Well, someone was taking care of her, she realized, and at the moment she could find no cause for complaint.

After a steamy fifteen minutes while the water ran hot, she reached for one of the thick towels folded over a warming bar. It was big enough to wrap her from breast to calf.

She combed her wet hair back from her face, made use of the cream in a crystal decanter, then exchanged the towel for her tattered flannel robe.

Barefoot and curious, she set out to explore.

Her room was off a long wide hall. Low lights tossed shadows over the gleaming floor and its regal red runner. She heard not a sound as she wandered toward the stairs that curved graciously up to another story, and down. She chose down, letting her fingers play along the polished railing.

Quite obviously she wasn’t a guest in a luxury hotel, but in a private home. Rogan’s home, she concluded, with an envious glance at the art that graced the foyer and main hall. The man had a Van Gogh and a Matisse, she realized as her mouth watered.

She found the front parlor, with its wide windows open to the balmy night, a sitting room, its chairs and sofas arranged in conversation groupings. Across the hall was what she supposed would be called the music room, as it was dominated by a grand piano and a gilded harp.

Beautiful it all was, with enough artwork to keep Maggie entranced for days. But at the moment she had another priority.

She wondered how long she would have to search before she found the kitchen.

The light under a door drew her closer. When she looked in, she saw Rogan seated behind a desk, papers arranged in tidy piles before him. It was a two-level room, with his desk on the first and steps leading up to a small sitting area. The walls were lined with books.

Acres of them, she thought at a glance, in a room smelling of leather and beeswax. The room was done in burgundies and dark woods that suited the man as much as it suited the literature.

She watched him, interested in the way he scanned the page in front of him, made quick, decisive notes. He was, for the first time in their acquaintance, without a suit coat or tie. He’d been wearing them, certainly, she mused, but now his collar was unbuttoned, the sleeves of his crisp shirt rolled up to the elbows.

His hair, glinting darkly in the lamplight, was a bit mussed. As if he’d run his hands impatiently through it while he worked. Even as she watched he did so again, raking the fingers through, scowling a bit.

Whatever he was working on absorbed him, for he worked in a steady, undistracted rhythm that was, in some odd way, fascinating.

He wasn’t a man to let his mind wander, she thought. Whatever he chose to do, he would do with the utmost concentration and skill.

She remembered the way he had kissed her. Concentration and skill indeed.

Rogan read the next clause in the proposal and frowned. The wording wasn’t quite right. A modification…He paused, considered, crossed out a phrase and reworded it. The expansion of his factory in Limerick was crucial to his game plan, and needed to be implemented before the end of the year.

Hundreds of jobs would be created, and with the construction of moderate-income apartments that a subsidiary of Worldwide was planning, hundreds of families would have homes as well.

One branch of the business would feed directly into the other, he thought. It would be a small but important contribution to keeping the Irish—sadly, his country’s biggest export—in Ireland.

His mind circled around the next clause, had nearly zeroed in, when he caught himself drifting. Something pulled at his brain, distracting it from the business at hand. Rogan glanced toward the doorway and saw it was not something, but someone.

He must have sensed her standing there, barefoot and sleepy-eyed in a ratty gray robe. Her hair was slicked back, shining red fire, in a style that should have been severe but instead was striking.

Unadorned and fresh-scrubbed, her face was like ivory with a blush of rose beneath. Her lashes were spiked with damp around her slumberous eyes.

His reaction was swift and brutal and human. Even as the heat blasted through him he checked it, ruthlessly.

“Sorry to interrupt.” She flashed him a quick, cheeky smile that tortured his already active libido. “I was looking for the kitchen. I’m half-starved.”

“It’s hardly a wonder.” He was forced to clear his throat. Her voice was husky, as sleepily sexy as her eyes. “When did you eat last?”

“I’m not certain.” Leaning lazily on the doorjamb, she yawned. “Yesterday, I think. I’m still a bit foggy.”

“No, you slept yesterday. All of yesterday—from the time we left your sister’s—and all of today.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “What time is it?”

“Just past eight—Tuesday.”

“Well.” She walked into the room and curled up in a big leather chair across from his desk, as if she’d been joining him there for years.

“Do you often sleep for thirty-odd hours straight?”

“Only when I’ve been up too long.” She stretched her arms high to work out kinks she was just beginning to feel. “Sometimes a piece grabs you by the throat and it won’t let you go until you’ve finished.”

Resolutely, he shifted his gaze from the flesh the fall of her robe had revealed, and looked down blindly at the paperwork before him. He was appalled that he would react like some hormone-mad teenager. “It’s dangerous, in your line of work.”

“No, because you’re not tired. You’re almost unbearably alert. When you’ve simply worked too long, you lose the edge. You have to stop, rest. This is different. And when I’m done, I fall down and stay down until I’ve slept it off.” She smiled again. “The kitchen, Rogan? I’m ravenous.”

Instead of an answer, he reached for the phone and punched in a number. “Miss Concannon is awake,” he said. “She’d like a meal. In the library, please.”

“That’s grand,” she said when he replaced the receiver. “But I could have scrambled myself some eggs and saved your staff the bother.”

“They’re paid to bother.”

“Of course.” Her voice was dry as dust. “How smug you must be to have round-the-clock servants.” She waved a hand before he could answer. “Best we don’t get into that on an empty stomach. Tell me, Rogan, how exactly did I come to be in that big bed upstairs?”

“I put you there.”