Born in Fire

by Nora Roberts

  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—"

  To be seduced?" He took his lips from hers, let them roam leisurely over her face.

  "No, I don't." But her head tilted back as he skimmed his mouth down her throat.

  "You're about to be."

  He released her hands then to draw her closer. No fevered embrace this time, but an inescapable possession. Her arms seemed impossibly heavy as she wound them round his neck. She could do no more than cling as he stroked her hair, her face, with gentle fingertips that felt no more substantial than a whisper on the air. His mouth came back to hers in a moist, deep, sumptuous kiss that went on endlessly, endlessly, until she was as pliant as wax in his arms. He'd cheated both of them, Rogan realized as he laid her back on the bed. By letting only the fire take them, he'd kept them both from experiencing all the warm, waiting wells of tenderness. Tonight it would be different. Tonight he would take her through a labyrinth of dreams before the flames.

  The taste of him seeped into her, stunning her, staggering her with tenderness. The greed that had always been so much a part of their lovemaking had mellowed into a lazy patience she could neither resist nor refuse. Long before he opened her blouse and skimmed those smooth, clever fingertips over her skin, she was floating. Limply her hands slid from his shoulders. Her breath caught and expelled as he laved his tongue over her, seeking small secret tastes, lingering over them. Savoring. Drifting on that slow sweep of sensation, she was aware of every pulse point he awakened, of the long, quiet pull from deep inside her. So different from an explosion. So much more devastating. She murmured his name when he cupped a hand under her head and lifted her melting body to his.

  "You're mine, Maggie. No one else will ever take you here."

  She should have objected to this new demand for exclusivity. But she couldn't. For his mouth was journeying over her again as if he had years, decades, to complete the exploration. The candlelight flickered dreamily against her heavy lids. She could smell the flowers she'd picked only that morning and had placed in a blue vase by the window. She heard the breeze heralding the Mediterranean night with the scents of blossoms and water in its wake. Beneath his fingers and lips her skin softened and her muscles quivered. How could he not have known he'd wanted her like this? All the fires banked, only glowing embers and drifting smoke. She moved under his hands helplessly, unable to do anything but absorb what he gave her, follow where he led. Even as the blood pounded in his head, in his loins, he kept the caresses light, teasing, waiting for her, watching her slide from one into the next melting sensation. When she trembled, when a new sighing moan slipped through her lips, he took her hands again, braceleting them in one of his so that he was free to urge her over the first edge. Her body bowed, her lashes fluttered. He watched as that first velvet fist took her breath. Then she went fluid again, languid and limp. Her pleasure welled inside of him. The sun sank. Candles guttered. He guided her up again, a higher peak that made her cry out weakly. The sound echoed away into sighs and murmurs. When her heart was so full that it, too, seemed to weep, he slipped into her, taking her tenderly while the moon rose.

  Perhaps she slept. She knew she dreamed. When she opened her eyes again, the moon was up and the room was empty. Languid as a cat, she considered curling up again. But even as she nuzzled into the pillow she knew she would not sleep without him. She rose, floating a little as though her mind was dazed with wine. She found a robe, a thin swatch of silk that Rogan had insisted on giving her. It settled smoothly against her skin as she went to find him.

  "I should have known you'd be here."

  He was in the kitchen, standing shirtless in front of the gleaming stove in the brilliant white-and-black kitchen. Thinking of your stomach?"

  "And of yours, my girl." He turned off the fire under the skillet before he turned. "Eggs."

  "What else?" It was all either of them could competently cook. "I won't be surprised if we're cackling when we get back to Ireland tomorrow." Because she felt unexpectedly awkward, she raked a hand through her hair once, then twice. "You should have made me get up and fix it."

  "Made you?" He reached up for plates. That would be a first."

  "What I mean is, I'd have done it. After all, I don't feel I did my part before."

  "Before?"

  "Upstairs. In bed. I didn't exactly do my share."

  "A bargain's a bargain." He scooped eggs into plates. "And from my point of view, you did very well indeed. Watching you unravel was an incredible pleasure for me." One he intended to experience again, very soon. "Why don't you sit down and eat. The moon'11 be up for some time yet."

  "I suppose it will." More at ease, she joined him at the table. "And this may just give me my energy back. Do you know," she said with her mouth full. "I'd no idea that sex could make you so weak."

  "It wasn't just sex."

  Her fork paused halfway to her lips at his tone. There was hurt beneath the sharp annoyance, and she was sorry to have caused it. Amazed that she could. "I didn't mean it that way, Rogan. Not so impersonally. When two people are fond of each other—"

  "I'm a great deal more than fond of you, Maggie. I'm in love with you."

  The fork slipped from her fingers and clattered on the plate. Panic tore at her throat in sharp, hungry fangs. "You're not."

  "I am." He said it calmly, though he was cursing himself for making his declaration in a brightly lit kitchen over badly cooked eggs. "And you're in love with me."

  "It's not—I'm not—you can't tell me what I am."

  "I can when you're too foolish to say so yourself. What's between us is far more than physical attraction. If you weren't so pigheaded, you'd stop pretending it was."

  "I'm not pigheaded."

  "You are, but I find that's one of the things I like about you." He was thinking coolly now, pleased to be back in control. "We might have discussed all this under more atmospheric circumstances, but knowing you, it hardly matters. I'm in love with you, and I want you to marry me."

  Chapter Seventeen

  MARRIAGE? The word stuck in her throat, threatened to choke her. She didn't dare repeat it. "You're out of your mind."

  "Believe me, I've considered the possibility." He picked up his fork and ate with the appearance of sanity. But the hurt, unexpected and raw, scraped at him. "You're stubborn, often rude, more than occasionally self-absorbed and not a little temperamental."

  For a moment her mouth worked like a guppy's. "Oh, am I?"

  "You most certainly are, and a ma
n would have to have taken leave of his senses to want that sort of baggage for a lifetime. But"—he poured out the tea he'd had steeping—"there you are. I believe it's customary to use the bride's church, so we'll be married in Clare."

  "Customary? Hang your customs, Rogan, and you with them." Was this panic she felt, skidding along her spine like jagged ice? Surely not, she told herself. It had to be temper. She had nothing to fear. "I'm not marrying you or anyone. Ever."

  "That's absurd. Of course you'll marry me. We're amazingly well suited, Maggie."

  "A moment ago I was stubborn and temperamental and rude."

  "So you are. And it suits me." He took her hand, ignored her resistance and tugged it to his lips. "And it suits me beautifully."

  "Well, it doesn't suit me. Not at all. Perhaps I've softened toward your arrogance, Rogan, but that's changing by the second. Understand me." She yanked her hand free of his. "I'll be no man's wife."

  "No man's but mine."

  She hissed out a curse. When he only grinned at that, she took a hard grip on her temper. A fight, she thought, might be satisfying, but it would solve nothing. 'You brought me here for this, didn't you?"

  "No, actually, I didn't. I'd thought to take more time before tossing my feelings at your feet." Very carefully, very deliberately, he shifted his plate aside. "Knowing very well you'd kick them back at me." His eyes stayed on hers, level, patient. "You see I know you very well, Margaret Mary."

  "You don't." Temper, and the panic she didn't want to admit, leaked out of her, leaving room for sorrow. "I've reasons for keeping my heart whole, Rogan, and for not ever considering the possibility of marriage."

  It interested and soothed him to understand that it wasn't marriage to him that seemed to appall her, but marriage itself. "What are they?"

  She lowered her gaze to her cup. After a moment's hesitation she added her usual three cubes of sugar and stirred. "You lost your parents."

  "Yes." His brow furrowed. This certainly wasn't the tack he'd expected her to take. "Almost ten years ago."

  "It's hard losing family. It strips away a whole layer of security, exposes you to the simple cold fact of mortality. You loved them?" "Very much. Maggie—"

  "No, I'd like to hear what you have to say about this. It's important. They loved you?" "Yes, they did."

  "How did you know it?" She drank now, holding the cup in two hands. "Was it because they gave you a good life, a fine home?"

  "It had nothing to do with material comfort. I knew they loved me because I felt it, because they showed it. And I could see they loved each other as well."

  "There was love in your house. And laughter? Was there laughter, Rogan?"

  "Quite a bit of it." He could remember it still. "I was devastated when they died. So sudden, so brutally sudden ..." His voice tapered off, then strengthened again. "But after, when the worst of it had passed, I was glad they'd gone together. Each of them would have been only half-alive without the other."

  "You've no notice how lucky you are, what a gift you were given growing up in a loving, happy home. I've never known that. I never will. There was no love between my parents. There was anger and blame and guilt and there was duty, but no love. Can you imagine what it was like, growing up in a house where the two people who had made you cared nothing for each other? Were only there because their marriage was a prison barring them in with conscience and church law."

  "No, I can't." He covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry you can."

  "I swore, when I was still a girl, I swore I'd never be locked in a prison like that."

  "Marriage isn't only a prison, Maggie," he said gently. "My own parents' was a joy."

  "And you may make one for yourself one day. But not I. You make what you know, Rogan. And you can't change what you've come from. My mother hates me."

  He would have protested, but she'd said it so matter-of-factly, so simply, he could not.

  "Even before I was born she hated me. The fact that I grew inside her ruined her life, which she tells me as often as possible. All these years I never knew how deep it truly went, until your grandmother told me my mother had had a career."

  "A career?" He cast his mind back. The singing? What does that have to do with you?"

  "Everything. What choice did she have but to give up her career? What career would she have had left as a single, pregnant woman in a country like ours? None." Cold, she shivered and let out a shaky breath. It hurt to say it aloud this way, to say it all aloud. "She wanted something for herself. I understand that, Rogan. I know what it is to have ambitions. And I can imagine, all too well, what it would be like to have them dashed. You see, they never would have married if I hadn't been conceived. A moment of passion, of need, that was all.