Free Born in Fire by Nora Roberts

spread his hands, steepled them again. “You have merely to create.”
    “Oh, as if all it takes is sitting on me ass and waiting for the inspiration to come fluttering down like raindrops. You know nothing, nothing about it.” She began to pace again, swirling the air with temper and energy. “I’ll remind you, you’d have nothing to sell without me. And it’s my work, my sweat and blood that they’ll spend good money for. You’ll get fifteen percent.”
    “I’ll get thirty.”
    “Plague take you, Rogan, for a horse thief. Twenty.”
    “Twenty-five.” He rose then to stand toe to toe with her. “Worldwide will earn a quarter of your sweat and blood, Maggie, I promise you.”
    “A quarter.” She hissed through her teeth. “That’s a businessman for you, preying on art.”
    “And making the artist financially secure. Think of it, Maggie. Your work will be seen in New York, in Rome and Paris. And no one who sees it will forget it.”
    “Oh, it’s clever you are, Rogan, taking a quick turn from money into fame.” She scowled at him then stuck out her hand. “The hell with it and you, you’ll have your twenty-five percent.”
    Which was exactly what he’d planned on. He took her hand, held it. “We’re going to do well together, Maggie.”
    Well enough, she hoped, to settle her mother in the village and away from Blackthorn Cottage. “If we don’t, Rogan, I’ll see that you pay for it.”
    Because he’d enjoyed the taste of her, he lifted her hand to his lips. “I’ll risk it.”
    His lips lingered there long enough to make her pulse stutter. “If you were going to try to seduce me, you’d have been smarter to start before we had a deal.”
    The statement both surprised and annoyed him. “I prefer to keep personal and professional matters separate.”
    “Another difference between us.” It pleased her to see she’d scratched the seamlessly polite exterior. “My personal and professional lives are always fusing. And I indulge both when the whim strikes.” Smiling, she slipped her hand from his. “It hasn’t as yet—personally speaking. I’ll let you know if and when it does.”
    “Are you baiting me, Maggie?”
    She stopped as if thinking it through. “No, I’m explaining to you. Now I’ll take you to the glass house so you can choose what you want shipped to Dublin.” She turned to pull a jacket from a peg by the back door. “You might want your coat. It’d be a shame to get that fancy suit wet.”
    He stared at her a moment, wondering why he should feel so completely insulted. Without a word he turned on his heel and strode back into the living room for his coat.
    Maggie took the opportunity to step outside and cool her blood in the chilly rain. Ridiculous, she told herself, to get so sexually tied up over having her hand kissed. Rogan Sweeney was smooth, too smooth. It was a fortunate thing he lived on the other side of the country. More fortunate yet, he wasn’t her type.
    Not at all.

Chapter Five
    T HE high grass beside the ruined abbey made a lovely resting place for the dead. Maggie had fought to have her father buried there, rather than in the tidy and cold ground near the village church. She had wanted the peace, and the touch of royalty for her father. For once, Brianna had argued with her until their mother had sullenly closed her mouth and washed her hands of the arrangements.
    Maggie visited there only twice a year, once on her father’s birthday and once on her own. To thank him for the gift of her life. She never came on the anniversary of his death, nor did she allow herself to mourn in private.
    Nor did she mourn him now, but sat down on the grass beside him, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The sun fought through layers of clouds to gild the graves and the wind was fresh, smelling of wildflowers.
    She hadn’t brought flowers with her, never did. Brianna had planted a bed right over him, so that as spring warmed the earth, his grave