Born in Fire by Nora Roberts

completely content in the gracious parlor, Sèvres cup in his hand, and his head resting against the brocade cushion of a Queen Anne chair. A fire burned quietly in the grate. The flowers and the scones were fresh.
    He enjoyed these occasional teas with his grandmother as much as she did. The peace and order of her home were soothing, as was she with her perpetual dignity and softly faded beauty.
    He knew she was seventy-three and took personal pride in the fact that she looked ten years younger. Her skin was pale as alabaster. Lined, yes, but the marks of age only added to the serenity of her face. Her eyes were brilliantly blue, her hair as soft and white as a first snowfall.
    She had a sharp mind, unquestionable taste, a generous heart and a dry, sometimes biting wit. She was, as Rogan had often told her, his ideal woman.
    It was a sentiment that flattered Christine as much as it concerned her.
    He had failed her in only one way. That was to find a personal contentment that equalled his professional one.
    “How are preparations for the show going?” she asked.
    “Very well. It would be easier if our artist of the moment answered her damn phone.” He brushed that irritation away. “The pieces that have been shipped in are wonderful. You’ll have to come by the gallery and see for yourself.”
    “I may do that.” But she was more interested in the artist than in the art. “Did you say she was a young woman?”
    “Hmmm?”
    “Maggie Concannon. Did you mention she was young?”
    “Oh, middle twenties, I’d expect. Young, certainly, for the scope of her work.”
    Lord, it was like drawing teeth. “And flashy would you say? Like—what was her name—Miranda Whitfield-Fry, the one who did metal sculpture and wore all the heavy jewelry and colored scarves?”
    “She’s nothing like Miranda.” Thank Christ. He remembered with a shudder how relentlessly, and embarrassingly, the woman had pursued him. “Maggie’s more the boots and cotton shirt type. Her hair looks like she had a whack at it with kitchen shears.”
    “Unattractive then.”
    “No, very attractive—but in an unusual sense.”
    “Mannish?”
    “No.” He recalled, uncomfortably, the vicious sexual tug, the sensual scent of her, the feel of that quick, involuntary tremble under his hand. “Far from it.”
    Ah. Christine thought. She would definitely make time to meet the woman who put that scowl on Rogan’s face. “She intrigues you.”
    “Certainly, I wouldn’t have signed her otherwise.” He caught Christine’s look and raised a brow in an identical manner. “It’s business, Grandmother. Just business.”
    “Of course.” Smiling to herself, she poured him more tea. “Tell me what else you’ve been up to.”
    Rogan arrived at the gallery at eight A.M . the next morning. He’d enjoyed an evening at the theater, and a late supper with a sometimes companion. As always, he’d found Patricia charming and delightful. The widow of an old friend, she was, to his mind, more of a distant cousin than a date. They’d discussed the Eugene O’Neill play over salmon and champagne and had parted with a platonic kiss at just after midnight.
    And he hadn’t slept a wink.
    It hadn’t been Patricia’s light laugh or her subtle perfume that had kept him tossing.
    Maggie Concannon, he thought. Naturally the woman was in the forefront of his mind, since most of his time and effort was focused on her upcoming show. It was hardly any wonder that he was thinking of her—particularly since it was all but impossible to speak to her.
    Her aversion to the phone had caused him to resort to telegrams, which he fired off to the west with blistering regularity.
    Her one and only answer had been brief and to the point: STOP NAGGING .
    Imagine, Rogan thought as he unlocked the elegant glass doors of the gallery. She’d accused him of nagging, like some spoiled, whiny child. He was a businessman, for God’s sake, one about to give her career an astronomical