Born in Fire by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online

man who wanted to take over her work. “The jackeen.” She used the term, not terribly flattering, for a Dubliner. “Well, you’re a stubborn one, Mr. Sweeney, that’s the truth. I hope you had a pleasant drive so your trip won’t be wasted.”
    “It was a miserable drive.”
    “Pity.”
    “But I don’t consider the trip wasted.” Though he would have preferred a strong cup of tea, he opened the soft-drink can. “You have an interesting setup here.”
    He scanned the room with its roaring furnace, its ovens and benches, the jumble of metal and wooden tools, the rods, the pipes and the shelves and cupboards he imagined held her chemicals.
    “I do well enough, as I believe I told you over the phone.”
    “That piece you were working on when I came in. It was lovely.” He stepped over to a table cluttered with sketch pads, pencils, charcoal and chalk. He picked up a sketch of the glass sculpture now annealing. It was delicate, fluid.
    “Do you sell your sketches?”
    “I’m a glass artist, Mr. Sweeney, not a painter.”
    He shot her a look, set the sketch down again. “If you were to sign that, I could get a hundred pounds for it.”
    She let out a snort of disbelief and tossed her empty can into a waste bin.
    “And the piece you’ve just finished? How much will you ask for it.”
    “And why would that be your business?”
    “Perhaps I’d like to buy it.”
    She considered, scooting up on the edge of a bench and swinging her feet. No one could tell her the worth of her work, not even herself. But a price—a price had to be set. She knew that well. For, artist or not, she had to eat.
    Her formula for figuring price was loose and flexible. Unlike her formulas for making glass and mixing colors it had very little to do with science. She would calculate the time spent on producing the piece, her own feelings toward it, then factor in her opinion of the purchaser.
    Her opinion of Rogan Sweeney was going to cost him dear.
    “Two hundred and fifty pounds,” she decided. A hundred of that was due to his gold cuff links.
    “I’ll write you a check.” Then he smiled, and Maggie realized she was grateful he didn’t seem to use that particular weapon often. Lethal, she thought, watching the way his lips curved, his eyes darkened. Charm floated down on him, light and effortless as a cloud. “And though I’ll add it to my personal collection—for sentiment, shall we say?—I could easily get double that for it at my gallery.”
    “’Tis a wonder you stay in business, Mr. Sweeney, soaking your clients that way.”
    “You underestimate yourself, Miss Concannon.” He crossed to her then, as if he knew he’d suddenly gained the upper hand. He waited until she’d tipped her head back to keep her eyes level with his. “That’s why you need me.”
    “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
    “In here.” He lifted an arm to encompass the room. “I’ve seen that quite dramatically for myself. But the business world is a different matter.”
    “I’m not interested in business.”
    “Precisely,” he told her, smiling again as if she’d answered a particularly thorny question. “I, on the other hand, am fascinated by it.”
    She was at a disadvantage, sitting on the bench with him hovering over her. And she didn’t care for it. “I don’t want anyone messing in my work, Mr. Sweeney. I do what I choose, when I choose, and I get along very well.”
    “You do what you choose, when you choose.” He picked up a wooden form from the bench as if to admire the grain. “And you do it very well. What a loss it would be for someone with your talent to merely get along. As to…messing about with your work, I have no intention of doing so. Though watching you work was certainly interesting.” His eyes cut from the mold back to her with a speed that made her jolt. “Very interesting.”
    She pushed off the bench, the better to stand on her own feet. To gain the room required, she shoved him aside. “I don’t