Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1)

Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1) Page 68

“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? Lemonade 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 handsomely.”

“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 longer 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 déjeuner sur la terrasse maintenant?”

“Non, nous allons déjeuner plus tard.”

“Très 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.”