Born in Fire by Nora Roberts Page A

she thought practically, since the deed was done and she’d certainly benefited from it. In all likelihood, her clothes were gracing the carved rosewood armoire. As out of place there, she decided with a chuckle, as she was in the glorious lake of smooth linen sheets.
    If she was in a hotel, it was certainly the finest that had ever had her patronage. She scrambled up, stumbled toward the closest door over a deep-piled Aubusson.
    The bath was as sumptuous as the bedroom, all gleaming rose and ivory tiles, a huge tub fashioned for lounging and a separate shower constructed from a wavy glass block. With a sigh of pure greed, she stripped off her nightshirt and turned on the spray.
    It was heaven, the hot water beating on the back of her neck, her shoulders, like the firm fingers of an expert masseuse. A far cry from the stingy trickle her own shower managed at home. The soap smelled of lemon and glided over her skin like silk.
    She saw with some amusement that her few meager toiletries had been set out on the generous counter by the shell-shaped pink sinks. Her robe, such as it was, hung on a brass hook beside the door.
    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