Born in Fire
Page 25
“Hah!” Bristling, she leaned over to jab a finger in his chest. Any thoughts she’d had of easing into romance vanished like smoke. “Stuff your traditions in your hat and wear it well. I don’t cater to them. You might be interested to know that as we approach the twenty-first century, women are doing their own choosing. The fact is we’ve been doing so since time began, those of us sharp enough, and men are just catching on to it.” She plopped back in her chair. “I’ll have you, Rogan, in my time, and in my place.”
It baffled him why such an incredible statement should both arouse him and make him uneasy. “Your father was right, Maggie, about you getting the brass. You have it to spare.”
“And what of it? Oh, I know your type.” Contempt colored her tone. “You like a woman to sit quietly by, mooning a bit, catering to your whims, to be sure, and hoping, while her romantic heart beats desperately in her breast, that you’ll look twice in her direction. She’ll be proper as a saint in public, never a sour word slipping through her rosy lips. Then, of course, when you’ve decided on that time and that place, she’s to transform herself into a veritable tiger, indulging your most prurient fantasies until the lights switch on again and she turns into a door-stop.”
Rogan waited to be sure she’d run down, then hid a smile in his brandy. “That sums it up amazingly well.”
“Jackass.”
“Shrew,” he said pleasantly. “Would you care for some dessert?”
The chuckle tickled her throat, so she set it free. Who would have thought she’d actually come to like him? “No, damn you. I’ll not drag that poor maid away again from her television or her flirtation with the butler or however she spends her evenings.”
“My butler is seventy-six, and well safe from flirtations with a maid.”
“A lot you know.” Maggie rose again and wandered toward a wall of books. Alphabetized by author, she noted, and nearly snorted. She should have known. “What’s her name?”
“Whose?”
“The maid’s.”
“You want to know my maid’s name?”
Maggie stroked a finger down a volume of James Joyce. “No, I want to see if you know your maid’s name. It’s a test.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, grateful that Maggie’s back was to him. What difference did it make if he knew the name of one of his maids? Colleen? Maureen? Hell! The domestic staff was his butler’s domain. Bridgit? No, damn it, it was…
“Nancy.” He thought—was nearly certain. “She’s fairly new. I believe she’s been here about five months. Would you like me to call her back in for an introduction?”
“No.” Casually, Maggie moved from Joyce to Keats. “It was a curiosity to me, that’s all. Tell me, Rogan, do you have anything in here other than classics? You know, a good murder mystery I might pass some time with?”
His library of first editions was considered one of the finest in the country, and she was criticizing it for lacking a potboiler. With an effort, he schooled his temper and his voice. “I believe you’ll find some of Dame Agatha’s work.”
“The British.” She shrugged. “Not bloodthirsty enough as a rule—unless they’re sacking castles like those damn Cromwellians. What’s this?” She bent down, peered. “This Dante’s in Italian.”
“I believe it is.”
“Can you read it, or is it just for show?”
“I can fumble through it well enough.”
She passed by it, hoping for something more contemporary. “I didn’t pick up as much of the language as I should have in Venice. Plenty of slang, little of the socially correct.” She glanced over her shoulder and grinned. “Artists are a colorful lot in any country.”
“So I’ve noticed.” He rose and crossed to another shelf of books. “This might be more what you’re looking for.” He offered Maggie a copy of Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon. “I believe several people are murdered horribly.”
“Wonderful.” She tucked the book under her arm. “I’ll say good night then so you can get back to work. I’m grateful for the bed and the meal.”
“You’re welcome.” He sat behind his desk again, lifted a pen and ran it through his fingers while he watched her. “I’d like to leave at eight sharp. The dining room’s down this hall and to the left. Breakfast will be served anytime after six.”
“I can guarantee it won’t be served to me at that hour, but I’ll be ready at eight.” On impulse she crossed to him, placed her hands on the arms of his chair and leaned her face close to his. “You know, Rogan, we’re precisely what each other doesn’t need or want—on a personal level.”
“I couldn’t agree more. On a personal level.” Her skin, soft and white where the flannel parted at her throat, smelled like sin.
“And that’s why, to my way of thinking, we’re going to have such a fascinating relationship. Barely any common ground at all, wouldn’t you say?”
“No more than a toehold.” His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered, rose to hers again. “A shaky one at that.”
“I like dangerous climbs.” She leaned forward a little more, just an inch, and nipped his bottom lip with her teeth.
A spear of fire arrowed straight to his loins. “I prefer having my feet on the ground.”
“I know.” She leaned back again, leaving him with a tingle on his lips and the heat in his gut. “We’ll try it your way first. Good night.”
She strolled out of the room without looking back. Rogan waited until he was certain she was well away before he lifted his hands and scrubbed them over his face.
Good Christ, the woman was tying him into knots, slippery tangled knots of pure lust. He didn’t believe on acting on lust alone, at least not since his adolescence. He was, after all, a civilized man, one of taste and breeding.
He respected women, admired them. Certainly he’d developed relationships that had culminated in bed, but he’d always tried to wait until the relationships had developed before making love. Reasonably, mutually and discreetly. He wasn’t an animal to be driven by instinct alone.
He wasn’t even certain he liked Maggie Concannon as a person. So what kind of man would he be if he did what he was burning to do at this moment? If he stalked up those stairs, threw open the door to her bedroom and ravished her good and proper.
It baffled him why such an incredible statement should both arouse him and make him uneasy. “Your father was right, Maggie, about you getting the brass. You have it to spare.”
“And what of it? Oh, I know your type.” Contempt colored her tone. “You like a woman to sit quietly by, mooning a bit, catering to your whims, to be sure, and hoping, while her romantic heart beats desperately in her breast, that you’ll look twice in her direction. She’ll be proper as a saint in public, never a sour word slipping through her rosy lips. Then, of course, when you’ve decided on that time and that place, she’s to transform herself into a veritable tiger, indulging your most prurient fantasies until the lights switch on again and she turns into a door-stop.”
Rogan waited to be sure she’d run down, then hid a smile in his brandy. “That sums it up amazingly well.”
“Jackass.”
“Shrew,” he said pleasantly. “Would you care for some dessert?”
The chuckle tickled her throat, so she set it free. Who would have thought she’d actually come to like him? “No, damn you. I’ll not drag that poor maid away again from her television or her flirtation with the butler or however she spends her evenings.”
“My butler is seventy-six, and well safe from flirtations with a maid.”
“A lot you know.” Maggie rose again and wandered toward a wall of books. Alphabetized by author, she noted, and nearly snorted. She should have known. “What’s her name?”
“Whose?”
“The maid’s.”
“You want to know my maid’s name?”
Maggie stroked a finger down a volume of James Joyce. “No, I want to see if you know your maid’s name. It’s a test.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, grateful that Maggie’s back was to him. What difference did it make if he knew the name of one of his maids? Colleen? Maureen? Hell! The domestic staff was his butler’s domain. Bridgit? No, damn it, it was…
“Nancy.” He thought—was nearly certain. “She’s fairly new. I believe she’s been here about five months. Would you like me to call her back in for an introduction?”
“No.” Casually, Maggie moved from Joyce to Keats. “It was a curiosity to me, that’s all. Tell me, Rogan, do you have anything in here other than classics? You know, a good murder mystery I might pass some time with?”
His library of first editions was considered one of the finest in the country, and she was criticizing it for lacking a potboiler. With an effort, he schooled his temper and his voice. “I believe you’ll find some of Dame Agatha’s work.”
“The British.” She shrugged. “Not bloodthirsty enough as a rule—unless they’re sacking castles like those damn Cromwellians. What’s this?” She bent down, peered. “This Dante’s in Italian.”
“I believe it is.”
“Can you read it, or is it just for show?”
“I can fumble through it well enough.”
She passed by it, hoping for something more contemporary. “I didn’t pick up as much of the language as I should have in Venice. Plenty of slang, little of the socially correct.” She glanced over her shoulder and grinned. “Artists are a colorful lot in any country.”
“So I’ve noticed.” He rose and crossed to another shelf of books. “This might be more what you’re looking for.” He offered Maggie a copy of Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon. “I believe several people are murdered horribly.”
“Wonderful.” She tucked the book under her arm. “I’ll say good night then so you can get back to work. I’m grateful for the bed and the meal.”
“You’re welcome.” He sat behind his desk again, lifted a pen and ran it through his fingers while he watched her. “I’d like to leave at eight sharp. The dining room’s down this hall and to the left. Breakfast will be served anytime after six.”
“I can guarantee it won’t be served to me at that hour, but I’ll be ready at eight.” On impulse she crossed to him, placed her hands on the arms of his chair and leaned her face close to his. “You know, Rogan, we’re precisely what each other doesn’t need or want—on a personal level.”
“I couldn’t agree more. On a personal level.” Her skin, soft and white where the flannel parted at her throat, smelled like sin.
“And that’s why, to my way of thinking, we’re going to have such a fascinating relationship. Barely any common ground at all, wouldn’t you say?”
“No more than a toehold.” His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered, rose to hers again. “A shaky one at that.”
“I like dangerous climbs.” She leaned forward a little more, just an inch, and nipped his bottom lip with her teeth.
A spear of fire arrowed straight to his loins. “I prefer having my feet on the ground.”
“I know.” She leaned back again, leaving him with a tingle on his lips and the heat in his gut. “We’ll try it your way first. Good night.”
She strolled out of the room without looking back. Rogan waited until he was certain she was well away before he lifted his hands and scrubbed them over his face.
Good Christ, the woman was tying him into knots, slippery tangled knots of pure lust. He didn’t believe on acting on lust alone, at least not since his adolescence. He was, after all, a civilized man, one of taste and breeding.
He respected women, admired them. Certainly he’d developed relationships that had culminated in bed, but he’d always tried to wait until the relationships had developed before making love. Reasonably, mutually and discreetly. He wasn’t an animal to be driven by instinct alone.
He wasn’t even certain he liked Maggie Concannon as a person. So what kind of man would he be if he did what he was burning to do at this moment? If he stalked up those stairs, threw open the door to her bedroom and ravished her good and proper.
