No, none of those things mattered. She was a wealthy woman with or without the Old Atelier. She would remain wealthy even if her auction house was ripped away from her.
When it came down to it, Rhiannon knew what had made her drive off the damn Dragons ferry and onto the cobble streets and down to the Market Square and use the ornate antique key on the rusted ancient lock was spite. A simple, petty, and very effective reason for doing things one abhorred.
Margaux had taken so much already. Rhiannon would be damned if she would give her another inch more. Spite worked for her in this case.
It also worked in helping ignore the curious stares of the townies. Even if some of those were coming from a pair of very pretty eyes.
Rhiannon chose not to dwell on the fact that those eyes also made her lose control for one second. It was only one second, after all. Nobody noticed. It was fine. So something sparked between them. So what? It was nothing.
“And they needed the rain anyway.”
Rhiannon chose to ignore the small voice inside her restless brain telling her otherwise. Telling her this “nothing” was as far away from actually being nothing as Dragons was from Los Angeles. Something did happen. Something important. And it dovetailed with the dreams.
Those damn dreams…
Rhiannon again ignored the voice and put the woman next door out of her mind entirely. She wasn’t in control of her dreams anyway, and moreover, dismissing things and forgetting they inhabited the same planet as her was always the right way to deal with any nuisance.
Boleyn meowed her agreement to her mistress’s musings, and Rhiannon scratched the silky ears absentmindedly.
“It’s when you start saying things like ‘they need the rain’ that they cart you off to the big house, Your Majesty,” a cheerful voice boomed from the back room, and Rhiannon blamed the weather for her mood and for her state of distractedness. She hadn’t sensed her assistant’s presence.
He sauntered in and sidled up to her, loud and boisterous as ever, and took a bite out of a rather large carrot. Rhiannon ignored his remark and answered with a question of her own.
“Did the lumber arrive here in time? Or will I have to deal with soggy boards on top of everything else?”
He gave her a sideways glance before simply pointing to the back of the space.
“Delivered, brought in, stored properly. Even with all those asshats falling over themselves drooling over you. Talk about barking up the wrong tree. When I am right here, ready and able and very willing?—”
“Don’t be gross, Lachlan.” Rhiannon took a long sip of her still relatively hot coffee. “And despite me doing my absolute best to not pay attention to the revolving door of your bedroom,I could’ve sworn you were engaged to some prancing blond pony just days ago.”
Lachlan’s laughter rang loudly, echoing off the mahogany walls of the Atelier. All six foot seven inches of him folded into a ball of hilarity, spilling to the stripped wooden floors of the front showroom.
Rhiannon gave him exactly one minute before she kicked the closest Doc Marten with her Louboutin.
“No need for violence.” His voice was still full of giggles, but he had the decency to stand up. If one could call standing up draping his hulking frame over the nearest stack of new windows waiting to be sanded down.
Then his beautiful face sobered.
“While I adore the fact that you do pay attention to the goings-on in my bedroom, more than you actually wish to admit, Barnaby and I broke up. You got saddled with this place and I said it was time to make a decision about his and my relationship, otherwise I’d have to follow you here…”
Rhiannon placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare form of support, and gave it a firm squeeze before returning it to her coffee cup.
“And here you are. Barnaby, I assume, decided to stay in LA.”
They shared a moment of awkward silence, and Rhiannon marveled at the twists and turns of the past months of her life. And the domino effect that they had on so many other people’s fates. She imagined before today was over, she’d wreak havoc on more unsuspecting souls.
But then, as her smile turned razor sharp, wreaking havoc was Rhiannon Crowhart’s stock-in-trade. Ask anyone. Ask Margaux Belcourt-Crowhart. She could write an entire treatise on how Rhiannon ruined her life.
But since that was no longer possible without a good Ouija board, ask Victoria Crowhart-whatever-was-the-last-name-of-that-useless-man-she-had-married. Had she really thought Rhiannon would not sense her skulking about her place of business?
Place of business?
Rhiannon lifted a chilled hand—Goddess, she really hated the Northeast—and pinched the bridge of her nose. Boleyn, sensing her mood, jumped down from the windowsill and bumped her legs, doing a great job of leaving as much cat hair as possible on Rhiannon’s ankles.
Lachlan was just as good a judge of her moods as Boleyn, hence she knew that his first order of business would be to change the subject. And he did.
“I know you always said this is a bit of a hick town, but Rhiannon, darling, I saw the most fascinating woman dash earlier into the bookstore next door. Tall, willowy and oh my god, the boho chic clothes… To die for. And I swear, if you hadn’t told me you don’t have family here…” Rhiannon pinched the bridge of her nose harder. This was not happening. She could practically see the wheels in Lachlan’s head turning as Victoria stepped out of the book shop and straight into what had immediately become a downright monsoon.
