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.
“Ma’am?”
Harper turned. It was Rose, the petite redhead, with a box in her hands. “I wrapped two cups. One for each of you. They’re my design.”
“Thank you so much, Rose. You should be very proud of what you do.”
“I am. But no one’s ever appreciated our work the way Mr. Franconi does. Or you.” She had a bright, sweet face that made Harper feel years older. “Please thank him for all of us.”
“Of course.”
With a wave and a smile, Rose went back to her painting table.
For a moment, Harper stared after Rose, her mind stuck on what the girl had just said. No one’s ever appreciated our work the way Mr. Franconi does. Just as no one had ever appreciated Jeremy the way Will did.
And her. No one had every truly appreciated her.
Not until Will.
Every step of the way, he had shown her how special he was. He wasn’t some ruthless billionaire CEO who raided pension plans. People—and their happiness—were important to him. They didn’t have to be rich, they didn’t need to have something he could use or exploit. She didn’t doubt he could be a hardass when he needed to be, but Will never exploited the small cog.
He was a good man.
A man worth loving.
* * *
Soon, Harper found out that Will had done one better than even she’d imagined. He and Beacham had negotiated their contract over dinner, which Will had been very happy for her to sit in on. As if they had no secrets. As if they were partners. And he’d totally floored her—and Mr. Beacham—by adding in a stipulation about employee bonuses. The artists would earn a special commission on every piece of theirs that sold, above and beyond the generous amount he was already going to pay them to do the work.
And it made her love him even more.
She didn’t know how she could have been so blind. Or so stubborn. She loved him, and she needed to tell him. But she wanted the perfect moment. The ride back to Knightsbridge wouldn’t do. His driver would hear everything.
She’d planned to tell him the moment they entered his penthouse flat. But when Will lifted her into his arms while doing those incredible things with his mouth, she couldn’t think, couldn’t hold onto anything except how much she wanted him.
How much she needed him.
And when he took her again, holding onto her like he never wanted to let her go while stroking hard and fast inside her until they reached the peak together—the words were right there on the tip of her tongue. But she didn’t want Will to think she was only saying them because her world was shattering in ecstasy.
The jet lag finally caught up with her as he gathered her into his arms, but all she could think, as sleep came to claim her, was that she needed him to know just how wonderful she thought he was.