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It’s late by the time I return to Rogue. I waste no time scooping up the mail Jo tossed into the backseat, along with the single purple coneflower from the cemetery, and trudge upstairs.
Head firmly down, I lengthen my strides and ignore the din, heaving a sigh of relief when I reach my empty office.
The mail is mostly addressed to Sara, with three for Wren that I set aside to leave in the apartment for her.
After pouring a small tumbler of whisky, my ass barely touches my seat before Lucia storms through my door.
“Where thefuckhave you been all day?” Her eyes are spitting flames almost as bright as her hair. “You never accepted the applicants for tonight’s auction, and it was a shit show inRavishtrying to calm the buyers, most of whom went home empty-fucking-handed, thanks to your ineptitude.”
I rub my temples wearily, letting her rant for several minutes about the fallout and how tonight has cemented her value to my enterprise before I swiftly rise. My palms land on the desk between us with enough of a resoundingsmackthat she stops speaking to adopt a deer-in-the-headlights look that is so at odds with her entire over-the top persona that I almost laugh.
Instead, I spear her with dark eyes until the force of my glare makes her look away, and I feel a surge of wicked triumph soar through my veins.
“My business ismybusiness, Lucia.” My words are low as her chest rises and falls like she’s just run a marathon. “Question me again, and you’re out on your fucking ass. You’re on thin ice following the fuckups of late, namely allowing underage guests to consume alcohol onmyproperty.”
She bristles with indignation, but wisely chooses to keep her lips pursed.
We’re still regarding one another when Ford knocks, sticking his head around the door, only to draw back in surprise. “Am I interrupting—”
My voice cuts him off as I bark, “Goodnight, Lucia.”
Her jaw tics, but she turns after a second, slinking out of my office with a determined set of her shoulders, and I can tell it won’t be long before something gives in our working relationship.
“Why keep her around anyway, V? She’s as nasty as a rattlesnake and about twice as venomous.”
Slumping back in my chair, I gesture for Ford to take the seat opposite. “She’s practically written in the fine print. Lucia’s place here was a stipulation Verity was adamant about when she sold me this place. Fuck knowswhy, but I’m willing to eat whatever cost it may take to be rid of her at this point.”
He nods in understanding as he sits. “I wasn’t sure how long you’d be gone, but I did what you said. She’s safe, no vise-grip necessary.”
I huff a low chuckle. “Did she…” Trailing off almost uncertainly, I tip my head toward the art studio I’d set up for her opposite my office.
“She sure did.” His eyes drop to the mail on my desk, flashing brightly as his lips twitch when he spots the flower amongst them. “And that girl can paint, let me tell you.”
“Your background check said she’s a hobby artist with a view to owning her own gallery one day, no?”
“Yeah, but I reckon she’s not shared her talent with many people. I was only able to find out through hacking her mother’s emails. Here.” He plucks a heavy key from his pocket, laying it on my desk. “A spare key for whenever you want to take a look.”
I slide it across the desk, dropping it into my jeans pocket. “Have you touched base with Jo?”
Ford nods. “Running those checks you requested as we speak.” He stands and makes to leave, stopping by the door.
“Either Jules or myself will watch over her in the interim. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
Once I’m alone, I pull my cell from my pocket, checking over the security footage of the day, and monitoring Wren’s few movements. Once she’d entered the studio, she’d stayed for hours, and I can’t help the slight smile that threatens my lips when I think of what her reaction might have been.
Perhaps it’d make up for the spanking.
The memory brings the thought of her smooth, soft skin beneath my palm to the front of my mind, and suddenly, my dick flares to life even as I curse.
Shaking my head, I stand, carefully adjusting myself before leaving the office. The key for the studio weighs heavily in my pocket, and before I know it, my feet have crossed the hall.
Light from the street outside floods the studio, bathing the darkness of the space. That unforgettable smell of an artist at work as from my teen years fills my senses with an almost overwhelming nostalgia, and I swallow past the sudden discomfort in my throat.
I round the easel, my eyebrows pulling together when I see the solitary coneflower, identical to the one on my desk, painted in a mixture of firm and light strokes. A plethora of hues keeps my eyes riveted in place, the canvas seeming to spring to life beneath my rapt gaze.
Time stands still as I take the comfort this flower brings to me—brought to me on that day so long ago—until eventually, noise in the hallway stirs my body into awareness.
I make my way upstairs with one lingering question on my almost at-peace mind.
