He slapped the receiver into the cradle, where it jiggled then slipped off to crash against the counter.

“I interrupted your call,” she began, then laughed when he dragged her against him.

It was happening again. He could almost stand outside himself and watch the animal inside take over. With one desperate yank, he pulled her head back by the hair and savaged her throat, her mouth. The need to take her was raging, some fatal drug that stabbed into his veins, speeding up his heartbeat and clouding his mind.

He would hurt her again. Even knowing it, he couldn’t stop. With a sound, part rage, part triumph, he pushed her back on the kitchen table.

He had the dark, twisted satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in surprise. “Rogan, your papers.”

He jerked her hips from the edge of the wood, raising them with his hands. His eyes were warrior bright on hers as he drove himself into her.

Her hand flailed out, knocked the cup from its saucer and sent both flying to the floor. China shattered, even as the jolting table sent his open briefcase crashing to the ground.

Stars seemed to explode in front of Maggie’s eyes as she gave herself up to the delirium. She felt the rough wood on her back, the sweat that bloomed up to slicken her skin. And when he braced her legs higher and thrust himself deep, she could have sworn she felt him touch her heart.

Then she felt nothing at all but the wild wind that tossed her up and up and over that jagged-edged peak. She gasped for air like a woman drowning, then expelled it on a long, languorous moan.

Later, sometime later, when she found she could speak, she was cradled in his arms. “Did you finish your calls, then?”

He laughed and carried her out of the kitchen.

It was early when he left her. A sunshower tossed wavering rainbows into the morning sky. She’d made some sleepy offer to brew him tea, then had drifted off again. So he’d gone to the kitchen alone.

There’d been a miserable jar of hardening instant coffee in her cupboard. Though he’d winced, Rogan had settled for it, and for the single egg in her refrigerator.

He was gathering up, and trying to sort out, his scattered papers when she stumbled into the kitchen. She was heavy-eyed and rumpled, and barely grunted at him as she headed for the kettle.

So much, he thought, for loverlike farewells.

“I used what appeared to be your last clean towel.”

She grunted again and scooped out tea.

“And you ran out of hot water in the middle of my shower.”

This time she only yawned.

“You don’t have any eggs.”

She muttered something that sounded like “Murphy’s hens.”

He tapped his wrinkled papers together and stacked them in his briefcase. “I’ve left the clippings you wanted on the counter. There’ll be a truck by this afternoon to pick up the shipment. You’ll need to crate it before one o’clock.”

When he made no answer at all to this, he snapped his briefcase closed. “I have to go.” Annoyed, he strode to her, took her chin firmly in hand and kissed her. “I’ll miss you, too.”

He was out the front door before she could gather her wits and chase after him. “Rogan! For pity’s sake, hold up a moment. I’ve barely got my eyes open.”

He turned just as she launched herself at him. Off balance, he nearly tumbled them both into the flower bed. Then she was caught close and they were kissing each other breathless in the soft, luminous rain.

“I will miss you, damn it.” She pressed her face into his shoulder, breathed deep.

“Come with me. Go throw some things in a bag and come with me.”

“I can’t.” She drew back, surprised at how sorry she was to have to refuse. “I’ve some things I need to do. And I—I can’t really work in Dublin.”

“No,” he said after a long moment. “I don’t suppose you can.”

“Could you come back? Take a day or two.”

“It’s not possible now. In a couple of weeks, perhaps I could.”

“Well, that’s not so long.” It seemed like eternity. “We can both get what needs to be done done, and then…”

“And then.” He bent to kiss her. “You’ll think of me, Margaret Mary.”

“I will.”

She watched him go, carrying his briefcase to the car, starting the engine, backing out into the road.

She stood for a long time after the sound of the car had faded, until the rain stopped and the sun gilded the morning.

Chapter Thirteen

MAGGIE walked across the empty living room, took a long look out of the front window, then retraced her steps. It was the fifth house she had considered in a week, the only one not currently occupied by hopeful sellers, and the last one she intended to view.

It was on the outskirts of Ennis, a bit farther away than Brianna might have liked—and not far enough to Maggie’s taste. It was new, which was in its favor, a box of a house with the rooms all on one floor.

Two bedrooms, Maggie mused as she walked through yet again. A bath, a kitchen with room for eating, a living area with plenty of light and tidy brick hearth.

She took one last glance, set her fists on her hips. “This is it.”

“Maggie, it’s certainly the right size for her.” Brianna nibbled her lip as she scanned the empty room. “But shouldn’t we have something closer to home?”

“Why? She hates it there in any case.”

“But—”

“And this is closer to more conveniences. Food shops, the chemist, places to eat out if she’s of a mind to.”

“She never goes out.”

“It’s time she did. And since she won’t have you jumping at every snap of her finger, she’ll have to, won’t she?”

“I don’t jump.” Spine stiff, Brianna walked to the window. “And the fact of the matter is, she’s likely to refuse to move here in any case.”

“She won’t refuse.” Not, Maggie thought, with the ax I hold over her head. “If you’ll let go of that guilt you love wrapping about you for a moment, you’ll admit this is best for everyone. She’ll be happier in her own place—or as happy as a woman of her nature can be. You can give her whatever she wants out of the house if that eases your conscience, or I’ll give her money to buy new. Which is what she’d rather.”