“I have money. More, actually, than I need. My father was very good at making it.” She shook her head. “No, it’s not money. Though it’s important to me to make my own, to have the satisfaction of that. I need security, and stability, and challenges. I suppose that sounds contradictory.”

“Not at all.”

Seeing he understood, she continued. “The painting I’ve done on my own, for myself, has always been a habit, a kind of obligation even—something I worked into my schedule like, well, like an appointment with myself.”

“And you’re hesitating on making it a focus.”

“Yes, I am. I’ve done better work here than I have ever in my life. And it pulls me in a direction I never seriously considered taking.” And now that she’d said it, she was more confused than ever. “But what happens when I go back to New York, Rogan, pick up the life I left behind there? If I sign a contract, I’d have given you my word. How can I do that when I can’t be sure I’ll be able to keep it?”

“Your integrity’s warring with your impulses,” he said, putting his finger straight to the pulse. “And that’s a difficult thing. Why don’t we oblige them both?”

“How do you propose to manage that?”

“Your contract with Worldwide will encompass the work you’ve done in Ireland, and what you have ready in New York—with an option,” he continued, running a pen through his fingers, “for a first look at what you may produce over the next two years. Whether it’s one piece or a dozen.”

“That’s quite a compromise,” she murmured. “But you wanted a show. I don’t know if I’ve enough for that, or if what I have will suit you.”

“We’re flexible on the size of a showing. And I’ll let you know what doesn’t suit me.”

She met his eyes. “I bet you will.”

Later, when he’d gone, Shannon wandered back upstairs. He’d given her a great deal to think over. Somehow he’d managed to open a door without forcing her to close another. She could accept his terms and go back to her life without missing a beat.

She found it odd, and more confusing than ever, that she wished he had pressed her into a corner where she’d be forced to make one clear-cut choice.

But there wasn’t time to brood on it—not if she wanted to see anything of the city before the photo shoot.

A photo shoot, she thought, chuckling to herself. Imagine that.

She wiped the smile away and knocked briskly on Maggie’s bedroom door. “Maggie? Rogan said to wake you.” Hearing no response, Shannon rolled her eyes and knocked again. “It’s past nine, Margaret Mary. Even pregnant women have to get out of bed sometime.”

Impatient, Shannon turned the knob and eased the door open. She could see the bed was empty, and thinking Maggie might be dressing, and ignoring her, she pushed the door wider.

As she started to call out again, she heard the unmistakable sounds of wretched illness from the adjoining bath. It didn’t occur to her to hesitate; she simply hurried through to where Maggie was heaving over the toilet.