Born in Fire
Page 64

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.”
The notion of strolling through the great museum pleased her. She topped off Rogan’s coffee, then heated up her own cup of tea. “I’d like to wander about, I suppose. As for shopping, I’ll want to find something to take back for Brie.”
“You should have something for Maggie as well.”
“Maggie doesn’t need anything. Besides, I can’t afford it.”
“That’s absurd. You’ve no need to deny yourself a present or two. You’ve earned it.”
“I’ve spent what I’ve earned.” She grimaced over her cup. “Do they have the nerve to call this tea?”
“What do you mean you’ve spent it?” He set down his fork. “Only a month ago I gave you a check in the six figures. You can hardly have frittered that away.”
“Frittered?” She gestured dangerously with her knife. “Do I look like a fritterer?”
“Good God, no.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean? That I haven’t the taste or style to spend my money well?”
He held up a hand for peace. “It means nothing more than no. But if you’ve wasted the money I gave you, I’d like to know how.”
“I wasted nothing, as if it were your business to begin with.”
“You are my business. If you can’t manage your money, I’ll do it for you.”
“You’ll not. Why you pompous, penny-pinching ass, ’tis mine, isn’t it? And it’s gone, or most of it. So you’ll just have to see that you sell my work and get me more.”
“That’s precisely what I’ll do. Now, where did it go?”
“Away.” Infuriated, embarrassed, she shoved back from the table. “I’ve expenses, don’t I? I needed supplies, and I was foolish enough to buy a dress.”’
He folded his hands. “You spent, in a month’s time, nearly two hundred thousand pounds on supplies and a dress.”
“I had a debt to pay,” she raged at him. “And why should I have to explain to you? It says nothing of how I spend my money in your bloody contract.”
“The contract has nothing to do with it,” he said patiently, because he could see it wasn’t anger so much as mortification that was driving her. “I’m asking you where the money went. But you’re certainly under no legal obligation to tell me.”