Born in Fire by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page A

want a manager.”
    “Ah, but you need one, Margaret Mary. You need one badly.”
    “A lot you know about what I’d be needing,” she mumbled, and began to pace. “Some Dublin sharpie with fancy shoes.”
    Twice as much, he’d said; her mind replayed his earlier words. Twice what she’d asked. And there was Mother to care for, and the bills to pay, and Sweet Jesus, the price of chemicals was murderous.
    “What I need’s peace and quiet. And room.” She whirled back at him. His very presense in the studio was crowding her. “Room. I don’t need someone like you coming along and telling me we need three vases for next week, or twenty paperweights, or a half dozen goblets with pink stems. I’m not an assembly line, Sweeney, I’m an artist.”
    Very calmly, he took a pad and a gold pen out of his pocket and began to write.
    “What are you doing there?”
    “I’m noting down that you’re not to be given orders for vases, paperweights or goblets with pink stems.”
    Her mouth twitched once before she controlled it. “I won’t take orders, at all.
    His eyes flicked to hers. “I believe that’s understood. I own a factory or two, Miss Concannon, and know the difference between an assembly line and art. I happen to make my living through both.”
    “That’s fine for you then.” She waved both arms before setting her fists on her hips. “Congratulations. Why would you be needing me?”
    “I don’t.” He replaced the pen and pad. “But I want you.”
    Her chin angled up. “But I don’t want you.”
    “No, but you need me. And there is where we’ll complement each other. I’ll make you a rich woman, Miss Concannon. And more than that, a famous one.”
    He saw something flicker in her eyes at that. Ah, he thought, ambition. And he turned the key easily in the lock. “Do you create just to hide your gift on your own shelves and cupboards? To sell a few pieces here and there to keep the wolf from the door, and horde the rest? Or do you want your work appreciated, admired, even applauded?” His voice changed, subtly, into a tone of sarcasm so light it stabbed bloodlessly. “Or…are you afraid it won’t be?”
    Her eyes went molten as the blade struck true. “I’m not afraid. My work stands. I spent three years apprenticing in a Venice glass house, sweating as a pontil boy. I learned the craft there, but not the art. Because the art is in me.” She thumped a hand on her chest. “It’s in me, and I breathe in and out into the glass. Any who don’t like my work can jump straight into hell.”
    “Fair enough. I’ll give you a show at my gallery, and we’ll see how many take the jump.”
    A dare, damn him. She hadn’t been prepared for it. “So a bunch of art snobs can sniff around my work while they slurp champagne.”
    “You are afraid.”
    She hissed through her teeth and stomped to the door. “Go away. Go away so I can think. You’re crowding my head.”
    “We’ll talk again in the morning.” He picked up his coat. “Perhaps you can recommend a place I could stay the night. Close by.”
    “Blackthorn Cottage, at the end of the road.”
    “Yes, I saw it.” He slipped into his coat. “Lovely garden, very trim.”
    “Neat and tidy as a pin. You’ll find the beds soft and the food good. My sister owns it, and she has a practical, homemaking soul.”
    He lifted a brow at the tone, but said nothing. “Then I trust I’ll be comfortable enough until morning.”
    “Just get out.” She pulled open the door to the rain. “I’ll call the cottage in the morning if I want to talk to you again.”
    “A pleasure meeting you, Miss Concannon.” Though it wasn’t offered, he took her hand, held it while he looked into her eyes. “A greater one watching you work.” On an impulse that surprised both of them, he lifted her hand to his lips, lingered just a moment over the taste of her skin. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
    “Wait for an invitation,” she said, and closed the door smartly