greens and soft grays. “You use all wood glazes?” As she spoke, she turned and caught the surprise in his eyes. Hm-m-m, so he hadn’t expected her to know that much, had he? Michael Langton might be in for a bit of a surprise.
He nodded. “For my best pieces, I save ashes all winter. I don’t have enough for all I produce, and I do a line of shallow dishes and bowls with enamels.” He paused. “Want a cup of tea? We can go into the warehouse later and look at the mass production pieces if you like.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling as they creased at the corners. For a second, she almost forgot he was mortal.
“I’d love a cup of tea.” A lie, but she knew better than to refuse the offer of hospitality. Some things hadn’t changed in fifteen centuries. Besides, he was definitely mellowing…might as well encourage it. She turned back to his pots ranged side by side. “They almost ask to be touched.”
“They were made to be touched.”
She heard water running and the ding of a lid being put on the kettle, but making tea was a mortal occupation. She had far more fascinating prospects in mind. Reaching out both hands to the round base of a tall pot that resembled a giant water lily bud, she stroked the firm curves, running her fingers up to the narrow neck and over the smooth edge. Beside it, another rounded shape had a wide neck plus a handle and a spout. He obviously intended it as a water jug. But it was the brilliant, bloodred glaze that caught her attention. Beside the muted blues, greens, and grays, it stood out like a flash of heat and passion.
“How utterly beautiful!” she whispered but Michael Langton appeared to have incredible hearing.
“It’s the one and only,” he replied, crossing the room with almost silent steps. “A fluke really. Years back, I was experimenting with Raku—reduced firing,” he added after a slight pause. “Most come out with interesting glaze effects, but this one…” He reached out and touched it, his finger a bare inch or less from hers. “This one I’d packed in the dead center of the kiln, and somehow it came out this magnificent color. I tried a score or more times to replicate it, but never could.” His strong fingers eased up the spout. The pad of his index finger caressed the rim before he stroked back down to the base. She found herself staring at his work-worn hands. “I decided to accept this as a gift from the gods and not demand a repeat.” He shrugged. “But I held on to this one. I don’t ever intend to part with it.” His closing words held a note of finality, almost a gentle threat.
“I can’t imagine how you could.” She took her hand away. Almost touching fingertips was something she was not yet prepared for. Nipping a vein yes—that was sustenance—but intimacy of any sort was not a wise idea. “I’m flattered you let me see it, and the others.” Her gaze went over the beautiful shapes, the shallow bowls and the tall, smooth urns. She turned to look at him. He was close. Far too close. She caught his scent: healthy male with a light touch of fresh sweat and something else, a wild, almost feral scent.
She gave herself a little shake. Rural vastness was doing things to her mind. “You’ve shown me what you won’t sell. What about the work you will?”
That smile was beyond mortal. He angled his head to his right, and a couple of sandy curls shifted over his right eye. She was letting a mortal male have far, far too much effect on her. Attractive, yes; a fine specimen, definitely, but having the blood in her veins tingle at his nearness was utterly ridiculous.
“I keep the stuff to sell in my warehouse. Want to look before or after tea?”
Brushing aside the suspicion that sharing anything with Michael Langton, even a cup of tea, was injudicious, she smiled back. “How about you show me? Then we’ll settle business over a cup of tea.”
Was she pushing too hard? He certainly hesitated but, in the end, shrugged. “Over here.” He opened a heavy door and stood aside to let her enter.
Appearances were deceptive. The apparently ramshackle wooden building between the pottery and his cottage was a modern metal building, almost hygienically clean, with finished pots stacked on shelf after shelf and several packing cases sealed and ready to ship.
As she studied the rows of shallow bowls, lamp bases, and mugs, she couldn’t help considering the contradictory exteriors and interiors of Michael’s setup. Odd really, but what the heck. He was an artist, after all, and she’d known enough artists over the centuries not to be surprised at anything one of them said or did.
Right now, just keeping up with Michael Langton was enough.
That and his work, of course. “What’s your lead time for orders?” She picked up an oval shallow bowl that was the color of a robin’s egg.
“Depends. Rush orders I can do in a week or so, but I prefer four to six weeks. Better to pace myself and work in with standing orders.”
“You have a price list?”
“Of course.” She didn’t need to look his way to know that his wide mouth was curling just so at the corners and his dark eyes had a glint of amusement…or perhaps something else that right now might not be a good idea. Or was it? “I’ll print you out one. Any particular products you’re interested in?”
“Depends on prices. I’d like a quantity of the small bowls, mugs, and dishes. Assorted glazes will be fine, and say three, no, four, of the large lamp bases and urns.” She glanced up, and he nodded. “I’ve found, as a rule, that smaller items sell better if there’s an expensive item on display.”
He grinned. Watching with fascination was a big mistake. “I see. Sneak selling, eh? Hook them on the pricey stuff they can’t afford so they permit themselves a consolation purchase.”
She grinned back. What the hell? He’d started it. “It’s not infallible, but works quite nicely most of the time.”
Michael reached over her shoulder for a shallow dish with a pale turquoise glaze. “Take it as a sample,” he said, putting it in her hand. “Let’s go back into the kitchen and have tea while the price list prints out.”
She closed her hands over the smooth, cool glaze and walked back into the house as he stepped aside and locked the door to the warehouse after them. He was very security conscious for someone living this far from civilization, but he did have his livelihood in that small warehouse.
She put the dish on the counter beside her as she sat on the stool he held for her and watched as he reached for two mugs from hooks under the shelf.
He’d made the mugs himself, of that she was sure—the outsides showed wide marks from his hands on the wheel. Inside and outside, they were covered with a white glaze that let the darker clay show through on the wide curves. “Milk?” he asked.
She nodded. “Please, but no sugar.” Not that it tasted any different to her, but why put refined sugar in her body when it had no use for it?
He poured the tea, passed one mug her way, and offered a tin of biscuits. She refused, but he took four chocolate-covered digestives and proceeded to munch on them with particularly white and strong-looking teeth. He swallowed and looked at her. “Okay. What sort of commission are you charging?”
Better talk business than dwell on luscious, dark eyes. Better discuss delivery dates and returns than wonder how his sandy curls would feel against her face or how his tanned skin and rich blood would taste on her tongue.
Later. She could and would return, but for now, she had a deal to hammer out.
It
