“No need.”
“You’d probably rather get straight to business.” Cupping the mug in both hands, Maggie leaned forward. “What if I were to tell you plain I’m not interested in your offer?”
Rogan considered, sipping his tea black and strong. “I’d have to call you a liar, Maggie.” He grinned at the fire that erupted in her eyes. “Because if you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t have agreed to see me this morning. And I certainly wouldn’t be drinking tea in your kitchen.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “We’ll agree, however, that you don’t want to be interested.”
A clever man, she mused, only slightly mollified. Clever men were dangerous ones. “I’ve no wish to be produced, or managed, or guided.”
“We rarely wish for what we need.” He watched her over the rim of his cup, calculating even as he enjoyed the way the faint flush seemed to silken her skin, deepen the green of her eyes. “Why don’t I explain myself more clearly? Your art is your domain. I have no intention of interfering in any way with what you do in your studio. You create what you’re inspired to create, when you’re inspired to create it.”
“And what if what I create isn’t to your taste?”
“I’ve shown and sold a great number of pieces I wouldn’t care to have in my home. That’s the business, Maggie. And as I won’t interfere with your art, you won’t interfere with my business.”
“I’ll have no say in who buys my work?”
“None,” he said simply. “If you have an emotional attachment to a piece, you’ll have to get over it, or keep the piece for yourself. Once it’s in my hands, it’s mine.”
Her jaw clenched. “And anyone with the money can own it.”
“Exactly.”
Maggie slapped the mug down and sprang up to pace. She used her whole body, a habit Rogan admired. Legs, arms, shoulders all in rhythmically angry movements. He topped off his tea and sat back to enjoy the show.
“I pull something out of myself, and I create it, make it solid, tangible, real, and some idiot from Kerry or Dublin or, God help me, London, comes in and buys it for his wife’s birthday without having the least understanding of what it is, what it means?”
“Do you develop personal relationships with everyone who buys your work?”
“At least I know where it’s going, who’s buying it.” Usually, she added to herself.
“I’ll have to remind you that I bought two of your pieces before we met.”
“Aye. And look where that’s got me.”
Temperament, he thought with a sigh. As long as he’d worked with artists he’d never understood it. “Maggie,” he began, trying for the most reasonable of tones. “The reason you need a manager is to eliminate these difficulties. You won’t have to worry about the sales, only the creation. And yes, if someone from Kerry or Dublin, or God help you London comes into one of my galleries and takes an interest in one of your pieces, it’s his—as long as he meets the price. No résumé, no character references required. And by the end of a year, with my help, you’ll be a rich woman.”
“Is that what you think I want?” Insulted, infuriated, she whirled on him. “Do you think, Rogan Sweeney, that I pick up my pipe every day calculating how much profit there might be at the end of it?”
“No, I don’t. That’s precisely where I come in. You’re an exceptional artist, Maggie. And at the risk of inflating what appears to be an already titanic ego, I’ll admit that I was captivated the first time I saw your work.”
“Perhaps you have decent taste,” she said with a cranky shrug.
“So I’ve been told. My point is that your work deserves more than you’re giving it. You deserve more than you’re giving yourself.”
She leaned back on the counter, eyeing him narrowly. “And you’re going to help me get more out of the goodness of your heart.”
“My heart has nothing to do with it. I’m going to help you because your work will add to the prestige of my galleries.”
“And to your pocketbook.”
“One day you’ll have to explain to me the root of your disdain for money. In the meantime, your tea’s getting cold.”
Maggie let out a long breath. She wasn’t doing a good job of flattering him, she reminded herself, and returned to the table. “Rogan.” She let herself smile. “I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. Your galleries have a reputation for quality and integrity, which I’m sure is a reflection of yourself.”
She was good, he mused, and ran his tongue over his teeth. Very good. “I like to think so.”
“Doubtless any artist would be thrilled to be considered by you. But I’m accustomed to dealing for myself, for handling all the aspects of my work from making the glass to selling the finished piece—or at least placing it into the hands of someone I know and trust to sell it. I don’t know you.”
“Or trust me?”
She lifted a hand, let it fall. “I would be a fool not to trust Worldwide Galleries. But it’s difficult for me to imagine a business of that size. I’m a simple woman.”
He laughed so quickly, so richly, that she blinked. Before she could recover, he was leaning forward, taking one of her hands in his. “Oh, no, Margaret Mary, simple is exactly what you are not. Canny, obstinate, brilliant, bad-tempered and beautiful you are. But simple, never.”
“I say I am.” She yanked her hand free and struggled not to be charmed. “And I know myself better than you do or ever will.”
“Every time you finish a sculpture you’re shouting out this is who I am. At least for today. That’s what makes art true.”
She couldn’t argue with him. It was an observation she hadn’t expected from a man of his background. Making money from art didn’t mean you understood it. Apparently, he did.
“I’m a simple woman,” she said again, daring him to contradict her a second time. “And I prefer to stay that way. If I agree to your management, there will be rules. Mine.”
He had her, and he knew it. But a wise negotiator was never a smug one. “What are they?” he asked.
“I’ll do no publicity, unless it suits me. And I can promise you it won’t.”
