Born in Fire
Page 57

“Leave it at that.” She gripped her hands together until her fingers ached. “I’m humiliated enough.”
“I never thought—” He cursed himself again and, because he felt so miserable, cursed Maggie for being right. “Patty,” he said helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are.” Her voice was cool again, despite his use of her old nickname. “And so am I, for putting you in such an awkward position.”
“It’s my fault. I should have understood.”
“Why should you?” Chilled, she stepped away from his hands, made herself turn. In the dappled starlight, her face was fragile as glass, her eyes as blank. “I’m always there, aren’t I? Dropping by, available for whatever evening you might have free. Poor Patricia, at such loose ends, dreaming up her little projects to keep herself busy. The young widow who’s content with a pat on the head and an indulgent smile.”
“That’s not at all true. It’s not the way I feel.”
“I don’t know how you feel.” Her voice rose, cracked, alarming them both. “I don’t know how I feel. I only know I want you to go, before we say things that would embarrass us both more than we already are.”
“I can’t leave you this way. Please come inside, sit down. We’ll talk.”
No, she thought, she would weep and complete her mortification. “I mean it, Rogan,” she said flatly. “I want you to go. There’s nothing for either of us to say but good night. You know the way out.” She swept past him, into the house.
Damn all women, Rogan thought as he strode into the gallery the following afternoon. Damn them for their uncanny ability to make a man feel guilty and needy and idiotic.
He’d lost a friend, one who was very dear to him. Lost her, he thought, because he’d been blind to her feelings. Feelings, he remembered with growing resentment, that Maggie had seen and understood in the blink of an eye.
He stalked up the stairs, furious with himself. Why was it he had no idea how to handle two of the women who meant so much to him?
He’d broken Patricia’s heart, carelessly. And Maggie, God cursed her, had the power to break his.
Did people never fall in love with anyone who was eager to return it?
Well, he wouldn’t be fool enough to toss his feelings at Maggie’s feet and have her crush them. Not now. Not after he’d inadvertently done some crushing of his own. He could get along very well on his own, thank you.
He stepped into the first sitting room and scowled. They’d put a few more pieces of her work on display. A mere glimpse of what would be toured over the next twelve months. The globe she’d created in front of his eyes gleamed back at him, seeming to contain all the dreams she’d claimed were held inside, dreams that now mocked at him as he stared into its depths.
It was just as well she hadn’t answered the phone when he’d called the night before. Perhaps he’d needed her at that moment while the miserable guilt over Patricia had clawed at him. He’d needed to hear her voice, to soothe himself with it. Instead he’d heard his own, clipped and precise on the answering machine. She’d refused to make the recording herself.
So instead of a quiet, perhaps intimate late-night conversation, he’d left a terse message that would, no doubt, annoy Maggie as much as it annoyed him.
God, he wanted her.
“Ah, just the man I wanted to see.” Cheerful as a robin, Joseph popped into the room. “I’ve sold Carlotta.” Joseph’s self-satisfied smile faded into curiosity when Rogan turned. “Bad day, is it?”
“I’ve had better. Carlotta, you say? To whom?”
“To an American tourist who strolled in this morning. She was absolutely enthralled by Carlotta. We’re having her shipped—the painting, that is—to someplace called Tucson.”
Joseph sat on the corner of the love seat and lighted a celebratory cigarette. “The American claimed that she adores primitive nudes, and our Carlotta was certainly primitive. I’m quite fond of nudes myself, but Carlotta was never my type. Too heavy at the hip—and the brush strokes. Well, the artist lacked subtlety, shall we say.”
“It was an excellent oil,” Rogan said absently.
“Of its type. Since I prefer something a bit less obvious, I won’t be sorry to ship Carlotta off to Tucson.” He pulled a little flip-top ashtray out of his pocket and tapped his cigarette in it. “Oh, and that watercolor series, from the Scotsman? Arrived an hour ago. It’s beautiful work, Rogan. I think you’ve discovered another star.”
“Blind luck. If I hadn’t been checking on the factory in Inverness, I never would have seen the paintings.”
“A street artist.” Joseph shook his head. “Well, not for long, I can guarantee that. There’s a wonderfully mystical quality to the work, rather fragile and austere.” His tooth flashed in a grin. “And a nude as well, to make up for the loss of Carlotta. More to my taste, I’ll have to say. She’s elegant, rather delicate and just a bit sad-eyed. I fell hopelessly in love.”
He broke off, flushing a little around the collar as he saw Patricia in the doorway. His heart trembled hopelessly. Out of your reach, boy-o, he reminded himself. Way out of your reach. His smile was dashing as he rose.
“Hello, Patricia. How lovely to see you.”
Rogan turned, decided he should be flogged for putting those shadows under her eyes.
“Hello, Joseph. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all. Beauty is always welcome here.” He took her hand, kissed it, and called himself an idiot. “Would you like tea?”
“No, don’t trouble.”
“It’s no problem, no problem at all. It’s near to closing.”
“I know. I’d hoped…” Patricia braced herself. “Joseph, would you mind? I need to have a moment alone with Rogan.”
“Of course not.” Fool. Dolt. Imbecile. “I’ll just go on down. I’ll put the kettle on if you change your mind.”
“Thank you.” She waited until he’d gone, then shut the door. “I hope you don’t mind my coming, since it’s so near closing.”
“No, of course not.” Rogan wasn’t prepared, again, he discovered, to handle himself. “I’m glad you came.”