Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1)

“Bloody nuisance,” she muttered, but stabbed the buttons until the tape rewound, then played.

“Maggie.” Again, Rogan’s voice filled the room. It made her smile as she realized he had been the one to wake her after all. “Why the devil don’t you ever answer this thing? It’s noon. I want you to call the moment you come in from your studio. I mean it. There’s something I need to discuss with you. So—I miss you. Damn you, Maggie, I miss you.”

The message clicked off, and before she could feel too smug about it, another began.

“Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than spend my time talking to this blasted machine?”

“I don’t,” she answered back, “but you’re the one who put it here.”

“It’s half four now, and I need to go by the gallery. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I need to speak with you, today. I’ll be at the gallery until six, then you can reach me at home. I don’t give a damn how wrapped up you are in your work. Damn you for being so far away.”

“The man spends more time damning me than anything else,” she muttered. “And you’re just as far away from me as I am from you, Sweeney.”

As if in answer, his voice came again. “You irresponsible, idiotic, insensitive brat. Am I supposed to worry now that you’ve blown yourself up with your chemicals and set your hair on fire? Thanks to your sister, who does answer her phone, I know perfectly well you’re there. It’s nearly eight, and I have a dinner meeting. Now you listen to me, Margaret Mary. Get yourself to Dublin, and bring your passport. I won’t waste my time explaining why, just do as you’re told. If you can’t arrange a flight, I’ll send the plane for you. I expect to hear from you by morning, as I’ve neither the time nor the patience to fetch you myself.”

“Fetch me? As if you could.” She stood for a moment, scowling at the machine. So she was supposed to get herself to Dublin, was she? Just because he demanded it. Never a please or a will you, just do what you’re told.

Ice would flow in hell before she’d give him the satisfaction.

Forgetting her hunger, she stormed from the room and up the stairs. Get herself to Dublin, she fumed. The nerve of the man, ordering her about.

She yanked the suitcase out of her closet and heaved it onto the bed.

Did he think she was so eager to see him that she’d drop everything and scramble off to do his bidding? He was going to find out differently. Oh, yes, she decided as she tossed clothes into the case. She was going to tell him differently, in person. Face-to-face.

She doubted he’d thank her for it.

“Eileen, I’ll need Limerick to fax me those adjusted figures before the end of the day.” Behind his desk, Rogan checked off a line of his list, rubbed at the tension at the base of his neck. “And I’ll want to see the report on the construction there the moment it comes in.”

“It was promised by noon.” Eileen, a trim brunette who managed the office as skillfully as she did her husband and three children, jotted a note. “You’ve a two o’clock meeting with Mr. Greenwald. That’s re the changes in the London catalog.”

“Yes, I’ve got that. He’ll want martinis.”

“Vodka,” Eileen said. “Two olives. Should I see about a cheese tray to keep him from staggering out?”

“You’d better.” Rogan drummed his fingers on the desk. “Has there been no call from Clare?”

“None this morning.” She shot a quick, interested look from under her lashes. “I’ll be sure to let you know the moment Miss Concannon calls.”

He made a sound, the vocal equivalent of a shrug. “Go ahead and put that call through to Rome if you will.”

“Right away. Oh, and I have that draft of the letter to Inverness on my desk if you want to approve it.”

“Fine. And we’d best send a wire to Boston. What’s the time there?” He started to check his watch when a blur of color in the doorway stopped him. “Maggie.”

“Aye. Maggie.” She tossed her suitcase down with a thud and fisted her hands on her hips. “I’ve a few choice words for you, Mr. Sweeney.” She bit down on her temper long enough to nod at the woman rising from the chair in front of Rogan’s desk. “You’d be Eileen?”

“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Concannon.”

“It’s nice of you to say so. I must say you look remarkably well for a woman who works for a tyrant.” Her voice rose on the last word.

Eileen’s lips twitched. She cleared her throat, closed her steno pad. “It’s nice of you to say so. Is there anything else, Mr. Sweeney?”

“No. Hold my calls please.”

“Yes, sir.” Eileen walked out, closing the door discreetly behind her.

“So.” Rogan leaned back in his chair, tapped his pen against his palm. “You got my message.”

“I got it.”

She walked across the room. No, Rogan thought, she swaggered across it, hands still fisted on hips, eyes flashing.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that his mouth watered at the sight of her.

“Who in this wide world do you think you are?” She slapped her palms on his desk, rattling pens. “I signed my work to you, Rogan Sweeney, and aye, I slept with you—to my undying regret. But none of it gives you the right to order me about or swear at me every five minutes.”

“I haven’t spoken to you in days,” he reminded her. “So how can I have sworn at you?”

“Over your hideous machine—which I tossed into the garbage this very morning.”

Very calmly, he made a note on a pad.

“Don’t start that.”

“I’m merely noting down that you need a replacement for your answering machine. You had no trouble getting a flight in, I see.”

“No trouble? You’ve been nothing but trouble to me since the moment you walked into my glass house. Nothing but. You think you can just take over everything, not just my work—which is bad enough—but me as well. I’m here to tell you that you can’t. I won’t—where in the hell are you going? I haven’t finished.”

“I never thought you had.” He continued to the door, locked it, turned back.

“Unlock that door.”