"Good morning, Chris!"

"I have news," Hester's assistant announced excitedly. "Ashworth asked for a meeting."

"He's been asking for a meeting for a month," Hester reminded him, rolling her eyes.

"No, I mean he isn't asking for Desmond. He's asking for you. And being nice about it, too."

Hes whistled, impressed. She got to her own computer and checked said email, finding it perfectly polite and civilized. He'd be glad to meet "at her convenience," now. Did the guy have a split personality?

Mildly intrigued, she made a pleasant and short reply proposing three different times and venues; today here at the office, Thursday for lunch, or Friday at five. His reply came quickly, accepting the first offer.

"Chris, do you mind pulling info on that guy? Let me know anything of relevance."

"Already done. Thirty-five, running a family firm, hands in various pies, rich, and granddad is a duke. Silver spoon type."

She'd pegged him right from the start. Hester remembered the man she'd met just the previous evening; a tall, handsome, dark-haired guy with a fascinating behind and the most delectable British accent. Another man who could have fit that description to a tee.

"Any clue why he wants that harbor?"

"None. His company focuses on land ownership and development. He has farms all over the globe, including here in the States. A harbor in a small town? It's random."

They'd bought the harbor he wanted because they'd renovated a nearby palazzo a while back; owning the harbor had considerably facilitated their importing of materials. Palazzos weren't the sort of places one could touch up using modern materials; the Italians had always been a lavish sort, particularly in the time of the Medicis. They'd needed the finest rose marble and antique sculptures from Greece, and transporting that sort of thing was safer by sea than air or roads. The harbor had been going for a cheap price, and Desmond figured that buying it would be less of a hassle than paying a fee every time their ships docked. The harbor ran itself with no interference from them, turning in a small profit, and it was simply too inconsequential to have thought of spending time looking for a buyer.

What could a man like Edmund Ashworth want with it?

Hester was intrigued for all of ten minutes. Then, attacking her work for the day, she put it out of her mind; she'd find out soon enough.

The day passed in a blur; the development team of King Tech was ready to present a new product to the board, so they were abuzz with energy and required all of Hes's attention. In the meantime, King Construction was celebrating their twelve-year anniversary and asking Hes to extend their considerable budget or contact a venue they couldn't book.

She was being torn in two, as was her norm. Chris kept her supplied with coffee and reminded her of any engagements fifteen minutes before they happened, allowing her to retain her sanity.

"Hes? The front desk gave me the heads-up. Ashworth is on his way up."

Hester glanced at the clock on her laptop and frowned, keeping up with the conversation she was having on the phone.

"Excuse me one second, Frank." To Chris, she mouthed, "make him wait."

Edmund was twenty minutes early. Shit, who even did that in business?

Returning to her call, she said, "Sorry, I had a scheduling mishap. Carry on."

Frank wanted Desmond to sit in on the board meeting when he presented his product, of course; she had to placate him, explaining why it wasn't possible at the moment. Designers were very much like artists when it came to their creations: proud and incapable of understanding the fact that it wasn't the absolute priority of everyone else in the business. Hester knew she had to play nice, simply because the man was a genius. If she offended him and he resigned on a whim, she could kiss her promotion goodbye.

Their conversation ran over by five minutes. She found herself smirking when she checked the time again, four past three. She'd made the proud Brit wait.

Using the internal messaging system, she let Chris know that she was ready to receive Ashworth. A moment later, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped as she watched a dark-haired, green-eyed, tall, handsome man stride confidently inside her office.

The guy from yesterday.

"Mr. Cheesy Chips," she said out loud.

Edmund Ashworth smiled, no surprise in his expression. Of course. He'd heard her name the previous day.

"The one and only," he replied, taking a seat in front of her without being invited. "This's a lovely office. And with a view."

Small talk. She could do that. "Yes, I love the city."

"Do you?" he asked. "With the traffic, the skyscrapers, the pollution…"

"We can't all own castles and acres of land in Austen country."

"Just a house," Edmund replied. "The castle is in ruins and the manor belongs to Uncle Marvin."

She had to laugh. "Let me guess. A windy, remote moorland farmhouse."

"Ah! The lady believes me to be despicable enough to reside in Wuthering Heights. Am I Heathcliff or Catherine in that scenario, I wonder?"

"That remains to be determined."

“I've always felt a kinship to that poor fellow. 'If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave,'” he quoted effortlessly.

If Edmund was endeavoring to make her forget her first impression of him, it was working.

"A fan of the classics?" she asked, reluctantly impressed.

"Not at all. Give me a good Stephen King any day. But if you'd met my grandmother, you'd understand why I can quote Bronte, Austen, Shakespeare, Dickens, and all that lot."

Still, he was a reader, unlike practically every man she knew.

A very handsome, currently perfectly charming reader with a lovely smile. 

Shit. He was trying to make himself look amiable and she was falling for it, hook, line, and sinker.

"We're very much off subject. We have a harbor to discuss, I believe."

"Indeed, we do. I want it, you own it. Name your price, and we can begin negotiating."

Hester couldn't help herself; she grinned.

"Mr. Ashworth—"

"Ed."

"Ed, then. We purchased that harbor because it's a few miles north of Venice, and it's deep enough to dock a larger ship. The location has been extremely useful in the past, and should we purchase property in the area again, we may need it. Price isn't the only thing we'll need to discuss."

"Future commercial use?" he asked, a brow raised.

"Yes."

"Ah. To be entirely honest, I intend to purchase it for personal purposes, and I don't intend to allow large vessels to dock there in the future. But I am willing to pay a lot of money, enough for you to buy another harbor—a better harbor, larger, closer to Venice."

Hester's brows hit her hairline. It made absolutely no sense.

"Why?"

The man laughed. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me," she replied.

Ed observed her closely without a word.

"You're not getting that harbor unless I know what you're going to do with it, Mr.—" she caught herself in time, "Ed."

He laughed. "All right. But I'm about to give you a sob story, and you're going to think I'm just giving you the sob story to get the harbor. Which, of course, is entirely accurate. It doesn't change the fact that the sob story is, in fact, true."

"I'm fairly confident that you could have explained what's going on in fewer words."

Ed laughed, and looked around her office. "Is there anything to drink around here? I just came out of the most tedious appointment with some relatives. If we're going to discuss this now, I'd rather do it with Scotch."

Rolling her eyes, she sent a message to Chris, asking him to come in. Her assistant popped his head in seconds later.

"Do you mind stealing Desmond's Scotch for me? Just one glass."

"The boss's stash?" Edmund whistled, impressed.

"He won't mind."

"But I couldn't possibly drink by myself."

"You'll have to. I can’t stand Scotch."

Ed smiled like he relished every no coming out of her mouth. She knew his kind. He was taking it as a challenge.

Chris came back shortly with a crystal bottle of amber liquid and a delicate glass.

"Rock, water, sir?" he asked.

Edmund noted, "The man knows his Scotch."

Chris shrugged. "I worked as a bartender to put myself through school. Sorry to say, I'm with Hes on this one. Whiskey is gross."

Ed sighed dramatically. "I'm surrounded by philistines. 

"At least there're no sycophants in this room," Hester retorted.

"I'm good without water, or ice, man. It'd be a crime to ruin such a good Scotch. Your boss has great tastes."

She let Edmund take a sip and moan appreciatively, before prompting, "Well?"

"Well," he said, "it all starts with a British lady on a holiday to Italy, walking along a harbor…"