"He's like a bullet out of a gun when he gets within ten yards of this place." Rogan lifted a brow as he scanned the little car. "How's this going?"
"A great deal more than slow. Shannon was just coming in for a cup of tea. Will you have a cup?"
"We wouldn't mind that, would we, Liam?"
"Tea," Liam said, grinning, and kissed Shannon dead on the mouth.
"It's the idea of the cake that might go with it that makes him affectionate," Rogan said dryly. "It's you I
was coming to see, Shannon. You've saved me a bit of a walk."
"Oh." It looked as though she were stuck now. Taking it philosophically, she carried Liam into the house.
"Go on into the kitchen," Murphy told them. "I need to clean up."
While Liam chattered in earnest gibberish, Shannon settled into the kitchen with Rogan. It surprised her to see him fill the kettle, measure out tea, heat the pot. She supposed it shouldn't have, but he was so ... smooth, she decided. His clothes might have been casual, but everything about him spoke of money, privilege, and power.
"Can I ask you a question?" she said quickly, before she could change her mind.
"Of course."
"What is a man like you doing here?"
He smiled, so quickly, so stunningly, she had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open. That smile, she realized, was a major weapon.
"Not an office building," he began, "not a theater or a French restaurant in sight."
"Exactly. Not that it's not a beautiful spot, but I keep expecting someone to say 'cut,' then the screen will go blank and I'll realize I've been walking through a movie."
Rogan opened a tin, took out one of Murphy's biscuits to entertain Liam. "My initial reaction to this part of the world wasn't quite as romantic as that. The first time I came out here, I was cursing every muddy mile. Christ, it seemed it would never cease to rain, and a long way from Dublin is the west, in more than miles. Here, let me take him. He'll have crumbs all over you."
"I don't mind." Shannon snuggled Liam closer. "But you settled here," she prompted Rogan.
"We've a home here, and a home in Dublin. I'd wanted the new gallery, been working on the concept of it before I met Maggie. And after I had her under contract, fell in love with her, badgered her into marrying me, the concept becam
e Worldwide Galleries Clare."
"You mean it was a business decision?"
"That was secondary. She's rooted here. If I'd torn her out, it would have broken her heart. So we have Clare, and Dublin, and it contents us."
He rose, going to the kettle that was shooting steam, to finish making the tea. "Maggie showed me the sketch you did of Liam. It takes skill to put so much into a few lines and shadings."
"Charcoal's simple, and kind of a hobby of mine."
"Ah, a hobby." Keeping his cards close to his vest, Rogan turned when Murphy came in. "Is your music a hobby, Murphy?"
"It's my heart." He stopped by the table to ruffle Liam's hair. "Stealing my biscuits. You'll have to pay for that." He snatched the boy up, tickling his ribs and sending Liam into squeals of laughter.
"Truck," Liam demanded.
"You know where it is, don't you? Go on then and get it." Murphy set Liam down, patted his butt. "Sit on the floor in there and play with it. If I hear anything I shouldn't, I'm coming after you."
As Liam toddled off, Murphy opened a cabinet for cups. "He's partial to an old wooden truck I had as a boy," he explained. "Partial enough that it can keep him quiet and out of trouble for ten or fifteen minutes at a go. Sit down, Rogan, I'll tend to the rest of this."
Rogan joined Shannon at the table, smiled at her again. "I had a look at the painting you've finished, the one of the standing stones? I hope you don't mind."
"No." But her brow creased.
"You do some, and Brie wasn't happy about my insisting on going up to look when she mentioned it to me. She said I was to tell you myself I'd invaded your privacy, and apologize for it."
"It doesn't matter, really." She looked up at Murphy as he filled cups. "Thanks."
"I'll offer you a thousand pounds for it."
She was grateful she'd yet to sip tea. Surely she'd have choked on it. "You're not serious."
"I'm always serious about art. If you've anything else finished, or in progress, I'd be interested in having first look."
She was beyond baffled. "I don't sell my paintings."
Rogan nodded, sipped contentedly at his tea. "That's fine. I'll sell them for you. Worldwide would be pleased to represent your work."
Speech was impossible, at least until her mind stopped spinning. She knew she had talent. She would never have risen so far at Ry-Tilghmanton if she'd been mediocre. But painting was for Saturday mornings, or vacations.
"We'd very much like," Rogan went on, knowing precisely how and when to press his advantage, "to feature your work in the Clare gallery."
"I'm not Irish." Because her voice wasn't strong, Shannon frowned and tried again. "Maggie said that you feature only Irish artists there, and I'm not Irish." That statement was met with respectful silence. "I'm American," she insisted, a little desperately.
His wife had told him Shannon would react in precisely this way. Rogan was, as he preferred to be, two steps ahead of his quarry. "If you agree, we could feature you as our American guest artist, of Irish extraction. I have no problem buying your work outright, on a piece by piece basis, but I believe it would be to our mutual benefit to have a more formal agreement, with precise terms."
"That's how he got Maggie," Murphy told Shannon, enjoying himself. "But I wish you wouldn't sell him that painting, Shannon, until I've seen it for myself. Might be I could outbid him."
"I don't think I want to sell it. I don't know. I've never had to think about this." Confused, she pushed at her hair. "Rogan, I'm a commercial artist."
"You're an artist," he corrected. "And you're foolish to put limitations on yourself. If you prefer to think about the standing stones-"