Born in Shame (22 page)

“Don't forget to take your vitamins,” Brianna told Maggie, then leaned into the car to kiss her and Liam goodbye.

“I didn't realize you were coming, Maggie.” Nor did she know how she felt about it. Turning, she gave Brianna a quick embrace and kissed Kayla on the tip of her nose.

“Fly safe.” Brianna jiggled the baby, watching the car until it was out of sight.

It was a short trip to the airport under leaden skies and drizzling rain. Shannon thought back to the day she had landed at the airport that shared her name.

She'd been all nerves and repressed anger. Most of the anger had faded, she realized. But the nerves were still there, jumping now as she considered what this short trip would change in her life.

There was little fuss on their arrival. Shannon decided
Rogan was a man who tolerated none when it came to business. In short order they were seated on his private plane with Liam bouncing at the window, pointing out every truck or cart that came into view.

“He's a traveling man, is Liam.” Maggie settled back, hoping they'd be airborne soon so that she could have a cup of tea. She'd been suffering a great deal more morning queasiness with this pregnancy than she had with her first. And she didn't care for it.

“It's wonderful he can have the experience,” Shannon commented. “I always appreciated it.”

“You did a lot of traveling with your parents.” Rogan slipped a hand over Maggie's, wishing every bit as strongly as she that the morning sickness would run its course.

“My father's favorite hobby. One of my earliest memories is of arriving at the airport in Rome. The rush and the voices, and the color of it. I guess I was about five.”

The plane began to taxi, and Liam hooted with delight.

“He likes this part best.” Maggie kept a smile glued to her face as the takeoff roiled her stomach. Damn, damn, damn, she thought. She would not throw up the pitiful dry toast she'd choked down for breakfast.

“Me, too.” Shannon leaned over, pressing her cheek to Liam's so they could share the excitement together. “There it goes, Liam. We're up with the birds.”

“Birds! Bye. Bye-bye.”

Bye. Shannon sighed a little. Murphy was down there. They hadn't had their full night together as they'd hoped. Between the trip and the rain and a horse with a split hoof, they'd barely had an hour alone.

And time was running out. She was going to have to think of that very soon. New York wouldn't wait forever.

“Bloody hell.”

As Shannon looked back, surprised, Maggie tore off her seat belt and bolted out of the cabin. The lavatory door slammed behind her.

“Bloody hell,” Liam repeated, diction for once nearly perfect.

“Is she airsick?” Shannon reached for her own belt, wondering what, if anything, she should do.

“Morning sick.” Rogan cast a troubled look toward the closed door. “It's plaguing her this time.”

“Should I go see if I can help, or anything?”

“It only makes her madder when you try.” Feeling helpless, Rogan moved his shoulders. “With Liam she had a couple days of queasiness, and that was the end of it. She's more insulted than anything else that she's not sailing so easily through this one.”

“I suppose every pregnancy is different.”

“So we're discovering. She'll want tea,” he said and started to rise.

“I'll make it. Really.” She got up quickly, touched a hand to his shoulder. “Don't worry.”

“She likes it brutally strong.”

“I know.”

Shannon went into the narrow galley. The plane was very much like its owner, she decided. Sleek, efficient, elegant, and organized. She found several different types of tea and, considering Maggie's condition, went for the chamomile.

She stopped what she was doing to look around when the door to the lavoratory opened.

“Steadier?”

“Aye.” But Maggie's voice was grim, somewhat like a warrior who'd just survived another bloody battle. “That ought to do it for today.”

“Go sit down,” Shannon ordered. “You're still white.”

“A sight better than green.” Maggie sniffed, eyed the pot. “You're making flowers.”

“It's good for you. Here.” She handed Maggie a box of crackers she'd found in a cabinet. “Go sit down, Margaret Mary, and nibble on these.”

Too weak to argue, Maggie went back to her seat.

“I'm sorry,” Rogan murmured, slipping an arm around her.

“Don't expect me to say it's not your fault.” But she snuggled her head against him and smiled over at Liam, who was busy deciding whether he would draw with or eat the crayon his father had given him. “Do you know what I'm thinking, Rogan?”

“What are you thinking, Margaret Mary?”

“That I strolled through the world's easiest pregnancy with that little demon there.” She aimed a steely look when Liam lifted the crayon toward his mouth. He grinned and began to attack the coloring book with it instead. “Could be this one's a bit less comfortable because we're going to have a sweet-tempered, biddable child who'll never cause mischief.”

“Hmmm.” He eyed his son, and managed to grab the fat crayon before Liam could draw on the wall of the plane. The boy howled in protest and shoved the coloring book to the floor. “Is that what you'd like?”

Maggie laughed as Liam's temper rolled through the cabin. “Not on your life.”

 

Brianna had spoken no less than the truth. The Dublin house was lovely. Tucked behind graceful trees and gardens, it had a beautiful view of the green. The furnishings were old, with both the distinction and the elegance wealth could buy. Chandeliers dripped, floors gleamed, and servants moved with quick and silent efficiency.

Shannon was given a room with a welcoming four-poster bed, a muted Aubusson, and a stunning O'Keefe. She'd no more than freshened up in the bath before a maid had tidily unpacked her bag and set her toiletries on the Chippendale bureau.

She found Maggie waiting for her in the main parlor downstairs. “They'll be bringing a light meal in,” Maggie told her. “I tend to be starving this time of day after my morning bout.”

“I'm glad you're feeling better. God.” Shannon's eyes widened as they fixed on the sculpture dominating one side of the room. Mesmerized, she walked toward it, her fingers unable to resist one long stroke of the glass.

It was magnificent, erotic, and nearly human in its sinuous limbs and melting features. She could almost see the man and woman, fused together in absolute fulfillment.

“Do you like it?” Maggie's voice might have been casual, but she couldn't prevent the quick spurt of pleasure at Shannon's dazzled reaction.

“It's incredible.”

“Surrender,
I called it.”

“Yes, of course. You could make this,” she murmured, in wonder, “something like this, in that little place in the country.”

“Why not? A real artist doesn't need fancy digs. Ah, here's the food. Bless you, Noreen.”

Maggie was already involved in a chicken sandwich when Shannon came over to join her. “Where's Liam?”

“Oh, one of the maids has a crush on him. She's whisked him off to the nursery to make him hot chocolate and spoil him. Better have one of these before I eat them all.”

Taking her at word, Shannon chose one of the little sandwiches. “This is a magnificent house.”

“It's lovely, to be sure, but never empty. Having servants about still makes me twitchy.” She shrugged. “There's no doubt we'll need help after the new baby comes. I'll have to lock myself in the glass house for any privacy.”

“Most people would be thrilled to be able to have housekeepers and cooks.”

“I'm not most people.” Maggie bit off more chicken. “But I'm learning to live with it. Rogan's on the phone,” she added. “He's mad for phones. There's business at the Paris branch he should be seeing to in person. But he won't leave while I'm having this problem in the mornings. Doesn't even help to shout at him. When the man's dug in his heels, you can't budge him with a brick.”

She moved on to the pasta curls and gave Shannon a speculative look. “His mind's set on having you.”

“Well, mine's not set. Entirely.”

“First I'm going to tell you that when the man came after me, I had no intention of being managed. By anyone at all. He has a way, Rogan does, of seeing right into you, finding those weaknesses and prides and secrets you'd just as soon keep to yourself. Then he uses them. With charm, with ruthlessness, with logic, and with such organized planning that he's always one step ahead.”

“I've noticed. He got me here, when I had every intention of telling him thanks, but no thanks.”

“It's not just a business with him. He'd be easier to resist if it was. He has a great love and affection for art, and for the artist. And what he's done in Clare . . .” The pride for him came into her voice, into her eyes. “He's made something important there, for art, for Ireland. He's done it because he's tied by his heart to both.”

“He's a very special man, personally and professionally. You don't have to know him long to see that.”

“No, you don't. So second . . .” Maggie dusted her fingers with a napkin. “I'm going to ask what the hell's wrong with you?”

Shannon's brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Why the devil are you dragging your heels on this? The man's offering you the moon and half the stars. An artist dreams about the chance of having what you've got right in your hands, and you keep bobbling it.”

“Bobbling is not what I'm doing,” Shannon corrected coolly. “Considering is.”

“What do you have to consider at this point? You have the paintings, you'll do more.”

“It's the doing more I'm considering.”

Maggie gave a snort and forked up more pasta. “What nonsense. You can sit there and tell me you could stop—just set your brushes aside and leave your canvas blank?”

“When I get back to New York, I won't be free to indulge myself as I have here.”

“Indulge.” Maggie set her fork down with a clatter and leaned forward. “You have some warped idea in your head that your painting is an indulgence.”

“My position at Ry-Tilghmanton—”

“Oh, fuck that.”

“Is important to me,” Shannon finished between her teeth. “And my responsibilities there leave me little time to paint for pleasure—much less to paint for someone who you'll agree is a demanding manager.”

“What of your responsibilities to yourself, and your talent? Do you think you have the right to toss away what you've been given?” The very idea of it was an abomination in Maggie's mind and heart. “I've only seen your paintings of Ireland, but they show you have more than a good eye and a competent hand. You've got a
heart that sees and understands. You've no right to toss that away so you can draw bottles of water.”

“You've been doing your homework,” Shannon said quietly. “I have a right to do what works for me, what satisfies me. And that's just what I'll do. If Rogan asked you to work on me—”

“You'll not blame him because I speak my own mind.” They rose together, boxers meeting in the center of the mat. “He asked me only to come along so you'd have company when he was occupied.”

“I'm sure he thought that was considerate. Now get this straight, this transaction, however it works out, isn't your concern. It's between me and Rogan.”

“Transaction.” On a sound of disgust Maggie dropped back into her chair again. “You even talk more like a businesswoman than an artist.”

Shannon jerked up her chin and looked down her nose. “That fails to insult me. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go out and get some air.”

Chapter
Nineteen

She was not going to let it get to her. Shannon promised herself that Maggie's opinionated, out-of-line attitude was not going to sway her in any way, or put a shadow over her visit to Dublin.

The evening, at least, was companionable and pleasant. Thanks, in Shannon's opinion, to Rogan's flawless manners and hospitality. Not once through dinner, or the easy evening that followed, did he mention the contract or the plans he had in the making.

Which, she supposed, was why she was so off guard the following morning when he escorted her into his
library directly after they'd shared a quiet breakfast. He shot straight from the hip.

“You have an eleven o'clock appointment with the photographer,” he told her the moment they were seated. “They'll tend to your hair and makeup, so you needn't worry about it. I had in mind something on the elegant side, but not strictly formal. Jack, that's the photographer, will know what to do with you.”

“Yes, but—”

“Now, Maggie's having a bit of a lie-in this morning, but she'd like to go with you. Liam will stay here, so you can have some time for the two of you to do some shopping, or for Maggie to show you around Dublin.”

“That would be nice.” Shannon drew a breath. She shouldn't have.

“I'm hoping you'll come by the gallery, have a tour. You said you'd been to our branch in New York.”

“Yes, and—”

“I think you'll see we try to create different moods in different cities. In order to reflect the ambience. I'm going to be tied up a great deal of the day.” He glanced briefly at his watch. “Starting almost immediately. But I'd appreciate it if you'd find a moment to come by the office. Maggie can bring you in about three. We can go over whatever changes you'd like in the contracts.”

“Stop.” She held up both hands, unsure if she wanted to scream or to laugh. “You're doing it again.”

“I'm sorry. What's that?”

“Oh, don't apologize or look politely bemused. You know exactly what you're doing. You're the most elegant steamroller I've ever been flattened by.” He flashed a grin that had her shaking her head. “And that—that quick charming smile is lethal. I can see how even someone as stubborn as Maggie crumbled.”

“That she didn't. I had to batter away at her bit by bit.
And you're much more like her than you might like me to point out.” He smothered a fresh grin when Shannon's eyes flashed. “Yes, much more like her.”

“Insulting me is not the way to win me over.”

“Then let me say this.” He folded his hands on the desk. “As your brother-in-law as much as the man who hopes to push forward your career. You didn't come here because I outflanked you, Shannon. That's part of it, yes, that pushed you to move when I pushed you to move. But what I've done is plant an idea in your head.”

“All right, you have. It's an idea I toyed with years ago and dismissed an impractical. You're trying to convince me now that it's not.”

Intrigued, he leaned back and studied her. “Is it money?”

“I have money. More, actually, than I need. My father was very good at making it.” She shook her head. “No, it's not money. Though it's important to me to make my own, to have the satisfaction of that. I need security, and stability, and challenges. I suppose that sounds contradictory.”

“Not at all.”

Seeing he understood, she continued. “The painting I've done on my own, for myself, has always been a habit, a kind of obligation even—something I worked into my schedule like, well, like an appointment with myself.”

“And you're hesitating on making it a focus.”

“Yes, I am. I've done better work here than I have ever in my life. And it pulls me in a direction I never seriously considered taking.” And now that she'd said it, she was more confused than ever. “But what happens when I go back to New York, Rogan, pick up the life I left behind there? If I sign a contract, I'd have given you
my word. How can I do that when I can't be sure I'll be able to keep it?”

“Your integrity's warring with your impulses,” he said, putting his finger straight to the pulse. “And that's a difficult thing. Why don't we oblige them both?”

“How do you propose to manage that?”

“Your contract with Worldwide will encompass the work you've done in Ireland, and what you have ready in New York—with an option,” he continued, running a pen through his fingers, “for a first look at what you may produce over the next two years. Whether it's one piece or a dozen.”

“That's quite a compromise,” she murmured. “But you wanted a show. I don't know if I've enough for that, or if what I have will suit you.”

“We're flexible on the size of a showing. And I'll let you know what doesn't suit me.”

She met his eyes. “I bet you will.”

 

Later, when he'd gone, Shannon wandered back upstairs. He'd given her a great deal to think over. Somehow he'd managed to open a door without forcing her to close another. She could accept his terms and go back to her life without missing a beat.

She found it odd, and more confusing than ever, that she wished he had pressed her into a corner where she'd be forced to make one clear-cut choice.

But there wasn't time to brood on it—not if she wanted to see anything of the city before the photo shoot.

A photo shoot, she thought, chuckling to herself. Imagine that.

She wiped the smile away and knocked briskly on Maggie's bedroom door. “Maggie? Rogan said to wake you.” Hearing no response, Shannon rolled her eyes and
knocked again. “It's past nine, Margaret Mary. Even pregnant women have to get out of bed sometime.”

Impatient, Shannon turned the knob and eased the door open. She could see the bed was empty, and thinking Maggie might be dressing, and ignoring her, she pushed the door wider.

As she started to call out again, she heard the unmistakable sounds of wretched illness from the adjoining bath. It didn't occur to her to hesitate; she simply hurried through to where Maggie was heaving over the toilet.

“Get out, damn you.” Maggie waved a limp hand and fought the next wave of nausea. “Can't a woman retch in private?”

Saying nothing, Shannon walked to the sink and dampened a thick washcloth with cool water. Maggie was too busy heaving to resist when Shannon held the back of her head and pressed the cloth to her clammy brow.

“Poor baby,” Shannon murmured when Maggie sagged weakly. “Horrible way to start the morning. Just rest a minute, get your breath back.”

“I'm all right. Go away. I'm all right.”

“Sure you are. Can you handle some water?” Without waiting for an answer, Shannon walked over to fill a glass, then came back to crouch and ease it to Maggie's lips. “There you go, nice slow sips. It probably tastes like you swallowed a sewer.”

“This child best be a saint.” Because it was there, Maggie leaned against Shannon's shoulder.

“Have you seen your doctor?” To soothe, Shannon took the cloth and ran it gently over Maggie's face. “Isn't there something you can take?”

“I've seen the doctor. Bloody swine. A couple more weeks, he says, and I'll be right as rain. Couple more
weeks,” she repeated, shutting her eyes. “I nearly murdered him on the spot.”

“No jury in the world—if they were women—would convict you. Here, come on, let's get you on your feet. The floor's cold.”

Too weak to argue, Maggie let herself be helped up and guided in toward the bed. “Not the bed. I don't need the bed. I just want to sit a minute.”

“All right.” Shannon led her to a chair. “Want some tea?”

“Oh.” Desperately relieved the spell was over, Maggie let her head fall back and closed her eyes. “I would. If you could call on the phone there down to the kitchen and ask if they'd mind sending some up, and some toast. Dry. I'd be grateful.”

She sat still, while her system leveled off and the chill faded from her skin. “Well,” she said when Shannon replaced the receiver. “That was pleasant for both of us.”

“A lot worse for you.” Not quite sure Maggie should be left alone yet, Shannon sat on the edge of the bed.

“It was kind of you to help me through it. I appreciate it.”

“It didn't sound that way when you were swearing at me.”

A grin twisted Maggie's mouth. “I'll apologize for that. I hate being . . .” She gestured. “Out of control of things.”

“Me, too. You know, I've only been drunk once in my whole life.”

“Once?” The smile turned into a sneer. “And you, Irish as the Rings of Kerry.”

“Nevertheless, while it had its liberating aspects, I found, on hindsight, that it was debilitating. I couldn't quite hit the control button. And there was the added
delight of being sick as a dog on the side of the road on the way home, and the wonder and glory of the morning after. So, I find it more practical to limit my intake.”

“One warms the soul, two warms the brain. Da always said that.”

“So he had his practical side as well.”

“A narrow one. You have his eyes.” She watched Shannon lower them and struggled against her own sense of loss and impatience. “I'm sorry you mind hearing it.”

And so, Shannon discovered, was she. “Both my mother and father had blue eyes. I remember asking her once where she thought I'd gotten my green ones. She looked so sad, for just an instant, then she smiled and said an angel gave them to me.”

“He'd have liked that. And he'd have been glad and grateful that she found a man like your father must have been, to love both of you.” She looked over as the tea was brought in. “There's two cups,” she said when Shannon rose to go. “If you'd like to have one with me.”

“All right.”

“Would it bother you to tell me how they met—your parents?”

“No.” Shannon took her seat again and discovered it far from bothered her to tell the story. It warmed her. When Maggie burst into laughter at the idea of Colin knocking Amanda into the mud, Shannon joined her.

“I'd like to have met them,” Maggie said at length.

“I think they would have liked meeting you.” A little embarrassed by the sentiment, Shannon rose. “Listen, if you'd like to just kick back and rest, I can take a cab to the photographer.”

“I'm fine now. I'd like to go with you—and see Jack torture you the way he did me when Rogan put me through this last.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure. And . . .” She set the tray aside and rose. “I think I'd enjoy spending some time with you.”

“I think I'd enjoy that, too.” Shannon smiled. “I'll wait for you downstairs.”

 

She loved Dublin. She loved the waterways, the bridges, the buildings, the crowds. And oh, she loved the shops. Though she was impatient to do more, see more, Shannon held herself back and indulged Maggie in an enormous midday meal.

Unlike her volatile sister, Shannon hadn't found the photography shoot anything but a pleasant, interesting experience. When she'd pointed that out, Maggie had simply shuddered.

When they left the restaurant, Shannon calculated that they'd broken a record of being in each other's company without harsh words or snide remarks.

She was soon to discover that she shared at least one trait with Maggie. The woman was a champion shopper—zipping from store to store, measuring, considering, and buying without all the wavering and wobbling that annoyed Shannon in many of her friends.

“No.” Maggie shook her head as Shannon held up a biscuit-colored sweater. “You need color, not neutrals.”

“I like it.” Pouting a little, Shannon turned toward a mirror, spreading the sweater up to her neck. “The material's gorgeous.”

“It is, and the color makes you look like a week-old corpse.”

“Damn it.” With a half laugh Shannon folded the sweater again. “It does.”

“You want this one.” Maggie handed her one in mossy green. She stepped behind Shannon, narrowing her eyes at their reflections. “Definitely.”

“You're right. I hate when you're right.” She draped the sweater over her arm and fingered the sleeve of the blouse Maggie had over hers. “Are you buying that?”

“Why?”

“Because I'm having it if you're not.”

“Well, I am.” Smug, Maggie gathered up her bags and went to pay for it.

“You'd probably have put it back if I hadn't said I wanted it,” Shannon complained as they left the shop.

“No, but it certainly adds to the satisfaction of the purchase. There's a cookery shop nearby. I want to pick up some things for Brie.”

“Fine.” Still sulking over the blouse, Shannon fell into step. “What's that?”

“A music store,” Maggie said dryly when Shannon stopped to stare at a display window.

“I know that. What's that?”