Born in Fire (28 page)

“My first international show,” she repeated, dumb-founded as the phrase sank into her head. “I don’t—I don’t speak French.”

“That won’t be a problem. You’ll have a look at the Paris gallery, dispense a bit of charm and have plenty of time to see the sights.” He waited for her answer, received nothing but a blank stare. “Well?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” The first skitter of panic had her pressing a hand to her stomach. “You want me to go with you to Paris tomorrow?”

“Unless you’ve some pressing previous engagement.”

“I don’t, no.”

“Then it’s settled.” The relief was almost brutal. “After we’ve satisfied ourselves that the Paris show is successful, I’d like you to go south with me.”

“South?”

“I’ve a villa on the Mediterranean. I want to be alone with you, Maggie. No distractions, no interruptions. Just you.”

Her eyes lifted to his. “The block of time you’ve been working on for these weeks?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t have shouted at you if you’d explained it to me.”

“I had to explain it to myself first. Will you come?”

“Yes, I’ll come with you.” She smiled. “You’d only to ask.”

An hour later she burst into the gallery, only to stop and simmer with frustration as she waited for Joseph to finish with a client. While he charmed a woman old enough to be his mother, Maggie wandered around the main room, noting that the American Indian display had been replaced by a selection of metal sculptures. Intrigued by the shapes, she lost her sense of urgency in admiration.

“A German artist,” Joseph said from behind her. “This particular work is, I feel, both visceral and joyous. A celebration of elemental forces.”

“Earth, fire, water, the suggestion of wind in the feathering of the copper.” She put on an airy accent to match his. “Powerful indeed in scope, but with an underlying mischief that suggests satire.”

“And it can be yours for a mere two thousand pounds.”

“A bargain. A pity I’m without a farthing to me name.” She turned, laughing, and kissed him. “You’re looking fit, Joseph. How many hearts have you broken since I left you?”

“Nary a one. Since mine belongs to you.”

“Hah! A good thing for us both that I know you’re full of blarney. Have you a minute to spare?”

“For you, days. Weeks.” He kissed her hand. “Years.”

“A minute will do me. Joseph, what do I need for Paris?”

“A tight black sweater, a short skirt and very high heels.”

“That’ll be the day. Really, I’m to go, and I haven’t a clue what I’ll need. I tried to reach Mrs. Sweeney, but she’s out today.”

“So I’m your second choice. You devastate me.” He signaled to one of his staff to take the room. “All you need for Paris, Maggie, is a romantic heart.”

“Where can I buy one?”

“You have your own. You can’t hide it from me, I’ve seen your work.”

She grimaced, then slipped her arm through his. “Listen now, I’d not admit this to just anyone, but I’ve never traveled. In Venice I only had to worry about learning and not wearing anything that would catch fire. And paying the rent. If I’m going to have a trip to Paris, I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

“You won’t. You’ll be going with Rogan, I take it, and he knows Paris as well as a native. You’ve only to act a bit arrogant, a bit bored, and you’ll fit right in.”

“I’ve come to you for fashion advice. Oh, it’s humiliating to say it, but I can’t go looking like this. Not that I want to paint myself up like a mannequin, but I don’t want to look like Rogan’s country cousin either.”

“Hmm.” Joseph took the question seriously, drawing her back to arm’s length for a slow, careful study. “You’d do just fine as you are, but…”

“But?”

“Buy yourself a silk blouse, very tailored, but soft. Vivid colors, my girl, no pastels for you. Slacks of the same type. Use your eye for color. Go for the clash. And that short skirt is a must. You’ve got that black dress?”

“I didn’t bring it with me.”

He clucked his tongue like a maiden aunt. “You should always be prepared. All right, that’s out, so go for glitter this time. Something that dazzles the eye.” He tapped the sculpture beside them. “These metal tones would suit you. Don’t go for classic, go for bold.” Pleased with the thought, he nodded. “How’s that?”

“Confusing. I’m ashamed to find it matters to me.”

“There’s nothing shameful about it. It’s simply a matter of presentation.”

“That may be, but I’d be grateful to you if you didn’t mention this to Rogan.”

“Consider me your confessor, darling.” He looked over her shoulder, and Maggie saw joy leap into his eyes.

Patricia came in, hesitated, then crossed the glossy tiles. “Hello, Maggie. I didn’t know you were coming to Dublin.”

“Neither did I.” What change was this? Maggie wondered. Gone was the shadowed sadness, the fragile reserve. It only took a moment, seeing the way Patricia’s eyes lighted on Joseph’s, to give her the answer. Aha, she thought. So there’s where the wind blows.

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to tell Joseph…” Patricia sputtered to a halt. “Ah, that is, I was passing by and remembered the business we’d discussed. The seven o’clock appointment?”

“Yes.” Joseph dipped his hands into his pockets to keep them from reaching for her. “Seven o’clock.”

“I’m afraid I have to make it seven-thirty. I’ve a bit of a conflict. I wanted to be sure that wouldn’t upset the schedule.”

“I’ll adjust it.”

“Good. That’s good.” She stood for a moment, staring foolishly at him before she remembered Maggie and her manners. “Will you be in town long?”

“No, actually, I’m leaving tomorrow.” The way the air was sizzling, Maggie thought, it was a wonder the sculptures didn’t melt. “In fact, I’m leaving now.”

“Oh, no, please, don’t run off on my account. I’ve got to go.” Patricia sent one more longing look in Joseph’s direction. “I’ve people waiting for me. I just wanted to—well, goodbye.”

Maggie waited one beat. “Are you just going to stand here?” she hissed at Joseph as Patricia headed for the door.

“Hmm? What? Excuse me.” He made the dash to the door in two seconds flat. She watched Patricia turn, blush, smile. Then they were in each other’s arms.

The romantic heart Maggie refused to believe she had, swelled. She waited until Patricia hurried out and Joseph stood staring after her like a man recently struck by lighting.

“So your heart belongs to me, does it?”

The dazed look cleared from his eyes. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“There’s no denying it.”

“I’ve been in love with her so long, even before she married Robbie. I never thought, never believed…” He laughed a little, still dazzled by love. “I thought it was Rogan.”

“So did I. It’s plain to see you make her happy.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m glad for you.”

“It’s—we’re trying to keep it between us. At least until…for a while. Her family…I can guarantee her mother won’t approve of me.”

“The hell with her mother.”

“Patricia said nearly the same thing.” It brought a smile to his lips to remember it. “But I’ll not be the cause of any trouble there. So I’d appreciate it if you’d say nothing.”

“Not to Rogan either?”

“I work for him, Maggie. He’s a friend, yes, but I work for him. Patricia’s the widow of one of his oldest friends, a woman he’s escorted himself. A great many people thought she’d become his wife.”

“I don’t believe Rogan was among them.”

“Be that as it may, I’d rather tell him myself when the time’s right.”

“It’s your business, Joseph. Yours and Patricia’s. So we’ll trade confession for confession.”

“I’m grateful to you.”

“No need. If Rogan’s stiff-necked enough to disapprove, he deserves to be fooled.”

Chapter Fifteen

P
ARIS
was hot, muggy and crowded. The traffic was abominable. Cars, buses, motorbikes screeched and swerved and sped, their drivers seemingly bent on challenging each other to endless roadway duels. Along the sidewalks, people strolled and swaggered in a colorful pedestrian parade. Women in those short skirts Joseph seemed so fond of looked lean and bored and impossibly chic. Men, equally fashionable, watched them from little café tables where they sipped red wine or strong black coffee.

Flowers bloomed everywhere—roses, gladiolus, marigolds, snapdragons, begonias tumbling out of vendors’ stalls, sunning on banks, spilling out of the arms of young girls whose legs flashed bright as blades in the sunshine.

Boys skated by with yards of golden bread spearing up out of bags. Packs of tourists aimed cameras like so many shotguns to blast away at their shutter view of Paris life.

And there were dogs. The city seemed a veritable den of them, prancing on leashes, skulking in alleyways, darting by shops. Even the lowliest cur appeared exotic, wonderfully foreign and arrogantly French.

Maggie took it all in from her window overlooking the Place de la Concorde.

She was in Paris. The air was full of sound and scent and gaudy light. And her lover was sleeping like a stone in the bed behind her.

Or so she thought.

He’d been watching her watch Paris for some time. She leaned out of the grand window, heedless of the cotton nightshirt falling off her left shoulder. She’d acted wholly indifferent to the city when they’d arrived the evening before. Her eyes had widened at the lush lobby of the Hôtel de Crillon, but she’d made no comment when they’d checked in.

She’d said little more when they entered the plush and lofty suite, and wandered away when Rogan tipped the bellman.

When he asked her if the room suited her, she’d simply shrugged and said it would do well enough.

It made him laugh and drag her off to bed.

But she wasn’t quite so blasé now, he noted. He could all but see the excitement shimmering around her as she stared out at the street and absorbed the bustling life of the city. Nothing could have pleased him more than to give her Paris.

“If you lean out much farther, you’ll stop traffic.”

She jolted and, dragging her hair from her eyes, looked around to where he lay among rumpled sheets and a mountain of pillows.

“A bomb couldn’t stop that traffic. Why do they want to kill each other?”

“It’s a matter of honor. What do you think of the city in daylight?”

“It’s crowded. Worse than Dublin.” Then she relented and grinned at him. “It’s lovely, Rogan. Like an old, bad-tempered woman holding court. There’s a vendor down there with an ocean of flowers. And every time someone stops to look or buy, he ignores them, like it’s beneath his dignity to notice them. But he takes their money, and counts every coin.”

She crawled back into bed and stretched herself over him. “I know exactly how he feels,” she murmured. “Nothing makes you more irritable than selling what you love.”

“If he didn’t sell them, they’d die.” He tipped up her chin. “If you didn’t sell what you love, part of you would die, too.”

“Well, the part that needs to eat would without a doubt. Are you going to call up one of those fancy waiters and have him bring us breakfast?”

“What would you like?”

Her eyes danced. “Oh, everything. Starting with this…”

She tugged the sheets away and fell on him.

Quite a bit later she stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in the plush white robe that had hung on the back of the door. She found Rogan at a table by the parlor window, pouring coffee and reading the paper.

“That newspaper’s in French.” She sniffed at a basket of croissants. “You read French and Italian?”

“Mmm.” His brows were knit over the financial pages. He was thinking of calling his broker.

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“What else do you read—speak. Language I mean.”

“Some German. Enough Spanish to get by.”

“Gaelic?”

“No.” He turned the page, scanning for news of art auctions. “Do you?”

“My father’s mother spoke it, so I learned.” Her shoulders moved restlessly as she slathered jam onto a steaming croissant. “It’s not much good, I suppose, except for cursing. It won’t get you the best table in a French restaurant.”

“It’s valuable. We’ve lost a considerable amount of our heritage.” Which was something he thought about, often. “It’s a pity that there are only pockets in Ireland where you can hear Irish spoken.” Because this reminded him of an idea he’d been toying with, he folded his paper and set it aside. “Say something in Gaelic.”

“I’m eating.”

“Say something for me, Maggie, in the old tongue.”

She made a little sound of impatience, but obliged him. It was musical, exotic and as foreign to him as Greek.

“What did you say?”

“That you’ve a pleasing face to see of a morning.” She smiled. “You see it’s a language as useful for flattery as it is for cursing. Now say something to me in French.”

He did more than speak. He leaned over, touched his lips softly to hers, then murmured,
“Me reveiller à côté de toi, c’est le plus beau de tous les rêves.”
Her heart did a long, slow swirl in her chest.

“What does it mean?”

“That waking beside you is more lovely than any dream.”

She lowered her eyes. “Well. It seems French is a tongue more given to pretty sounds than plain English.”

Her quick, unplanned feminine reaction both amused and allured. “I’ve touched you. I should have tried French before.”

“Don’t be foolish.” But he
had
touched her, deeply. She combated the uneasy weakness by attacking her meal. “What am I eating?”

“Eggs Benedict.”

“It’s good,” she said with her mouth full. “A bit on the rich side, but good. What are we after doing today, Rogan?”

“You’re still blushing, Maggie.”

“I’m not.” She met his eyes narrowly, in a dare. “I’d like to know what the plans are. I’m assuming this time you’ll discuss them with me first instead of just tugging me along like an idiot dog.”

“I’m growing very fond of that wasp you call a tongue,” he said pleasantly. “I’m probably losing my mind. And before you sting me again, I thought you’d enjoy seeing some of the city. You’d no doubt enjoy the Louvre. So I’ve left the morning quite clear for sight-seeing, or shopping, or whatever you’d like. Then we’ll go by the gallery later this afternoon.”