Rogan stopped in the main room, bit back a sigh. The thin, grizzled-looking man standing there, clutching a ragged portfolio, was no stranger.
“Aiman.” He greeted the roughly dressed man as politely as he would have a silk-draped client. “You haven’t been in for a while.”
“I’ve been working.” A nervous tic worked around Aiman’s left eye. “I’ve a lot of new work, Mr. Sweeney.”
Perhaps he had been working, Rogan mused. He’d most certainly been drinking. The signs were all there in the flushed cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, the trembling hands. Aiman was barely thirty, but drink had made him old, frail and desperate.
He stayed just inside the door, off to the side, so that visitors to the gallery wouldn’t be distracted by him. His eyes pleaded with Rogan. His fingers curled and uncurled on the old cardboard portfolio.
“I was hoping you’d have time to look, Mr. Sweeney.”
“I’ve a show tomorrow, Aiman. A large one.”
“I know. I saw it in the paper.” Nervously, Aiman licked his lips. He’d spent the last of the money he’d earned from sidewalk sales in the pub the night before. He knew it was crazy. Worse, he knew it was stupid. Now he desperately needed a hundred pounds for rent or he’d be out on the street within the week. “I could leave them with you, Mr. Sweeney. Come back on Monday. I’ve—I’ve done some good work here. I wanted you to be the first to see it.”
Rogan didn’t ask if Aiman was out of money. The answer was obvious and the question would only have humiliated the man. He had shown promise once, Rogan remembered, before fears and whiskey had leveled him.
“My office is a bit disrupted at the moment,” Rogan said kindly. “Come upstairs and show me what you’ve done.”
“Thank you.” Aiman’s bloodshot eyes brightened with a smile, with hope as pathetic as tears. “Thank you, Mr. Sweeney. I won’t take up much of your time. I promise you.”
“I was about to have a bit of tea.” Unobtrusively, Rogan took Aiman’s arm to steady him as they started upstairs. “You’ll join me while we look over your work?”
“I’d be pleased to, Mr. Sweeney.”
Maggie eased back so that Rogan wouldn’t see her watching as he took the curve of the stairs. She’d been certain, absolutely certain, that he would boot the scruffy artist out the door. Or, she mused, have one of his underlings do his dirty work for him. Instead he’d invited the man to tea and had led him upstairs like a welcomed guest.
Who would have thought Rogan Sweeney had such kindness in him?
He’d buy some of the paintings as well, she realized. Enough so that the artist could keep his pride, and a meal or two in his belly. The gesture was more impressive to her, more important than a dozen of the grants and donations she imagined Worldwide made annually.
He cared. The realization shamed her even as it pleased her. He cared as much about the very human hands that created art as he did the art itself.
She went back into his office to tidy, and to try to assimilate this new aspect of Rogan to all the others.
Twenty-four hours later Maggie sat on the edge of her bed in Rogan’s guest room. She had her head between her knees and was cursing herself for being vilely ill. It was humiliating to admit, even to herself, that nerves could rule her. But there was no denying it, with the nasty taste of sickness still in her throat and her body shivering with the chills.
It won’t matter, she told herself again. It won’t matter a whit what they think. What I think is what counts.
Oh God, oh God, why did I let myself be pulled into this?
On long, careful breaths, she raised her head. The wave of dizziness slapped her, made her grit her teeth. In the cheval glass across the room, her image shot back at her.
She was wearing nothing but her underwear, and her skin was shockingly white against the lacy black she’d chosen. Her face was pasty looking, her eyes red-rimmed. A shuddering moan escaped her as she lowered her head again.
A fine mess she looked. And it was nothing but a spectacle she was going to make of herself. She’d been happy in Clare, hadn’t she? It was there she belonged, alone and unfettered. Just herself and her glass, with the quiet fields and the morning mists. It was there she would be if it hadn’t been for Rogan Sweeney and all his fancy words tempting her away.
He was the devil, she thought, conveniently forgetting that she’d begun to change her mind about him. A monster he was, who preyed on innocent artists for his own greedy ends. He would squeeze her dry, then cast her aside like an empty tube of paint.
She would have murdered him if she’d had the strength to stand.
When the knock came softly at her door, she squeezed her eyes shut. Go away, she shouted in her mind. Go away and leave me to die in peace.
It came again, followed by a quiet inquiry. “Maggie, dear, are you nearly ready?”
Mrs. Sweeney. Maggie pressed the heels of her hands to her gritty eyes and bit back a scream. “No, I’m not.” She fought to make her voice curt and decisive, but it came out in a whimper. “I’m not going at all.”
With a swish of silk, Christine slipped into the room. “Oh, sweetheart.” Instantly maternal, she hurried to Maggie and draped an arm over her shoulders. “It’s all right, darling. It’s just nerves.”
“I’m fine.” But Maggie abandoned pride and turned her face into Christine’s shoulder. “I’m just not going.”
“Of course you are.” Briskly, Christine lifted Maggie’s face to hers. She knew exactly which button needed to be pushed, and did so, ruthlessly. “You don’t want them to think you’re afraid, do you?”
“I’m not afraid.” Maggie’s chin came up, but the nausea swam like oil in her stomach. “I’m just not interested.”
Christine smiled, stroked Maggie’s hair and waited.
“I can’t face it, Mrs. Sweeney,” Maggie blurted out. “I just can’t. I’ll humiliate myself, and I hate that more than anything. I’d sooner be hanged.”
“I understand completely, but you’ll not humiliate yourself.” She took Maggie’s frozen hands in hers. “It’s true it’s yourself on display as much as your work. That’s the foolishness of the art world. They’ll wonder about you, and talk about you and speculate. Let them.”