Born in Shame
Page 72
“Do you like it?” Maggie’s voice might have been casual, but she couldn’t prevent the quick spurt of pleasure at Shannon’s dazzled reaction.
“It’s incredible.”
“Surrender, I called it.”
“Yes, of course. You could make this,” she murmured, in wonder, “something like this, in that little place in the country.”
“Why not? A real artist doesn’t need fancy digs. Ah, here’s the food. Bless you, Noreen.”
Maggie was already involved in a chicken sandwich when Shannon came over to join her. “Where’s Liam?”
“Oh, one of the maids has a crush on him. She’s whisked him off to the nursery to make him hot chocolate and spoil him. Better have one of these before I eat them all.”
Taking her at word, Shannon chose one of the little sandwiches. “This is a magnificent house.”
“It’s lovely, to be sure, but never empty. Having servants about still makes me twitchy.” She shrugged. “There’s no doubt we’ll need help after the new baby comes. I’ll have to lock myself in the glass house for any privacy.”
“Most people would be thrilled to be able to have housekeepers and cooks.”
“I’m not most people.” Maggie bit off more chicken. “But I’m learning to live with it. Rogan’s on the phone,” she added. “He’s mad for phones. There’s business at the Paris branch he should be seeing to in person. But he won’t leave while I’m having this problem in the mornings. Doesn’t even help to shout at him. When the man’s dug in his heels, you can’t budge him with a brick.”
She moved on to the pasta curls and gave Shannon a speculative look. “His mind’s set on having you.”
“Well, mine’s not set. Entirely.”
“First I’m going to tell you that when the man came after me, I had no intention of being managed. By anyone at all. He has a way, Rogan does, of seeing right into you, finding those weaknesses and prides and secrets you’d just as soon keep to yourself. Then he uses them. With charm, with ruthlessness, with logic, and with such organized planning that he’s always one step ahead.”
“I’ve noticed. He got me here, when I had every intention of telling him thanks, but no thanks.”
“It’s not just a business with him. He’d be easier to resist if it was. He has a great love and affection for art, and for the artist. And what he’s done in Clare . . .” The pride for him came into her voice, into her eyes. “He’s made something important there, for art, for Ireland. He’s done it because he’s tied by his heart to both.”
“He’s a very special man, personally and professionally. You don’t have to know him long to see that.”
“No, you don’t. So second . . .” Maggie dusted her fingers with a napkin. “I’m going to ask what the hell’s wrong with you?”
Shannon’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Why the devil are you dragging your heels on this? The man’s offering you the moon and half the stars. An artist dreams about the chance of having what you’ve got right in your hands, and you keep bobbling it.”
“Bobbling is not what I’m doing,” Shannon corrected coolly. “Considering is.”
“What do you have to consider at this point? You have the paintings, you’ll do more.”
“It’s the doing more I’m considering.”
Maggie gave a snort and forked up more pasta. “What nonsense. You can sit there and tell me you could stop—just set your brushes aside and leave your canvas blank?”
“When I get back to New York, I won’t be free to indulge myself as I have here.”
“Indulge.” Maggie set her fork down with a clatter and leaned forward. “You have some warped idea in your head that your painting is an indulgence.”
“My position at Ry-Tilghmanton—”
“Oh, f**k that.”
“Is important to me,” Shannon finished between her teeth. “And my responsibilities there leave me little time to paint for pleasure—much less to paint for someone who you’ll agree is a demanding manager.”
“What of your responsibilities to yourself, and your talent? Do you think you have the right to toss away what you’ve been given?” The very idea of it was an abomination in Maggie’s mind and heart. “I’ve only seen your paintings of Ireland, but they show you have more than a good eye and a competent hand. You’ve got a heart that sees and understands. You’ve no right to toss that away so you can draw bottles of water.”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” Shannon said quietly. “I have a right to do what works for me, what satisfies me. And that’s just what I’ll do. If Rogan asked you to work on me—”
“You’ll not blame him because I speak my own mind.” They rose together, boxers meeting in the center of the mat. “He asked me only to come along so you’d have company when he was occupied.”
“I’m sure he thought that was considerate. Now get this straight, this transaction, however it works out, isn’t your concern. It’s between me and Rogan.”
“Transaction.” On a sound of disgust Maggie dropped back into her chair again. “You even talk more like a businesswoman than an artist.”
Shannon jerked up her chin and looked down her nose. “That fails to insult me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go out and get some air.”
Chapter Nineteen
She was not going to let it get to her. Shannon promised herself that Maggie’s opinionated, out-of-line attitude was not going to sway her in any way, or put a shadow over her visit to Dublin.
The evening, at least, was companionable and pleasant. Thanks, in Shannon’s opinion, to Rogan’s flawless manners and hospitality. Not once through dinner, or the easy evening that followed, did he mention the contract or the plans he had in the making.
Which, she supposed, was why she was so off guard the following morning when he escorted her into his library directly after they’d shared a quiet breakfast. He shot straight from the hip.
“You have an eleven o’clock appointment with the photographer,” he told her the moment they were seated. “They’ll tend to your hair and makeup, so you needn’t worry about it. I had in mind something on the elegant side, but not strictly formal. Jack, that’s the photographer, will know what to do with you.”
“It’s incredible.”
“Surrender, I called it.”
“Yes, of course. You could make this,” she murmured, in wonder, “something like this, in that little place in the country.”
“Why not? A real artist doesn’t need fancy digs. Ah, here’s the food. Bless you, Noreen.”
Maggie was already involved in a chicken sandwich when Shannon came over to join her. “Where’s Liam?”
“Oh, one of the maids has a crush on him. She’s whisked him off to the nursery to make him hot chocolate and spoil him. Better have one of these before I eat them all.”
Taking her at word, Shannon chose one of the little sandwiches. “This is a magnificent house.”
“It’s lovely, to be sure, but never empty. Having servants about still makes me twitchy.” She shrugged. “There’s no doubt we’ll need help after the new baby comes. I’ll have to lock myself in the glass house for any privacy.”
“Most people would be thrilled to be able to have housekeepers and cooks.”
“I’m not most people.” Maggie bit off more chicken. “But I’m learning to live with it. Rogan’s on the phone,” she added. “He’s mad for phones. There’s business at the Paris branch he should be seeing to in person. But he won’t leave while I’m having this problem in the mornings. Doesn’t even help to shout at him. When the man’s dug in his heels, you can’t budge him with a brick.”
She moved on to the pasta curls and gave Shannon a speculative look. “His mind’s set on having you.”
“Well, mine’s not set. Entirely.”
“First I’m going to tell you that when the man came after me, I had no intention of being managed. By anyone at all. He has a way, Rogan does, of seeing right into you, finding those weaknesses and prides and secrets you’d just as soon keep to yourself. Then he uses them. With charm, with ruthlessness, with logic, and with such organized planning that he’s always one step ahead.”
“I’ve noticed. He got me here, when I had every intention of telling him thanks, but no thanks.”
“It’s not just a business with him. He’d be easier to resist if it was. He has a great love and affection for art, and for the artist. And what he’s done in Clare . . .” The pride for him came into her voice, into her eyes. “He’s made something important there, for art, for Ireland. He’s done it because he’s tied by his heart to both.”
“He’s a very special man, personally and professionally. You don’t have to know him long to see that.”
“No, you don’t. So second . . .” Maggie dusted her fingers with a napkin. “I’m going to ask what the hell’s wrong with you?”
Shannon’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Why the devil are you dragging your heels on this? The man’s offering you the moon and half the stars. An artist dreams about the chance of having what you’ve got right in your hands, and you keep bobbling it.”
“Bobbling is not what I’m doing,” Shannon corrected coolly. “Considering is.”
“What do you have to consider at this point? You have the paintings, you’ll do more.”
“It’s the doing more I’m considering.”
Maggie gave a snort and forked up more pasta. “What nonsense. You can sit there and tell me you could stop—just set your brushes aside and leave your canvas blank?”
“When I get back to New York, I won’t be free to indulge myself as I have here.”
“Indulge.” Maggie set her fork down with a clatter and leaned forward. “You have some warped idea in your head that your painting is an indulgence.”
“My position at Ry-Tilghmanton—”
“Oh, f**k that.”
“Is important to me,” Shannon finished between her teeth. “And my responsibilities there leave me little time to paint for pleasure—much less to paint for someone who you’ll agree is a demanding manager.”
“What of your responsibilities to yourself, and your talent? Do you think you have the right to toss away what you’ve been given?” The very idea of it was an abomination in Maggie’s mind and heart. “I’ve only seen your paintings of Ireland, but they show you have more than a good eye and a competent hand. You’ve got a heart that sees and understands. You’ve no right to toss that away so you can draw bottles of water.”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” Shannon said quietly. “I have a right to do what works for me, what satisfies me. And that’s just what I’ll do. If Rogan asked you to work on me—”
“You’ll not blame him because I speak my own mind.” They rose together, boxers meeting in the center of the mat. “He asked me only to come along so you’d have company when he was occupied.”
“I’m sure he thought that was considerate. Now get this straight, this transaction, however it works out, isn’t your concern. It’s between me and Rogan.”
“Transaction.” On a sound of disgust Maggie dropped back into her chair again. “You even talk more like a businesswoman than an artist.”
Shannon jerked up her chin and looked down her nose. “That fails to insult me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go out and get some air.”
Chapter Nineteen
She was not going to let it get to her. Shannon promised herself that Maggie’s opinionated, out-of-line attitude was not going to sway her in any way, or put a shadow over her visit to Dublin.
The evening, at least, was companionable and pleasant. Thanks, in Shannon’s opinion, to Rogan’s flawless manners and hospitality. Not once through dinner, or the easy evening that followed, did he mention the contract or the plans he had in the making.
Which, she supposed, was why she was so off guard the following morning when he escorted her into his library directly after they’d shared a quiet breakfast. He shot straight from the hip.
“You have an eleven o’clock appointment with the photographer,” he told her the moment they were seated. “They’ll tend to your hair and makeup, so you needn’t worry about it. I had in mind something on the elegant side, but not strictly formal. Jack, that’s the photographer, will know what to do with you.”
