout.

“Not at all.” Using every ounce of willpower, Rogan released Maggie’s arm and stepped back. In the wink of an eye, he had gone from fury to calmness. “Miss Concannon and I were just discussing the terms of our contract. Maggie Concannon, Joseph Donahoe, the curator of this gallery.”

“A pleasure.” All charm, Joseph stepped forward to take Maggie’s hand. Though it trembled a bit, he kissed it lavishly, dashingly, and set his gold tooth flashing with a grin. “A pure pleasure, Miss Concannon, to meet the person behind the genius.”

“And a pleasure for me, Mr. Donahoe, to meet a man so sensitive to art, and to the artist.”

“I’ll be leaving Maggie in your capable hands, Joseph. I have appointments.”

“You’ll be doing me an honor, Rogan.” Joseph’s eyes twinkled as he kept Maggie’s hand lightly in his.

The gesture wasn’t lost on Rogan, nor was the fact that Maggie made no move to break the contact. She was, in fact, smiling up at Joseph flirtatiously.

“You’ve only to tell Joseph when you require the car,” Rogan said stiffly. “The driver’s at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Rogan,” she said without looking at him. “But I’m sure Joseph can keep me entertained for some time.”

“There’s no way I’d rather spend the day,” Joseph quickly put in. “Have you seen the sitting rooms, Miss Concannon?”

“I haven’t, no. You’ll call me Maggie, I hope.”

“I will.” His hand still linked with hers, Joseph drew her through the doorway. “I believe you’ll appreciate what we’ve done here. With the showing only days away, we want to be certain you’re happy. Any suggestions you have will be most welcomed.”

“That’ll be a change.” Maggie paused, glanced over her shoulder to where Rogan remained standing. “Don’t let us keep you from your business, Rogan. I’m sure it’s pressing.” With a toss of her head, she beamed at Joseph. “I know a Francis Donahoe, from near Ennis. A merchant he is, with the same look around the eyes as you. Would you be related?”

“I’ve cousins in Clare, on my father’s side, and my mother’s. They’d be Ryans.”

“I know scores of Ryans. Oh.” She stopped, sighed as she stepped through an archway into a tidy little room complete with fireplace and love seat. Several of her smaller pieces, including the one Rogan had bought at their first meeting, graced the antique tables.

“An elegant setting, I think.” Joseph moved inside to switch on the recessed lighting. The glass jumped into life under the beams, seemed to pulse. “The ballroom makes a breathless statement. This, a delicate one.”