His temper flashed again when she didn’t move, didn’t blink. “I’m not going to f**king touch you.”

She found her voice then, though it wasn’t as steady as she might have liked. “Why are you angry with me?”

“I’m not.” He stepped back. Control, he reminded himself. He was usually pretty good at it. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Stop looking at me as if I’d just punched you.”

But he had. Didn’t he know that anger, harsh words, hard feelings wounded her more than a violent hand? “I’m going inside.” She found her defenses, the thin walls that blocked out temper. “I need to call Maggie and tell her I can’t be there.”

“Brianna.” He started to reach out, then lifted both hands in a gesture that was equal parts frustration and a plea for peace. “How bad do you want me to feel?”

“I don’t know, but I imagine you’ll feel better after some food.”

“Now she’s going to fix me breakfast.” He closed his eyes, took a steadying breath. “Even tempered,” he muttered and looked at her again. “Isn’t that what you said I was, not too long ago? You were more than a little off the mark. Writers are miserable bastards, Brie. Moody, mean, selfish, self-absorbed.”

“You’re none of those things.” She couldn’t explain why she felt bound to come to his defense. “Moody, perhaps, but none of the others.”

“I am. Depending on how the book’s going. Right now it’s going badly, so I behaved badly. I hit a snag, a wall. A goddamn fortress, and I took it out on you. Do you want me to apologize again?”

“No.” She softened, reached out and laid a hand on his stubbled cheek. “You look tired, Gray.”

“I haven’t slept.” He kept his hands in his pockets, his eyes on hers. “Be careful how sympathetic you are, Brianna. The book’s only part of the reason I’m feeling raw this morning. You’re the rest of it.”

She dropped her hand as if she’d touched an open flame. Her quick withdrawal had his lips curling.

“I want you. It hurts wanting you this way.”

“It does?”

“That wasn’t supposed to make you look pleased with yourself.”

Her color bloomed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s part of the problem. Come on, get in the car. Please,” he added. “I’ll drive myself insane trying to write today if I stay here.”

It was exactly the right button to push. She slipped into the car and waited for him to join her. “Perhaps if you just murdered someone else.”

He found he could laugh after all. “Oh, I’m thinking about it.”

Worldwide Gallery of Clare County was a gem. Newly constructed, it was designed like an elegant manor house, complete with formal gardens. It wasn’t the lofty cathedral of the gallery in Dublin, nor the opulent palace of Rome, but a dignified building specifically conceived to house and showcase the work of Irish artists.

It had been Rogan’s dream, and now his and Maggie’s reality.

Brianna had designed the gardens. Though she hadn’t been able to plant them herself, the landscapers had used her scheme so that brick walkways were flanked with roses, and wide, semi-circular beds were planted with lupins and poppies, dianthus and foxglove, columbine and dahlias, and all of her favorites.

The gallery itself was built of brick, soft rose in color, with tall, graceful windows trimmed in muted gray. Inside the grand foyer, the floor was tiled in deep blue and white, with a Waterford chandelier overhead and the sweep of mahogany stairs leading to the second floor.

“ ’Tis Maggie’s,” Brianna murmured, caught by the sculpture that dominated the entranceway.

Gray saw two figures entwined, the cool glass just hinting of heat, the form strikingly sexual, oddly romantic.

“It’s her Surrender. Rogan bought it himself before they were married. He wouldn’t sell it to anyone.”

“I can see why.” He had to swallow. The sinuous glass was an erotic slap to his already suffering system. “It makes a stunning beginning to a tour.”

“She has a special gift, doesn’t she?” Gently, with fingertips only, Brianna stroked the cool glass that her sister had created from fire and dreams. “Special gifts make a person moody, I suppose.” Smiling a little, she looked over her shoulder at Gray. He looked so restless, she thought. So impatient with everything, especially himself. “And difficult, because they’ll always ask so much of themselves.”

“And make life hell for everyone around them when they don’t get it.” He reached out, touched her instead of the glass. “Don’t hold grudges, do you?”

“What’s the point in them?” With a shrug, she turned a circle, admiring the clean and simple lines of the foyer. “Rogan wanted the gallery to be a home, you see, for art. So there’s a parlor, a drawing room, even a dining room, and sitting rooms upstairs.” Brianna took his hand and drew him toward open double doors. “All the paintings, the sculptures, even the furniture, are by Irish artists and craftsmen. And—oh.”

She stopped dead and stared. Cleverly arranged over the back and side of a low divan was a soft throw in bold teal that faded into cool green. She moved forward, ran her hand over it.

“I made this,” she murmured. “For Maggie’s birthday. They put it here. They put it here, in an art gallery.”

“Why shouldn’t they? It’s beautiful.” Curious, he took a closer look. “Did you weave this?”

“Yes. I don’t have much time for weaving, but . . .” She trailed off, afraid she might weep. “Imagine it. In an art gallery, with all these wonderful paintings and things.”

“Brianna.”

“Joseph.”

Gray watched the man stride across the room and envelope Brianna in a hard and very warm embrace. Artistic type, Gray thought with a scowl. Turquoise stud in the ear, ponytail streaming down the back, Italian suit. The look clicked. He remembered seeing the man at the wedding in Dublin.

“You get lovelier every time I see you.”

“You get more full of nonsense.” But she laughed. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I just came in for the day, to help Rogan with a few details.”