Good. She’d have to stay away if he had a wife or girlfriend. Antonia was strict with about that. After her own experience with betrayal, she’d never poach on another’s territory.
Damn! Even in the sylvan vastness of the Surrey hills, she had to think about Etienne Larouseliere. Damn and double damn him! But his infidelity and betrayal she’d turned to her good. Learned not to give her heart away and to find friendship among the vampires of her colony and sex and sustenance from humans. Worked so much better all around. If a mortal betrayed her, death would put paid to their duplicitous ways. All she had to do was wait.
Antonia leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and wondered if Elizabeth had learned anything from Ida. Antonia hoped not. As far as she was concerned, the scattered coven was best kept that way. What earthly good could come of encouraging witches to mischief? True, Elizabeth was loyal, noble, and trustworthy, but she was an anomaly.
“Didn’t you go in and look around?”
The tone struck her more than his words. This was one prickly mortal. She smiled. “No. I’d rather see your work with you. Always helps to see your reactions and hear what you have to say about it.” Wasn’t entirely a lie either.
“And why would I even want to do business with you when I have a perfectly good agent to handle all that nuisance for me?”
“Maybe you don’t.” And maybe she didn’t, but she’d driven this far, waited this long, she was entitled to at least a good look at his work. She stood up. And smiled. Mortals tended to fall for her smile. “You won’t really know until we talk, will you?”
He didn’t exactly fall at her feet, but he did nod and open the door for her. “Might as well come in then.”
He wasn’t straining himself with graciousness, but it was all she needed. Seconds later, Antonia stepped into the house, barred to her before his invitation, and almost gaped. A bit ramshackle it might have been from the outside, but inside, it was a showcase of comfort and efficiency. Including, she noticed, a state of the art security system. There was no mistaking the touch pad beside the door. He’d want to protect the collection of pots on the shelves from burglars.
What had looked interesting through the window was incredible close up. Not waiting for further invitation—hadn’t he expected her to barge in anyway—Antonia crossed the generous sitting room cum kitchen to the dark wood shelves on the far wall. As she reached them, Michael must have flicked a switch. The shelves were bathed in concealed light.
His work wasn’t good, it was incredible! Assuming…“They’re all your work?”
“Every last one.”
Yes, a definite edge to his voice there. Not that she blamed him. An artist of his caliber was entitled to be possessive.
Antonia stopped an arm’s length from the shelves. She so wanted to touch the pots, run her fingers over the voluptuous curves, and test the muted glazes against her fingertips, but she satisfied herself with gazing at the full shapes, the wide shallow bowls, and the wonderful subtle blues and 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