Born in Fire by Nora Roberts Page B

proposal and frowned. The wording wasn’t quite right. A modification…He paused, considered, crossed out a phrase and reworded it. The expansion of his factory in Limerick was crucial to his game plan, and needed to be implemented before the end of the year.
    Hundreds of jobs would be created, and with the construction of moderate-income apartments that a subsidiary of Worldwide was planning, hundreds of families would have homes as well.
    One branch of the business would feed directly into the other, he thought. It would be a small but important contribution to keeping the Irish—sadly, his country’s biggest export—in Ireland.
    His mind circled around the next clause, had nearly zeroed in, when he caught himself drifting. Something pulled at his brain, distracting it from the business at hand. Rogan glanced toward the doorway and saw it was not some thing, but some one .
    He must have sensed her standing there, barefoot and sleepy-eyed in a ratty gray robe. Her hair was slicked back, shining red fire, in a style that should have been severe but instead was striking.
    Unadorned and fresh-scrubbed, her face was like ivory with a blush of rose beneath. Her lashes were spiked with damp around her slumberous eyes.
    His reaction was swift and brutal and human. Even as the heat blasted through him he checked it, ruthlessly.
    “Sorry to interrupt.” She flashed him a quick, cheeky smile that tortured his already active libido. “I was looking for the kitchen. I’m half-starved.”
    “It’s hardly a wonder.” He was forced to clear his throat. Her voice was husky, as sleepily sexy as her eyes. “When did you eat last?”
    “I’m not certain.” Leaning lazily on the doorjamb, she yawned. “Yesterday, I think. I’m still a bit foggy.”
    “No, you slept yesterday. All of yesterday—from the time we left your sister’s—and all of today.”
    “Oh.” She shrugged. “What time is it?”
    “Just past eight—Tuesday.”
    “Well.” She walked into the room and curled up in a big leather chair across from his desk, as if she’d been joining him there for years.
    “Do you often sleep for thirty-odd hours straight?”
    “Only when I’ve been up too long.” She stretched her arms high to work out kinks she was just beginning to feel. “Sometimes a piece grabs you by the throat and it won’t let you go until you’ve finished.”
    Resolutely, he shifted his gaze from the flesh the fall of her robe had revealed, and looked down blindly at the paperwork before him. He was appalled that he would react like some hormone-mad teenager. “It’s dangerous, in your line of work.”
    “No, because you’re not tired. You’re almost unbearably alert. When you’ve simply worked too long, you lose the edge. You have to stop, rest. This is different. And when I’m done, I fall down and stay down until I’ve slept it off.” She smiled again. “The kitchen, Rogan? I’m ravenous.”
    Instead of an answer, he reached for the phone and punched in a number. “Miss Concannon is awake,” he said. “She’d like a meal. In the library, please.”
    “That’s grand,” she said when he replaced the receiver. “But I could have scrambled myself some eggs and saved your staff the bother.”
    “They’re paid to bother.”
    “Of course.” Her voice was dry as dust. “How smug you must be to have round-the-clock servants.” She waved a hand before he could answer. “Best we don’t get into that on an empty stomach. Tell me, Rogan, how exactly did I come to be in that big bed upstairs?”
    “I put you there.”
    “Did you now?” If he was hoping for a blush or stutter, he’d be disappointed. “I’ll have to thank you.”
    “You slept like a stone. At one point I nearly held a mirror up to your lips to be certain you were alive.” She was certainly alive now, vibrant in the lamplight. “Do you want a brandy?”
    “Better not, before I’ve eaten.”
    He rose, went to a sideboard and poured a single snifter