Did failure run in her blood? she wondered. Would she be like her father and fail to achieve the goal that mattered most to her? She was so intent on her work, and on her darkening thoughts, that she hissed in surprise and annoyance as the office door opened.

“Out! Out! Do I have to lock the damn thing?”

“My thoughts exactly.” Rogan closed the door at his back. “What the hell are you doing?”

“An experiment in nuclear physics,” she snapped back. “What does it look like?” Frustrated by the interruption, she blew her choppy bangs out of her eyes and glared. “What are you doing here?”

“I believe this gallery, which includes this office, belongs to me.”

“There’s no forgetting that.” Maggie dipped her brush in a mixture of paint she’d daubed on an old board. “Not with the first words out of everyone’s mouth around here being Mr. Sweeney this and Mr. Sweeney that.” Inspired by this little verbal foray, she washed color over the thick paper she’d tacked to another board.

As she did so his gaze dropped from her face to her hands, and for a moment he was struck speechless. “What in sweet hell are you about?” Dumbfounded, he lunged forward. His priceless and well-loved desk was covered with paint-splattered newspapers, jars of brushes, pencils and—unless he had very much mistaken the sharp smell—bottles of turpentine. “You’re a madwoman. Do you realize this desk is a George II?”

“It’s a sturdy piece,” she responded, with no respect for the dead English king. “You’re in my light.” Distracted, she waved a paint-flecked hand at him. He avoided it out of instinct. “And well protected,” she added. “I’ve a sheet of plastic under the newspaper.”

“Oh well, that makes it all right, then.” He grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged ruthlessly. “If you’d wanted a bloody easel,” he said when they were nose to nose, “I’d have provided you with one.”

“I don’t need an easel, only a bit of privacy. So if you’d make yourself scarce, as you’ve done brilliantly for the past two days—” She gave him a helpful shove. They both looked down at the bold red smudges she’d transferred to his pin-striped lapel.

“Oops,” she said.

“Idiot.” His eyes narrowed into dangerous cobalt slits when she chuckled.

“I’m sorry. Truly.” But the apology was diluted by a strangled laugh. “I’m messy when I work, and I forgot about my hands. But from what I’ve seen, you’ve a warehouse full of suits. You won’t be missing this one.”

“You think not.” Quick as a snake, he dipped his fingers in paint and smeared it over her face. Her squeal of surprise was intensely satisfying. “The color becomes you.”

She swiped the back of her hand over her cheek and spread the paint around. “So you want to play, do you?” Laughing, she snatched up a tube of canary yellow.

“If you dare,” he said, torn between anger and amusement, “I’ll make you eat it, tube and all.”

“A Concannon never ignores a challenge.” Her grin spread as she prepared to squeeze. Retaliation on both sides was interrupted as the office door opened.

“Rogan, I hope you’re not—” The elegant woman in the Chanel suit broke off, pale blue eyes widening. “I beg your pardon.” Obviously baffled, she smoothed back her soft swing of sable hair. “I didn’t know you were…engaged.”

“Your interruption’s timely.” Cool as a spring breeze, Rogan ripped a sheet of newspaper and rubbed at the paint on his fingertips. “I believe we were about to make fools of ourselves.”

Perhaps, Maggie thought, setting aside the tube of paint with a ridiculous sense of regret. But it would have been fun.

“Patricia Hennessy, I’d like to present Margaret Mary Concannon, our featured artist.”

This? Patricia thought, though her fragile, well-bred features revealed nothing but polite interest. This paint-smeared, wild-haired woman was M. M. Concannon? “How lovely to meet you.”

“And you, Miss Hennessy.”

“It’s Missus,” Patricia told her with the faintest of smiles. “But please call me Patricia.”

Like a single rose behind glass, Maggie thought, Patricia Hennessy was lovely, delicate and perfect. And, she mused, studying the elegant oval face, unhappy. “I’ll be out of your way in a moment or two. I’m sure you want to talk to Rogan alone.”

“Please don’t hurry on my account.” Patricia’s smile curved her lips but barely touched her eyes. “I’ve just been upstairs with Joseph, admiring your work. You have an incredible talent.”

“Thank you.” Maggie snatched Rogan’s handkerchief from his breast pocket.

“Don’t—” The order died on his lips as she soaked the Irish linen in turpentine. With something resembling a snarl, he took it back and scrubbed the rest of the paint from his hands. “My office seems to have been temporarily transformed into an artist’s garret.”

“Sure and I’ve never worked in a garret in me life,” Maggie announced, deliberately broadening her brogue. “I’ve annoyed himself by disturbing sacred ground here, don’t you know. If you’ve been acquainted with Rogan long, you’ll understand he’s a finicky man.”

“I’m not finicky,” he said between his teeth.

“Oh, of course not,” Maggie responded with a roll of the eyes. “A wild man he is, as unpredictable as the colors of a sunrise.”

“A sense of organization and control is not generally considered a flaw. A complete lack of it normally is.”

They’d turned toward each other again, effectively, if unintentionally, closing Patricia out, even in the small room. There was tension in the air, and it was obvious to Patricia. She couldn’t forget the time when he had desired her keenly. She couldn’t forget it because she was in love with Rogan Sweeney.

“I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time.” She hated the fact that her voice was stiff with formality.

“Not at all.” Rogan’s scowl was easily transformed into a charming smile as he turned to her. “It’s always a delight to see you.”

“I just dropped in thinking you might be done with business for the day. The Carneys invited me for drinks and hoped you could join us.”