She was beyond baffled. “I don’t sell my paintings.”

Rogan nodded, sipped contentedly at his tea. “That’s fine. I’ll sell them for you. Worldwide would be pleased to represent your work.”

Speech was impossible, at least until her mind stopped spinning. She knew she had talent. She would never have risen so far at Ry-Tilghmanton if she’d been mediocre. But painting was for Saturday mornings, or vacations.

“We’d very much like,” Rogan went on, knowing precisely how and when to press his advantage, “to feature your work in the Clare gallery.”

“I’m not Irish.” Because her voice wasn’t strong, Shannon frowned and tried again. “Maggie said that you feature only Irish artists there, and I’m not Irish.” That statement was met with respectful silence. “I’m American,” she insisted, a little desperately.

His wife had told him Shannon would react in precisely this way. Rogan was, as he preferred to be, two steps ahead of his quarry. “If you agree, we could feature you as our American guest artist, of Irish extraction. I have no problem buying your work outright, on a piece by piece basis, but I believe it would be to our mutual benefit to have a more formal agreement, with precise terms.”

“That’s how he got Maggie,” Murphy told Shannon, enjoying himself. “But I wish you wouldn’t sell him that painting, Shannon, until I’ve seen it for myself. Might be I could outbid him.”

“I don’t think I want to sell it. I don’t know. I’ve never had to think about this.” Confused, she pushed at her hair. “Rogan, I’m a commercial artist.”

“You’re an artist,” he corrected. “And you’re foolish to put limitations on yourself. If you prefer to think about the standing stones—”

“It’s The Dance,” she murmured. “I titled it just The Dance.”

It was then, by the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes, that Rogan knew he had her. But he wasn’t one to gloat. “If you’d prefer to think about that particular work,” he continued in the same mild, reasonable tone, “I wonder if you’d let me take it on loan and display it in the gallery.”

“I . . . Well—” It seemed not only stupid, but ungracious to object. “Sure. If you’d like to, I don’t have a problem with that.”

“I’m grateful.” He rose, half his mission complete. “I need to get Liam home for his nap. Maggie and I are switching shifts about this time today. She’s been working this morning, and now I’m going into the gallery. Shall I go by and pick up the painting on my way?”

“I suppose. Yes, all right. It isn’t framed.”

“We’ll take care of that. I’m going to be drafting up a contract for you to look over.”

Confused, she stared at him. “A contract? But—”

“You’ll take all the time you need to read it through, think it over, and naturally, we’ll negotiate any changes you might want. Thanks for the tea, Murphy. I’m looking forward to the ceili.”