his eyes, amused, interested, skimmed over her face. “That, Margaret Mary, would depend on the woman.”
She didn’t move, absorbed the sexual punch, acknowledged it with a slight nod. “Well, we agree on something. Sex and power generally depend on the woman.”
“That’s not at all what I said, or meant. What draws you to create something like this?”
“It’s difficult to explain art to a man of business.”
When she would have stepped back, he curled his fingers around her arm, tightened his grip. “Try.”
Annoyance pricked through her. “What comes to me comes. There’s no plot, no plan. It has to do with emotions, with passions and not with practicality or profit. Otherwise I’d be making little glass swans for gift shops. Jesus, what a thought.”
His smile widened. “Horrifying. Fortunately I’m not interested in little glass swans. But I would like that tea.”
“We’ll have it in the kitchen.” She started to step away again, and again his grip stopped her. Temper flashed into her eyes like lightning. “You’re blocking my way, Sweeney.”
“I don’t think so. I’m about to clear it for you.” He released her and followed her silently into the kitchen.
Her cottage was a far cry from the country comfort of Blackthorn. There were no rich smells of baking wafting in the air, no plumped pillows or gleaming woodwork. It was spartan, utilitarian and untidy. Which was why, he supposed, the art carelessly set here and there was that much more effective and striking.
He wondered where she slept, and if her bed was as soft and inviting as the one he’d spent the night in. And he wondered if he would share it with her. No, not if, he corrected himself. When.
Maggie set the teapot on the table along with two thick pottery mugs. “Did you enjoy your stay at Blackthorn Cottage?” she asked as she poured.
“I did. Your sister’s charming. And her cooking memorable.”
Maggie softened, added three generous spoons of sugar to her tea. “Brie’s a homemaker in the best sense of the word. Did she make her currant buns this morning?”
“I had two of them.”
Relaxed again, Maggie laughed and propped one booted foot on her knee. “Our father used to say Brie got all the gold and I the brass. I’m afraid you won’t get any home-baked buns here, Sweeney, but I could probably dig out a tin of biscuits.”
“No need.”
“You’d probably rather get straight to business.” Cupping the mug in both hands, Maggie leaned forward. “What if I were to tell you plain I’m not interested in your offer?”
Rogan considered, sipping his tea black and strong. “I’d have to call you a liar, Maggie.” He grinned at the fire that erupted in her eyes. “Because if you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t have agreed to see me this morning. And I certainly wouldn’t be drinking tea in your kitchen.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “We’ll agree, however, that you don’t want to be interested.”
A clever man, she mused, only slightly mollified. Clever men were dangerous ones. “I’ve no wish to be produced, or managed, or guided.”
“We rarely wish for what we need.” He watched her over the rim of his cup, calculating even as he enjoyed the way the faint flush seemed to silken her skin, deepen the green of her eyes. “Why don’t I explain myself more clearly? Your art is your domain. I have no intention of interfering in any way with what you do in your studio. You create what you’re inspired to create, when you’re inspired to create it.”
“And what if what I create isn’t to your taste?”
“I’ve shown and sold a great number of pieces I wouldn’t care to have in my home. That’s the business, Maggie. And as I won’t interfere with your art, you won’t interfere with my business.”
“I’ll have no say in who buys my work?”
“None,” he said simply. “If you have an emotional attachment to a piece, you’ll have to get over it, or keep the
She didn’t move, absorbed the sexual punch, acknowledged it with a slight nod. “Well, we agree on something. Sex and power generally depend on the woman.”
“That’s not at all what I said, or meant. What draws you to create something like this?”
“It’s difficult to explain art to a man of business.”
When she would have stepped back, he curled his fingers around her arm, tightened his grip. “Try.”
Annoyance pricked through her. “What comes to me comes. There’s no plot, no plan. It has to do with emotions, with passions and not with practicality or profit. Otherwise I’d be making little glass swans for gift shops. Jesus, what a thought.”
His smile widened. “Horrifying. Fortunately I’m not interested in little glass swans. But I would like that tea.”
“We’ll have it in the kitchen.” She started to step away again, and again his grip stopped her. Temper flashed into her eyes like lightning. “You’re blocking my way, Sweeney.”
“I don’t think so. I’m about to clear it for you.” He released her and followed her silently into the kitchen.
Her cottage was a far cry from the country comfort of Blackthorn. There were no rich smells of baking wafting in the air, no plumped pillows or gleaming woodwork. It was spartan, utilitarian and untidy. Which was why, he supposed, the art carelessly set here and there was that much more effective and striking.
He wondered where she slept, and if her bed was as soft and inviting as the one he’d spent the night in. And he wondered if he would share it with her. No, not if, he corrected himself. When.
Maggie set the teapot on the table along with two thick pottery mugs. “Did you enjoy your stay at Blackthorn Cottage?” she asked as she poured.
“I did. Your sister’s charming. And her cooking memorable.”
Maggie softened, added three generous spoons of sugar to her tea. “Brie’s a homemaker in the best sense of the word. Did she make her currant buns this morning?”
“I had two of them.”
Relaxed again, Maggie laughed and propped one booted foot on her knee. “Our father used to say Brie got all the gold and I the brass. I’m afraid you won’t get any home-baked buns here, Sweeney, but I could probably dig out a tin of biscuits.”
“No need.”
“You’d probably rather get straight to business.” Cupping the mug in both hands, Maggie leaned forward. “What if I were to tell you plain I’m not interested in your offer?”
Rogan considered, sipping his tea black and strong. “I’d have to call you a liar, Maggie.” He grinned at the fire that erupted in her eyes. “Because if you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t have agreed to see me this morning. And I certainly wouldn’t be drinking tea in your kitchen.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “We’ll agree, however, that you don’t want to be interested.”
A clever man, she mused, only slightly mollified. Clever men were dangerous ones. “I’ve no wish to be produced, or managed, or guided.”
“We rarely wish for what we need.” He watched her over the rim of his cup, calculating even as he enjoyed the way the faint flush seemed to silken her skin, deepen the green of her eyes. “Why don’t I explain myself more clearly? Your art is your domain. I have no intention of interfering in any way with what you do in your studio. You create what you’re inspired to create, when you’re inspired to create it.”
“And what if what I create isn’t to your taste?”
“I’ve shown and sold a great number of pieces I wouldn’t care to have in my home. That’s the business, Maggie. And as I won’t interfere with your art, you won’t interfere with my business.”
“I’ll have no say in who buys my work?”
“None,” he said simply. “If you have an emotional attachment to a piece, you’ll have to get over it, or keep the
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