Breathless In Love
Page 76
He’d known she wouldn’t say she loved him at the peak of her climax. Not when it was clear that she still needed to think, decide, determine whether letting him all the way into her and Jeremy’s life was a good idea. But with that touch and those words, she gave him the promise of it.
Of love.
Hell, yes, she made him so damn happy his heart stood wide open and ready for her. And soon, hopefully, hers would be wide open for him, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Harper knew she should be exhausted, with the time change, the lack of sleep, and the way Will had loved her all the way across the Atlantic. Yet his touch was like a jolt of electricity lighting her up.
Even once they’d entered the factory doors, he didn’t let up. A hand at the small of her back to guide her. A light caress on her arm to point out something interesting. He introduced her as his girlfriend, and everyone treated her with the utmost respect.
She found the porcelain factory fascinating. The owner and plant manager, Mr. Beacham, told them all about how porcelain was made, and the differences between it, bone china, and fine china.
“The cup is beautiful.” It wasn’t quite a teacup that you’d use on a saucer, but it wasn’t a mug either. At least, not the thick, heavy ceramic kind she was used to. This was smaller, more fragile, and painted with flowers and swirls and curlicues highlighted in gold.
Real gold.
“Please, you must have it.” Mr. Beacham was tall, with a bald patch, thick glasses, dense tufts of hair sprouting from his ears, and the hint of a middle-aged paunch beneath his three-piece suit.
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Please, ma’am, we insist,” a young artist spoke up.
“You do amazing work.” Will held aloft another cup, the light shining through the delicate pattern and glinting on the gold-trimmed rim. The workroom was large, exceptionally clean, with high windows set along the upper wall and curving into the ceiling to provide more natural light. Pieces in various stages of the process lined long workbenches. “It’s amazing to think that each piece is hand painted.”
“Thank you, sir.” The woman was petite, her thick red hair pulled back in a bun and stuffed beneath a net. Her name was Rose, and she was obviously from another part of England, as she lacked the crisp city accent of Mr. Beacham. But she beamed beneath Will’s praise.
“In the next room, we have our figurines.” Mr. Beacham began to move them along.
But Will wasn’t about to be herded anywhere. “We appreciate the opportunity to view your artistry,” he said to the small assembly.
There were smiles all around from the five women and one man. Mr. Beacham had explained that generally men’s hands were too big for the delicate work. The one gentleman was smaller than average, with thin pianist’s fingers.
Will turned to Mr. Beacham. “Why are there no signatures on any of the pieces?”
The tall man hesitated for a moment before answering. “They’re meant to be indistinguishable.”
“Consider this.” In his elegant suit, striped tie, and white shirt, with his dark hair and strong features, Will was a businessman to be reckoned with. “Each of your artists brands their work with a hidden symbol. Every set then becomes unique and sought after. People will be searching for the symbol. It will be the thing to talk about.” He smiled at the pretty red-haired girl. “They’ll say, ‘I’ve got a Rose.’”
Mr. Beacham pursed his lips primly. “But what if everyone prefers the pieces made by one or two workers, and no one wants to buy the others?”
Will turned to Beacham’s artists. “What do you think?”
Standing amid all the fine and delicate china, Will was amazing. He had so much money that he could stomp on these people. Yet he respected them enough to ask their opinion. He called them artists rather than workers. It was the way he treated everyone, from Mama Cannelli to his flight crew to the girl who’d served him coffee in the factory cafeteria.
It wasn’t how she’d ever thought of men with money. But it was Will, through and through, heart to soul.
One after the other, the porcelain artists spoke up. “It could be a competition,” Rose said first.
“There would certainly be no slackers.” Cecily was an older woman with a tiny nose and extremely small hands, as well.
“I’m no slacker.” That was the young man, one step behind the women. His name hadn’t been mentioned. “My artistry would be valued as highly as anyone else’s.”
“I’m sure it would be.” Will looked from one to the next. “I would like my wares to have a signature. Exclusively.” Harper understood that this would be the detail that would set his commodity apart. This was why his clients would buy at a price ten times higher. “And I’m willing to pay for that exclusivity, of course.”
With the mention of money, Mr. Beacham nodded as though his head were on springs. “Certainly. Of course. It’s a brilliant idea.”
Will’s charm—and brilliance—were remarkable. He’d secured buy-in from the lowest level to the top without any fist-pounding. She was sure that when he negotiated the premium for the signature, he would drive a hard bargain, but the company would get its fair share.
Mr. Beacham, a very happy executive with a million-dollar bone between his teeth, spread his arm expansively. “Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s move to our figurines. I think you’ll find them most exquisite. We dip real lace into porcelain to create the period dresses.” He expounded further, leading Will away.
Of love.
Hell, yes, she made him so damn happy his heart stood wide open and ready for her. And soon, hopefully, hers would be wide open for him, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Harper knew she should be exhausted, with the time change, the lack of sleep, and the way Will had loved her all the way across the Atlantic. Yet his touch was like a jolt of electricity lighting her up.
Even once they’d entered the factory doors, he didn’t let up. A hand at the small of her back to guide her. A light caress on her arm to point out something interesting. He introduced her as his girlfriend, and everyone treated her with the utmost respect.
She found the porcelain factory fascinating. The owner and plant manager, Mr. Beacham, told them all about how porcelain was made, and the differences between it, bone china, and fine china.
“The cup is beautiful.” It wasn’t quite a teacup that you’d use on a saucer, but it wasn’t a mug either. At least, not the thick, heavy ceramic kind she was used to. This was smaller, more fragile, and painted with flowers and swirls and curlicues highlighted in gold.
Real gold.
“Please, you must have it.” Mr. Beacham was tall, with a bald patch, thick glasses, dense tufts of hair sprouting from his ears, and the hint of a middle-aged paunch beneath his three-piece suit.
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Please, ma’am, we insist,” a young artist spoke up.
“You do amazing work.” Will held aloft another cup, the light shining through the delicate pattern and glinting on the gold-trimmed rim. The workroom was large, exceptionally clean, with high windows set along the upper wall and curving into the ceiling to provide more natural light. Pieces in various stages of the process lined long workbenches. “It’s amazing to think that each piece is hand painted.”
“Thank you, sir.” The woman was petite, her thick red hair pulled back in a bun and stuffed beneath a net. Her name was Rose, and she was obviously from another part of England, as she lacked the crisp city accent of Mr. Beacham. But she beamed beneath Will’s praise.
“In the next room, we have our figurines.” Mr. Beacham began to move them along.
But Will wasn’t about to be herded anywhere. “We appreciate the opportunity to view your artistry,” he said to the small assembly.
There were smiles all around from the five women and one man. Mr. Beacham had explained that generally men’s hands were too big for the delicate work. The one gentleman was smaller than average, with thin pianist’s fingers.
Will turned to Mr. Beacham. “Why are there no signatures on any of the pieces?”
The tall man hesitated for a moment before answering. “They’re meant to be indistinguishable.”
“Consider this.” In his elegant suit, striped tie, and white shirt, with his dark hair and strong features, Will was a businessman to be reckoned with. “Each of your artists brands their work with a hidden symbol. Every set then becomes unique and sought after. People will be searching for the symbol. It will be the thing to talk about.” He smiled at the pretty red-haired girl. “They’ll say, ‘I’ve got a Rose.’”
Mr. Beacham pursed his lips primly. “But what if everyone prefers the pieces made by one or two workers, and no one wants to buy the others?”
Will turned to Beacham’s artists. “What do you think?”
Standing amid all the fine and delicate china, Will was amazing. He had so much money that he could stomp on these people. Yet he respected them enough to ask their opinion. He called them artists rather than workers. It was the way he treated everyone, from Mama Cannelli to his flight crew to the girl who’d served him coffee in the factory cafeteria.
It wasn’t how she’d ever thought of men with money. But it was Will, through and through, heart to soul.
One after the other, the porcelain artists spoke up. “It could be a competition,” Rose said first.
“There would certainly be no slackers.” Cecily was an older woman with a tiny nose and extremely small hands, as well.
“I’m no slacker.” That was the young man, one step behind the women. His name hadn’t been mentioned. “My artistry would be valued as highly as anyone else’s.”
“I’m sure it would be.” Will looked from one to the next. “I would like my wares to have a signature. Exclusively.” Harper understood that this would be the detail that would set his commodity apart. This was why his clients would buy at a price ten times higher. “And I’m willing to pay for that exclusivity, of course.”
With the mention of money, Mr. Beacham nodded as though his head were on springs. “Certainly. Of course. It’s a brilliant idea.”
Will’s charm—and brilliance—were remarkable. He’d secured buy-in from the lowest level to the top without any fist-pounding. She was sure that when he negotiated the premium for the signature, he would drive a hard bargain, but the company would get its fair share.
Mr. Beacham, a very happy executive with a million-dollar bone between his teeth, spread his arm expansively. “Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s move to our figurines. I think you’ll find them most exquisite. We dip real lace into porcelain to create the period dresses.” He expounded further, leading Will away.
