Born in Fire by Nora Roberts Page A

boost. And she wouldn’t even spare the time to pick up the damn phone and have a reasonable conversation.
    He was used to artists. Sweet Mary knew he had dealt with their eccentricities, their insecurities, their often childish demands. It was his job to do so, and he considered himself adept. But Maggie Concannon was trying both his skill and his patience.
    He relocked the doors behind him and breathed in the quietly scented air of the gallery. Built by his grandfather, the building was lofty and grand, a striking testament to art with its Gothic stonework and carved balusters.
    The interior consisted of dozens of rooms, some small, some large, all flowing into the next with wide archways. Stairs curved up fluidly to a second story that housed a ballroom-size space along with intimate parlors fitted with antique sofas.
    It was there he would show Maggie’s work. In the ballroom he would have a small orchestra. While the guests enjoyed the music, the champagne, the canapes, they could browse among her strategically placed works. The larger, bolder pieces he would highlight, showcasing smaller pieces in more intimate settings.
    Imagining it, refining the pictures in his mind, he walked through the lower gallery toward the office and storage rooms.
    He found his gallery manager, Joseph Donahoe, pouring coffee in the kitchenette.
    “You’re here early.” Joseph smiled, showing the flash of one gold tooth. “Coffee?”
    “Yes. I wanted to check on the progress upstairs before heading into the office.”
    “Coming right along,” Joseph assured him. Though the two men were of an age, Joseph’s hair was thinning on top. He compensated for the loss by growing it long enough to tie in a streaming ponytail. His nose had been broken once by a wayward polo mallet and so listed a bit to the left. The result was the look of a pirate in a Savile Row suit.
    The women adored him.
    “You look a bit washed-out.”
    “Insomnia,” Rogan said, and took his coffee black. “Did yesterday’s shipment get unpacked?”
    Joseph winced. “I was afraid you’d ask.” He lifted his cup and muttered into it. “Hasn’t come in.”
    “What?”
    Joseph rolled his eyes. He’d worked for Rogan for more than a decade and knew that tone. “It didn’t arrive yesterday. I’m sure it’ll be along this morning. That’s why I came in early myself.”
    “What is that woman doing? Her instructions were very specific, very simple. She was to ship the last of the pieces overnight.”
    “She’s an artist, Rogan. She probably got struck by inspiration and worked past the time to post it. We’ve got plenty of time.”
    “I won’t have her dragging her feet.” Incensed, Rogan snapped up the kitchen phone. He didn’t have to look up Maggie’s number in his address book. He already knew it by heart. He stabbed buttons and listened to the phone ring. And ring. “Irresponsible twit.”
    Joseph took out a cigarette as Rogan slammed down the receiver. “We have more than thirty pieces,” he said as he flicked an ornate enameled lighter. “Even without this last shipment, it’s enough. And the work, Rogan. Even a jaded old hand like me is dazzled.”
    “That’s hardly the point, is it?”
    Joseph blew out smoke, pursed his lips. “Actually, it is, yes.”
    “We agreed on forty pieces, not thirty-five, not thirty-six. Forty. And by God, forty is what I’ll have.”
    “Rogan—where are you going?” he called out when Rogan stormed from the kitchen.
    “To goddamn Clare.”
    Joseph took another drag on his cigarette and toasted the air with his coffee cup. “Bon voyage.”
    The flight was a short one and didn’t give Rogan’s temper time to cool. The fact that the sky was gloriously blue, the air balmy, didn’t change a thing. When he slammed the door on his rental car and headed away from Shannon Airport, he was still cursing Maggie.
    By the time he arrived at her cottage, he was at full boil.
    The nerve of the woman, he thought as he