It won't matter, she told herself again. It won't matter a whit what they think. What I think is what counts.
Oh God, oh God, why did I let myself be pulled into this?
On long, careful breaths, she raised her head. The wave of dizziness slapped her, made her grit her teeth. In the cheval glass across the room, her image shot back at her.
She was wearing nothing but her underwear, and her skin was shockingly white against the lacy black she'd chosen. Her face was pasty looking, her eyes red-rimmed. A shuddering moan escaped her as she lowered her head again.
A fine mess she looked. And it was nothing but a spectacle she was going to make of herself. She'd been happy in Clare, hadn't she? It was there she belonged, alone and unfettered. Just herself and her glass, with the quiet fields and the morning mists. It was there she would be if it hadn't been for Rogan Sweeney and all his fancy words tempting her away.
He was the devil, she thought, conveniently forgetting that she'd begun to change her mind about him. A monster he was, who preyed on innocent artists for his own greedy ends. He would squeeze her dry, then cast her aside like an empty tube of paint.
She would have murdered him if she'd had the strength to stand.
When the knock came softly at her door, she squeezed her eyes shut. Go away, she shouted in her mind. Go away and leave me to die in peace.
It came again, followed by a quiet inquiry. "Maggie, dear, are you nearly ready?"
Mrs. Sweeney. Maggie pressed the heels of her hands to her gritty eyes and bit back a scream. "No, I'm not." She fought to make her voice curt and decisive, but it came out in a whimper. "I'm not going at all."
With a swish of silk, Christine slipped into the room. "Oh, sweetheart." Instantly maternal, she hurried to Maggie and draped an arm over her shoulders. "It's all right, darling. It's just nerves."
"I'm fine." But Maggie abandoned pride and turned her face into Christine's shoulder. "I'm just not going."
"Of course you are." Briskly, Christine lifted Maggie's face to hers. She knew exactly which button needed to be pushed, and did so, ruthlessly. "You don't want them to think you're afraid, do you?"
"I'm not afraid." Maggie's chin came up, but the nausea swam like oil in her stomach. "I'm just not interested."
Christine smiled, stroked Maggie's hair and waited.
"I can't face it, Mrs. Sweeney," Maggie blurted out. "I just can't. I'll humiliate myself, and I hate that more than anything. I'd sooner be hanged."
"I understand completely, but you'll not humiliate yourself." She took Maggie's frozen hands in hers. "It's true it's yourself on display as much as your work. That's the foolishness of the art world. They'll wonder about you, and talk about you and speculate.
Let them."
"It's not that so much-though that's part of it. I'm not used to being wondered over, and I don't think I'll like it, but it's my work. . . ." She pressed her lips together. "It's the best part of me, Mrs. Sweeney. If it's found wanting. If it's not good enough-"
"Rogan thinks it is."
"A lot he knows," Maggie muttered.
"That's true. A lot he does know." Christine tilted her head. The child needed a bit of mothering, she decided. And mothering wasn't always kind. "Do you want me to go down and tell him you're too afraid, too insecure to attend the show?"
"No!" Helpless, Maggie covered her face with her hands. "He's trapped me. The tricky snake of a man. The damned greedy-I beg your pardon." Going stiff, Maggie lowered her hands.
Christine made certain to swallow the chuckle. “That's quite all right," she said soberly. "Now, you wait here and I'll go down and tell Rogan to go on without us. He's already wearing a trench in the hallway with his pacing."
"I've never seen anyone so obsessed with time."
"It's a Sweeney trait. Michael drove me mad with it, God bless him." She patted Maggie's hand. "I'll be right back up to help you dress."
"Mrs. Sweeney." Desperate, Maggie grabbed at Christine's sleeve. "Couldn't you just tell him I've died? They could make a lovely wake out of the showing. And as a rule, you make more of a profit off a dead artist than a live one."
"There, you see." Christine dislodged Maggie's clutching fingers. "You're feeling better already. Now run along and wash your face."
"But-"
"I'm standing in for your gran tonight," Christine said firmly. "I believe Sharon would have wanted me to. And I said go wash your face, Margaret Mary.
"Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Sweeney?" With no place else to go, Maggie got shakily to her feet. "You won't tell him ... I mean, I'd be grateful to you if you didn't mention to Rogan that I'd . . ."
"On one of the most important evenings of her life, a woman's entitled to linger over dressing."
"I suppose." A ghost of a smile played around Maggie's mouth. "It makes me sound like a frivolous fool, but it's better than the alternative."
"Leave Rogan to me."
There's just one other thing." She'd been putting this off, Maggie admitted. She might as well face it now when she was feeling as low as she imagined she could possibly feel. "Do you think you might be able to find those clippings you spoke of? The ones about my mother?"
"I think I could. I should have thought of it myself. Of course, you'd like to read them."
"I would, yes. I'd be grateful."
"I'll see that you get them. Now go fix your face. I'll scoot Rogan along." She sent Maggie a bolstering smile before closing the door.
When Christine found him, Rogan was still furiously pacing in the foyer. "Where the devil is she?" he demanded the moment he spotted his grandmother. "She's been primping up there for two hours."
"Well, of course she has." Christine gestured grandly. The impression she makes tonight is vital, isn't it?"
"It's important, naturally." If she made the wrong one, his dreams would slide down the drain along with Maggie's. He needed her here, now, and ready to dazzle. "But why should it take her so long? She's only to put on her clothes and fuss with her hair."
"You've been a single man too long, my darling, if you truly believe such nonsense." Affectionately, Christine reached out to straighten his already perfect tie. "How handsome you look in a tuxedo."
"Grandmother, you're stalling."
"No, not at all." Beaming at him, she brushed at his spotless lapels. "I've just come down to tell you to go along without us. We'll follow when Maggie's ready."
"She should be ready now."
"But she's not. Besides, how much more effective might it be if she arrived just late enough to make an entrance? You appreciate the theater of these events, Rogan."
There was truth in that. "All right then." He checked his watch, swore lightly. If he didn't go within the minute he'd most certainly be late. It was his responsibility to be there, he reminded himself, to see to any last minute details, no matter how much he wanted to wait and take Maggie to the gallery himself. "I'll leave her in your more than capable hands. I'll have the car come back for you as soon as I've been dropped off. See that she's there within the hour, won't you?"
"You can count on me, darling."
"I always do." He kissed her on the cheek, stepped back. "By the way, Mrs. Sweeney, I haven't mentioned how beautiful you look."
"No, you haven't. I was quite deflated."
"You will be, as always, the most stunning woman in the room."
"Well said. Now, run along with you and leave Maggie to me."
"With pleasure." He shot one look up the stairs as he headed for the door. It was not a gentle look. "I wish you good luck with her."
As the door closed Christine let out a sigh. She thought she might need all the luck she could get.
Chapter Nine
NO detail had been overlooked. The lighting was perfect, leaping and bounding off the curves and swirls of glass. The music, a waltz now, flowed as softly as happy tears through the room. Fizzing glasses of champagne crowded the silver trays carried gracefully by liveried waiters. The sound of clinking crysta
l and murmuring voices set up a gracious counterpoint to the weeping violins.
It was, in a word, perfect, not a detail missing. Except, Rogan thought grimly, the artist herself.
"It's wonderful, Rogan." Patricia stood beside him, elegant in a narrow white gown shivering with bugle beads. "You have a smashing success."
He turned to her, smiling. "So it would seem."
His eyes lingered on hers long enough, intensely enough, to make her uneasy. "What is it? Have I smudged my nose?"
"No." He lifted his own glass quickly, cursing Maggie for putting ridiculous thoughts in his head and making him wary of one of his oldest friends.
In love with him? Absurd.
"I'm sorry. I suppose my mind was wandering. I can't imagine what's keeping Maggie"
"I'm sure she'll be along any moment." Patricia laid a hand on his arm. "And in the meantime, everyone's being dazzled by our combined efforts."
"It's a lucky thing. She's always late," he added under his breath. "No more than a child's sense of time."
"Rogan, dear, there you are. I see my Patricia found you."
"Good evening, Mrs. Connelly." Rogan took Patricia's mother's delicate hand in his own. "I'm delighted to see you. No gallery showing can be a success without your presence."
"Flatterer." Pleased, she swept up her mink stole. Anne Connelly held on as tightly to her beauty as she did to her vanity. She considered it as much a woman's duty to preserve her looks as it was to make a home and bear children. Ann never, never neglected her duties, and as a result, she had the dewy skin and the youthful figure of a girl. She fought a constant battle with the years and had, for half a century, emerged the victor.
"And your husband?" Rogan continued. "Did Dennis come with you?"
"Naturally, though he's already off somewhere puffing on one of his cigars and discussing finance." She smiled when Rogan signaled for a waiter and offered her a glass of champagne. "Even his fondness for you doesn't change his apathy toward art. This is fascinating work." She gestured to the sculpture beside them, an explosion of color, mushrooming up from a twisted base. "Gorgeous and disturbing all at once. Patricia tells me she met the artist briefly yesterday. I'm dying to do so myself."
"She's yet to arrive," Rogan covered his own impatience smoothly. "You'll find Miss Concannon as contradictory and as interesting, I think, as her work."
"And I'm sure as fascinating. We haven't seen nearly enough of you lately, Rogan. I've badgered Patricia unmercifully about bringing you by." She shot her daughter a veiled look that spoke volumes.
Get a move on, girl, it said. Don't let him slip away from you.
"I'm afraid I've been so obsessed with getting this show together quickly that I've neglected my friends."
"You're forgiven, as long as we can expect you to dine with us one evening next week."
"I'd love to." Rogan caught Joseph's eye. "Excuse me just a moment, won't you?"
"Must you be so obvious. Mother?" Patricia murmured into her wine as Rogan slipped through the crowd.
"Someone has to be. Merciful heavens, girl, he treats you like a sister." Beaming a smile across the room at an acquaintance, Anne continued to speak in undertones. "A man doesn't marry a woman he thinks of as his sister, and it's time you were wed again. You couldn't ask for a better match. Keep loitering around, and someone else will scoop him up from under your nose. Now smile, will you? Must you always look as though you're in mourning?"
Dutifully, Patricia forced her lips to curve.
"Did you reach them?" Rogan demanded the moment he'd cornered Joseph.
"On the car phone." Joseph's gaze skimmed the room, brushed over Patricia, lingered, then moved on. "They'll be here any moment."
"More than an hour late. Typical."
"Be that as it may, you'll be pleased to know that we have sales on ten pieces already, and at least that many offers on Surrender."
“That piece is not for sale." Rogan studied the flamboyant sculpture that stood in the center of the room. "We'll tour it first, in our galleries in Rome, Paris and New York, but along with the other pieces we've chosen it is not to be sold."
"It's your decision," Joseph said easily enough. "But I should tell you that General Fitzsimmons offered us twenty-five thousand pounds for it."
"Did he? Make sure that gets around, won't you?"
"Count on it In the meantime I've been entertaining some of the art critics. I think you should ..." Joseph trailed off when he saw Rogan's eyes darken .as he looked intently at something over his shoulder. Joseph turned, saw the object of his boss's gaze and let out a low whistle. "She may be late, but she's certainly a showstopper."
Joseph looked back at Patricia and saw from the expression on her face that she, too, had noted Rogan's reaction. His heart bled a little for the woman. He knew from personal experience how miserable it was to love someone who thought of you as only a friend.
"Shall I go take her around?" Joseph asked.
"What? No-no. I'll do it myself."
Rogan had never imagined Maggie could look like that-sleek and stunning and sensual as sin. She'd chosen black, unrelieved and unadorned. The dress took all its style from the body it covered. It draped from throat to ankle, but no one would call it prim, not with the glossy black buttons that swirled the length of it, the buttons that she'd left daringly unfastened to the swell of her breast, and up to the top of one slim thigh.
Her hair was a tousled crown of fire, carelessly curled around her face. As he drew closer he saw that her eyes were already scanning, assessing and absorbing everything in the room.
She looked fearless, defiant and completely in control.
And so she was . . . now. The bout of nerves had served to embarrass her so much that she'd beaten them back with nothing more than sheer willfulness.
She was here. And she meant to succeed.
"You're impossibly late." The complaint was a last line of defense, delivered in a mutter as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Their eyes met. "And incredibly beautiful."
"You approve of the dress?"
That's not the word I would have chosen, but yes, I do."
She smiled then. "You were afraid I'd wear boots and torn jeans."
"Not with my grandmother standing guard."
"She's the most wonderful woman in the world. You're lucky to have her."
The emotional force of the statement more than the words caused Rogan to study her curiously. "I'm aware of that."
"You can't be. Not really, for you've never known any different." She took a deep breath. "Well." There were eyes on her already, dozens of them, bright with curiosity. "It's into the lions' den, isn't it? You needn't worry," she said before he could speak. "I'll behave. My future depends on it."
“This is only the beginning, Margaret Mary." As he drew her into the room with its whirl of light and color, she was very much afraid he was right.
But behave she did. The evening seemed to go well as she shook hands, accepted compliments, answered questions. The first hour seemed to float by like a dream, what with the sparkle of wine, the glitter of glass and the flash of jewels. Drifting through it was easy, as Maggie felt slightly removed from the reality, somewhat disconnected, as much audience as actor in a sumptuously produced play.
"This, ah this." A bald man with a drooping mustache and a fussy British accent expounded on a piece. It was a series of glowing blue spears trapped within a sheer glass globe. "Imprisoned, you call it. Your creativity, your sexuality, fighting to set itself free. Man's eternal struggle, after all. It's triumphant, even as it's melancholy."
"It's the six counties," Maggie said simply.
The bald man blinked. "I beg your pardon."
"The six counties of Ireland," she repeated with a wicked rebel gleam in her eyes. "Imprisoned."
"I see."
Standing beside this would-be critic, Joseph muffled a laugh. "I found the use of color here so striking, Lord Whitfield. The translucence of it creates
an unresolved tension between its delicacy and its boldness."
'Just so." Lord Whitfield nodded, cleared his throat. "Quite extraordinary. Excuse me."
Maggie watched him retreat with a broad smile. "Well, I don't think he'll be after buying it and setting it in his den, do you, Joseph?"
"You're a wicked woman, Maggie Concannon."
"I'm an Irishwoman, Joseph." She winked at him. "Up the rebels."
He laughed delightedly and, slipping an arm around her waist, led her around the room. "Ah, Mrs. Connelly." Joseph gave Maggie a subtle squeeze to signal her. "Looking stunning as always."
"Joseph, always a smooth word. And this-" Anne Connelly shifted her attention from Joseph, whom she considered a mere factotum to Maggie. "This is the creative drive. I'm thrilled to meet you, my dear. I'm Mrs. Dennis Connelly-Anne. I believe you met my daughter, Patricia, yesterday."
"I did, yes." Maggie found Anne's handclasp as delicate and soft as a brush of satin.
"She must be off with Rogan somewhere. They're a lovely couple, aren't they?"
"Very." Maggie lifted a brow. She knew a warning when she heard one. "Do you live in Dublin, Mrs. Connelly?"
"I do indeed. Only a few houses away from the Sweeney mansion. My family has been a part of Dublin society for generations. And you're from the west counties?"
"Clare, yes."
"Lovely scenery. All those charming quaint villages and thatched roofs. Your family are farmers, I'm told?" Anne lifted a brow, obviously amused.
"Were."
"This must be so exciting for you, particularly with your rural upbringing. I'm sure you've enjoyed your visit to Dublin. You'll be going back soon?"
"Very soon, I think."
"I'm sure you miss the country. Dublin can be very confusing to one unused to city life. Almost like a foreign land."
"At least I understand the language," Maggie said equably. "I hope you'll enjoy your evening, Mrs. Connelly. Excuse me, won't you?"
And if Rogan thought he would sell that woman anything that Maggie Concannon created, Maggie thought as she walked away, he'd hang for it.
Exclusive rights be damned. She'd smash every last piece into dust before she saw any in Anne Connelly's hands. Talking to her as though she were some slack-jawed milkmaid with straw in her hair.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 63
