“I do absolutely.” So complete was his agreement that he rapped his glass sharply to hers. “As for me, do you know what I wanted to be doing tonight?”
“What?”
“Sitting in my chair, with my feet on the hassock and Irish in my glass, watching the television.” He sighed, regretfully. “But I couldn’t disappoint Anne—or Rogan, for that matter.”
“You know Rogan, then?”
“Like my own son. A fine man he’s turned out to be. He wasn’t yet twenty when I saw him first. His father and I had business together, and the boy couldn’t wait to be part of it.” He gestured vaguely to encompass the gallery. “Smart as a whip, he is.”
“And what business are you in?”
“Banking.”
“Excuse me.” A female voice interrupted them. They looked up to see Patricia standing in the doorway, her hands folded neatly.
“Ah, there’s my love.”
While Maggie looked on, goggle-eyed, the man lunged out of his chair and enfolded Patricia in a hug that could have felled a mule. Patricia’s reaction, rather than stiff rejection or cool disgust, was a quick, musical laugh.
“Daddy, you’ll break me in half.”
Daddy? Maggie thought. Daddy? Patricia Henessy’s father? Anne’s husband? This delightful man was married to that—that icy stick of a woman? It only went to prove, she decided, that the words till death do us part were the most foolish syllables human beings were ever forced to utter.
“Meet my little girl.” With obvious pride, Dennis whirled Patricia around. “A beauty, isn’t she? My Patricia.”
“Yes, indeed.” Maggie rose, grinning. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“And you. Congratulations on the wonderful success of your show.”
“Your show?” Dennis said blankly.
“We never introduced ourselves.” Laughing now, Maggie stepped forward and offered Dennis her hand. “I’m Maggie Concannon, Mr. Connelly.”
“Oh.” He said nothing for a moment as he racked his brain trying to recall if he’d said anything insulting. “A pleasure,” he managed to say as his brain stalled.
“It was, truly. Thank you for the best ten minutes I’ve had since I walked in the door.”
Dennis smiled. This woman seemed downright human, for an artist. “I do like the colors, and the shapes,” he offered hopefully.
“And that’s the nicest compliment I’ve had all evening.”
“Daddy, Mother’s looking for you.” Patricia brushed a stray ash from his lapel. The gesture, one she had carelessly used with her own father countless times, arrowed straight into Maggie’s heart.
“I’d better let her find me, then.” He looked back at Maggie, and when she grinned at him, he grinned back. “I hope we meet again, Miss Concannon.”
“So do I.”
“Won’t you come up with us?” Patricia asked.
“No, not just now,” Maggie answered, not wishing to socialize further with Patricia’s mother.
The bright look faded the moment their footsteps died away on the polished floor. She sat down, alone, in the light-flooded kitchen. It was quiet there, so quiet she could nearly fool herself into believing the building was empty but for her.
She wanted to believe she was alone. More, she wanted to believe the sadness she suddenly felt was just that she missed the solitude of her own green fields and quiet hills, the endless hours of silence with only the roar of her own kiln and her own imagination to drive her.
But it wasn’t only that. On this, one of the brightest nights of her life, she had no one. None of the chattering, brilliant crowd of people upstairs knew her, cared for her, understood her. There was no one abovestairs waiting for Maggie Concannon.
So she had herself, she thought, and rose. And that was all anyone needed. Her work was well received. It wasn’t so difficult to cut through all the fancy and pompous phrases to the core. Rogan’s people liked what she did, and that was the first step.
She was on her way, she told herself as she swung out of the kitchen. She was rushing down the path toward fame and fortune, the path that had eluded the Concannons for the last two generations. And she would do it all herself.
The light and the music sparkled down the staircase like fairy dust along the curve of a rainbow. She stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand clutched on the rail, her foot on the first tread. Then, with a jerk, she turned to hurry outside, into the dark.
When the clock struck one, Rogan yanked at his elegant black tie and swore. The woman, he thought as he paced the darkened parlor, deserved murder and no less. She’d vanished like smoke in the middle of a crowded party arranged for her benefit. Leaving him, he remembered with boiling resentment, to make foolish excuses.
He should have known that a woman of her temperament couldn’t be trusted to behave reasonably. He certainly should have known better than to give her such a prominent place in his own ambitions, his hopes for the future of his business.
How in hell could he hope to build a gallery for Irish art when the first Irish artist he’d personally selected, groomed and showcased had fled her own opening like an irresponsible child?
Now it was the middle of the night, and he’d not had a word from her. The brilliant success of the show, his own satisfaction with a job well done, had clouded over like her precious west county sky. There was nothing he could do but wait.
And worry.
She didn’t know Dublin. For all its beauty and charm there were still sections dangerous to a woman alone. And there was always the possibility of an accident—the thought of which brought on a vicious, throbbing headache at the base of his skull.
He’d taken two long strides toward the phone to telephone the hospitals when he heard the click of the front door. He pivoted and rushed into the hallway.
She was safe, and under the dazzle of the foyer chandelier, he could see she was unharmed. Visions of murder leaped back into his aching head.
“Where in the sweet hell have you been?”
She’d hoped he be out at some high-class club, clinking glasses with his friends. But since he wasn’t, she offered him a smile and a shrug. “Oh, out and about. Your Dublin’s a lovely city at night.”
As he stared at her, his hands closed into ready fists. “You’re saying you’ve been out sightseeing until one in the morning?”