by Bella Andre
For so long, ever since she'd had to take charge of her brother, she'd shut down her innate passion, and along with it, so much joy.
But he didn't want her to ever have to do that again.
*
Harper had barely come down off her delirious high when Will said, "You were thinking."
She opened her mouth to reply, but he kissed her before she could. Framing her face with his hands, he delved deep. Her scent was on his fingers, his body was hard between her thighs. She was all skin and sensation.
When he lifted his head, he stared her down with hot, dark eyes. "No thinking. That's my only rule for you and me."
"I wasn't thinking." How could she when the pleasure he'd given her had turned her upside down and inside out, until there'd only been room in her mind for his touch?
"Then why didn't you let yourself cry out?"
Her answer came before she realized he'd been right. "Your crew."
"That means you were thinking."
He swept in for another long, hard, delicious kiss, making sure she couldn't possibly think anymore. He filled her up, every space, until there was no room for anything but his possessive mouth, his skin soft and rough against her, the electric hum through her body, and the warmth around her heart.
God, he did things to her. Made her feel. Hot and needy, soft and gooey. It was beyond getting physical, beyond his mouth on her, his hands stroking her. Beyond the climaxes.
He made her feel beautiful.
He turned her over, setting her on her hands and knees, and pushed up flush against her. Big and beautiful and dangerously sexy, he made her wild all over again. Wonderfully, perfectly wild, as he gripped her hips with his hands and was inside her before she could even take her next breath.
A moan escaped her as he plunged deep, clear to the very heart of her. Everything spiraled down to the connection between them, his heat, his hardness, his relentless movements. She braced herself on the bed and pushed back on him, meeting each of his thrusts.
He completely surrounded her then, leaning over her, a blanket, lusciously hot and heavy. They strained together, hard breaths, hammering hearts, rushing blood.
And this time, when she shattered, she couldn't think about anything but him, crying his name as he called out hers, too.
*
Will had never been more content as he hauled her closer, her arm splayed across his chest, her hand resting at his shoulder.
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?"
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 signat
ure. 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.
"I love you."
And then, utterly contented, with his lips brushing her cheek--and his own words of love echoing back to her--she slept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I love you.
Three simple words had just rocked Will's world in a way nothing else ever had.
He hadn't thought Harper was ready. He'd been telling himself he could wait. But when she said I love you, he'd realized he hadn't truly believed she'd ever come around to loving him--all of him, the good and bad, the past and the present.
Just hours ago, he'd been planning to show her his favorite parts of the city, like the old pub sitting next to some of the last remaining stones belonging to the original Roman wall of London. Special places he'd found and wanted to share with her.
But then she'd said she loved him, and suddenly everything changed. It meant he could bring her back to London again and again. He could take her to his house in Paris, his flat in Sicily, his cottage in the Swiss Alps. All the places he'd never shared with anyone special except his Maverick family.
Now he had Harper. And they had Jeremy.
And everything was suddenly so much better.
Better, at least, as long as she meant the words. As long as she felt them.
He tried to relax his muscles, tried to convince himself that it was okay to believe that Harper loved him...and that he was worthy of her love. But it was hard going when the truth was that he hadn't believed himself worthy since he was a kid.
"No one will ever love a little shit like you," his father used to say. "Not unless you can figure out how to be faster and smarter and sneakier than everyone else. Then maybe you'll be worth something."
So that was what Will had done--he'd figured out how to be fast and smart and sneaky. It wasn't until he'd finally come to trust Susan and Bob and the Mavericks that he'd figured out how to love. And of course he loved them with everything in him, even if he'd often wondered how they could possibly love a fast-handed, sneaky smartass like him.
Thankfully, the tension in his body didn't wake Harper. She stayed right there in his arms, her skin like silk against his, her leg thrown over him, her foot between his calves. And bells were ringing.
No, not bells. His phone.
Unwilling to let her go, he fumbled around on the nightstand, finally feeling it beneath his fingers. "Hello." Though his voice was low, it sounded sharp in the quiet room, with only Harper's soft breaths breaking the silence.
"Mr. Franconi, it's Benny."
His driver Benny was shuttling Jeremy to and from work. In an instant, Will's heart began to beat fast and out of rhythm. "What's wrong?"
"I can't find Jeremy."
No.
Please no.
Harper was still asleep. Still oblivious. While Will's lungs felt like they'd been flattened by a speeding, out of control car.
"He was supposed to be in front of the building," Benny said, his voice fast, nervous. "That's what we arranged. But he wasn't there. And I couldn't find him upstairs in the office. No one remembers seeing him after three o'clock."
Will glanced at the bedside clock. It was five-thirty in the evening back in San Francisco. Which meant that Jeremy had been missing for over two hours. It took everything Will had to figure out how to take that breath he needed so desperately.
"Will?" Harper finally shifted, his name sleepy on her tongue.
She'd just told him she loved him...and now he had to tell her that he'd lost the most precious person in her life.
"Have you called the police?" he asked Benny, each word sharp and hard.
"No, sir, we looked everywhere we could think of and then I called you."
"Call them. Now."
Harper sat up. "Will." Sleep was gone--terror had invaded. Utter terror.
"But sir," Benny said, "they won't look for missing persons until it's been twenty-four hours."
Will threw his legs over the edge of the bed, and planted them firmly on the floor. He clenched his teeth so hard, he thought they might crack. "Tell them he's disabled."
"Yes, sir."
"Will?"
Her strangled whisper damn near broke him in two. But he needed to finish. "And get Security to check every room, closet, bathroom, and stairwell in that building."
"Yes, sir."
"Will."
"Have your phone with you at all times. Ca
ll me back as soon as you have anything new."
"Yes, sir."
The need to roar, to blame Benny and everyone else back in San Francisco, clawed at his insides. But he managed to keep the phone in his hand instead of throwing it across the room. For Harper, he needed whatever cool he had left.
She'd stopped saying his name. He turned, just enough to see her. And, like a coward, he thanked God there wasn't enough light coming through the windows to show him her full devastation as he told her, "Benny can't find Jeremy. He wasn't waiting outside when Benny arrived, and no one in the office knows where he is."
She'd gone completely still, and he swore he could hear every single worry she was thinking. Every fear she was feeling. Because he was thinking and feeling all of them, too.
"You said he'd be safe."
His guts twisted. What the hell have I done?
He reached back to turn on the light. He couldn't keep hiding from her in the dark. "We're going back. Now. I'll call the flight crew. I'll call the cops myself. And I know a good private detective. I'm on it."
But that was a lie, because his nerves were on fire. Every inch of him, inside and out, burned with uselessness. Helplessness.
"How could he just disappear?"
Her question sounded so lost. She wasn't crying, was showing no emotion at all. There was just a slackness in her features, as if everything had drained out of her.
Will had never hated himself as much as he did in that moment, watching Harper break. He'd broken her. And Jeremy, too. They'd been doing just fine until he came along, until he punched his way into their carefully constructed lives and upended everything.
"We'll find him." He wanted to touch her, but he couldn't, didn't deserve a touch, didn't deserve to comfort her. He didn't deserve those three sweet, beautiful, damning words she'd given him such a short time ago. All he had left were the meaningless sounds falling out of his mouth. "I promise."
"You promise?"
If she'd yelled or screamed or thrown a lamp, maybe he could have pretended he hadn't heard. But the low hush of her voice said it so much more clearly than her rage could have.
His promises meant nothing.
How could they, when he'd broken the most important one he'd ever made to her? He'd wanted her to come to London with him, so he'd come up with the plan, laid it out for her, convinced her.