She fell asleep against him, and after they woke, he loved her again, head to toe, top to bottom, inside and out. He’d loved her with every inch of his body, touched, kissed, licked, and adored every inch of hers. He knew every scented hollow, each sensitive patch of skin.
But it still wasn’t enough. He ached for more. And they had only thirty-eight hours left. He considered canceling the plant tour and holing up with her in his Knightsbridge flat. But he wanted to show her London. He wanted to give her something she’d never had before—that trip to Europe she’d been saving for but had never been able to take after her parents passed away.
“We’ll be landing in a little over an hour. I ordered the coffee.” They’d never gotten around to the mousse. “Do you want to shower before breakfast?”
She flexed and stretched before cracking one eyelid. “I’d kill for a shower.” She opened both eyes and smiled at him. “Come with me.”
“Can’t resist me?”
The teasing curve of her smile faded. “No. How could I?” She put her hand over his heart and he swore it skipped a beat as she said, “How could anyone resist you, Will?”
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?”