Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1)

Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1) Page 66

He did. For nearly a week he gave her everything the city had to offer, from the magnificence of Notre Dame to the intimacy of dim cafés. He bought her flowers from the tight-lipped street vendor every morning until the suite smelled like a garden. They strolled along the Seine in the moonlight, Maggie with her shoes in her hand and the river’s breeze on her cheeks. They danced in clubs to poorly played American music, and dined on glorious food and wine at Maxim’s.

She watched him pore over the sidewalk art, searching always for another diamond in the rough. And though he winced when she bought an undoubtedly bad painting of the Eiffel Tower, she only laughed and told him art was in the soul, not always in the execution.

The hours she spent in the Paris gallery were just as exciting to her. While Rogan ordered, directed and arranged she saw her work shine under his vigilant eye.

A vested interest, he’d said. She couldn’t deny that he tended his interests well. He was as passionate and attentive to her art during those afternoons as he was to her body during the nights.

When it was done, and the last piece was set to shine under the lights, she thought that the show was every bit as much a result of his efforts as of her own.

But partnership didn’t always equal harmony.

“Damn it, Maggie, if you keep fussing in there we’ll be late.” For the third time in as many minutes, Rogan knocked on the bedroom door she’d locked.

“And if you keep bothering me, we’ll be later still,” she called out. “Go away. Better yet, go on to the gallery yourself. I can get myself there when I’m ready.”

“You can’t be trusted,” he muttered, but her ears were sharp.

“I don’t need a keeper, Rogan Sweeney.” She was breathless from struggling to reach the low zipper of her dress. “I’ve never seen a man so ruled by the hands of a clock.”

“And I’ve never seen a woman more careless of time. Would you unlock this door? It’s infuriating to have to shout through it.”

“All right, all right.” By nearly dislocating her arm, she managed to fasten the dress. She wriggled her feet into ridiculously high bronze heels, cursed herself for being fool enough to take Joseph’s advice, then twisted the lock. “I wouldn’t have taken so long if they made women’s clothes with the same consideration they make men’s. Your zippers are within easy reach.” She stopped, tugged once on the short hem of the dress. “Well? Is it all right or not?”

He said nothing at all, only twirled his finger to indicate he wanted her to circle. Rolling her eyes to heaven, she complied.

The dress was strapless, nearly backless, with a skirt that halted teasingly at midthigh. It glittered, bronze, copper, gold, sparking fire at every breath. Her hair echoed the tone so that she seemed like a candle flame, slim and bright.

“Maggie. You take my breath away.”

“The seamstress wasn’t generous with material.”

“I admire her parsimony.”

When he continued to stare, she lifted her brows. “You said we were in a hurry.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Her brows lifted higher as he started toward her. “I’m warning you, if you get me out of this dress, it’ll be your responsibility to get me back in.”

“As attractive as that sounds, it’ll have to wait. I’ve a present for you, and it seems that the fates guided my hand. I believe this will complement your dress nicely.”

He reached into the inside pocket of his tux and took out a slim velvet box.

“You’ve already bought me a present. That huge bottle of scent.”

“That was for me.” He leaned over to sniff her bare shoulder. The smoky perfume might have been created with her in mind. “Very much for me. This is for you.”

“Well, since it’s too small to be another answering machine, I’ll take it.” But when she opened the box, the chuckle died in her throat. Rubies, square flames of them, simmered with white-hot diamonds in a three-tiered choker tied together by twists of glinting gold. No delicate bauble, but a bold flash, a lightning flash of color and heat and gleam.

“Something to remember Paris by,” Rogan told her as he slipped it from the box. The necklace ran like blood and water through his fingers.

“It’s diamonds. Rogan, I can’t wear diamonds.”

“Of course you can.” He brought it to her throat, his eyes on hers as he fastened the clasp. “Not alone perhaps. They’d be cold and wouldn’t suit you. But with the other stones…” He stepped back to take in the effect. “Yes, exactly right. You look like a pagan goddess.”

She couldn’t stop her hand from reaching up, from running across the gems. They felt warm against her skin. “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Say thank you, Rogan. It’s lovely.”

“Thank you, Rogan.” Her smile bloomed and spread. “It’s a great deal more than lovely. It’s dazzling.”

“And so are you.” He leaned into the kiss, then patted her bottom. “Now get a move on, or we’ll be late. Where’s your wrap?”

“I haven’t got one.”

“Typical,” he murmured, and pulled her out the door.

Maggie thought she handled her second showing with a great deal more panache than she had the first. Her stomach wasn’t nearly as jittery, her temper not nearly as short. If she did, once or twice, think wistfully of escape, she covered it well.

And if she pined for something she couldn’t have, she reminded herself that success sometimes had to be enough in itself.

“Maggie.”

She turned from the heavily accented ramblings of a Frenchman whose eyes had rarely left her cle**age and stared dumbstruck at her sister.

“Brianna?”

“It certainly is.” Smiling, Brianna gathered her astonished sister in an embrace. “I would have been here an hour ago, but there was a delay at the airport.”

“But how? How are you here at all?”

“Rogan sent his plane for me.”

“Rogan?” Baffled, Maggie scanned the room until she found him. He only smiled at her, then at Brianna, before returning his attention to an enormous woman in fuchsia lace. Maggie nudged her sister to a corner of the room. “You came on Rogan’s plane?”