His Black Sheep Bride (7 page)

“You could say that.”

She studied him. “I could—but would it be correct?”

Sawyer's lips twitched. “You mean your father hasn't called you to celebrate his Machiavellian victory?”

She shook her head. “Amazingly, no.”

“An admirable and uncharacteristic show of restraint.”

She looked at him shrewdly. “Perhaps he was afraid of undermining you.”

Sawyer merely laughed, and then reached up to smooth back the hair that had fallen over her shoulder.

She stilled as he touched one of her dangling earrings, set with amethyst stones and Swarovski crystals.

“Is this another of your creations?”

She nodded, and then asked boldly, “Examining your investment?”

He caressed the line of her jaw. “Yes, and it's lovely.”

Oh.

Tamara looked away in confusion, and was saved by the approach of a waiter who asked if they would like anything to drink.

After inquiring if wine was her preference, Sawyer smoothly narrowed the choices with the waiter to one, and then turned back to her and settled his hand on her thigh beneath the table. “Does that meet with your approval?”

Feeling the warm weight of Sawyer's hand moving along her thigh, she stuttered assent.

Sawyer looked at her innocently. “Is there something else you'd like, Tamara?”

“What?”

Sawyer's eyes laughed at her. “Is there something else you'd like to drink?”

She looked up at the waiter. “No—thank you.”

When they were alone again, Tamara frowned at Sawyer. “What are you doing?”

“You mean this?” Underneath the table, Sawyer's hand clasped hers, and then with his other hand, he slid a ring on her finger.

Tamara felt her heart slow and beat louder.

“A gift from the family vault,” Sawyer said. “I hope you like it.”

She swallowed and searched Sawyer's gaze, but she read nothing but unadulterated desire there.

She knew, of course, that she and Sawyer were engaged—in a manner of speaking. But the weight of the ring brought the reality of it forcefully back to her.

Slowly, she lifted her hand and rested it on the tablecloth. A beautiful diamond ring in an open-work setting twinkled in the light. Two sapphire baguettes and two accent diamonds adorned either side.

It was a breathtaking piece of jewelry. The diamond was large and undoubtedly flawless, and the open design gave the ring a deceptively modern feel.

“It's a good complement to the earrings you're wearing,” Sawyer said with studied solemnity. “It's not a modern piece, but I hope you like it.”

She looked up. “Really, it isn't necessary for a pretend marriage—”

“Yes, it is,” he said firmly. “The only question is whether you like the ring. I know your tastes tend to the contemporary.”

“I love it,” she confessed. “It's a creation that any designer would be proud of. The lattice work is timeless and beautiful.”

Her response seemed to satisfy him. “I'm glad. The ring was a gift to my great-grandmother, but I had it reset. The original center stone was a sapphire.”

Tamara looked down at her hand again. The ring was a tangible sign of her bargain with Sawyer.

“You'll get used to it,” he said.

Startled, she glanced up.

He appeared amused for a moment. “I meant the ring. You'll get used to the weight of the ring.”

Tamara rued the fact that Sawyer looked as if he'd guessed what was on her mind.

She angled her hand back and forth. “It's exquisite.”

“As is its wearer.”

She shifted in her seat. She was uncertain how to handle Sawyer. Was he just practicing his romantic technique for the benefit of onlookers?

She wanted to make some acerbic reply about leaving his false devotion for an occasion when they had a real audience, but somehow the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she found herself succumbing to the effect of his nearness and seductive words more than she cared to admit.

“What was the occasion for the gift originally?” she asked, striving to keep the conversation on an even keel.

Sawyer looked suddenly mischievous. “Do you really want to know?”

She raised her brows inquiringly.

“The birth of my great-grandmother's sixth and last child.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, well…”

“Quite.” His eyes laughed at her. “One doesn't get to be the twelfth in a direct line of successive earls without ample fertility along the way.”

“Perhaps you should be seeking a woman who will better accommodate you in the…fecundity department.”

His eyes crinkled. “Perhaps you suit my needs just fine.”

She was unsettled by his cryptic reply, but before she could respond, he picked up her ring hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing the pad of each finger individually.

Her eyes widened as a shiver chased through her.

“Someone I know just walked into the restaurant,” he murmured, a twinkle in his eyes.

She shot him a skeptical look. “Of course.”

“You doubt me?”

She extracted her hand from his loose grip. “Should I?”

Sawyer chuckled, and just then a waiter materialized with a bread basket, followed by their regular server with their wine.

When they were both sipping Pinot Grigio, Tamara attempted to put their conversation on a more businesslike footing. “Tell me about the details that you've obviously called me here to discuss.”

He arched a brow. “Your patience has run out? Very well, let's start with Pink Teddy Designs. How much is your lease costing you?”

She relaxed a little, lowering her shoulders. So Sawyer had come here to make good on his promises.

“Too much,” she repeated.

“It's a fashionable address—an astute business move.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll cosign your lease renewal.”

Her eyes widened. “How did—?”

He looked at her quizzically. “How did I know the lease was your most pressing concern, you mean? A few discreet inquiries to the landlord netted information on current rents—and the fact that they were going up.”

“Lovely,” she said acerbically. “I didn't realize my lease was information available to the press!”

Sawyer's lips twisted wryly. “It's not, but I happen to know the head of Rockridge Management.”

She made a disgruntled reply.

“You'll also need a cash infusion.”

Tamara compressed her lips. Knowing it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, however, she forced herself to hold her tongue.

Sawyer considered her. “How does two million dollars for initial financing sound?”

Tamara swallowed. She'd only fantasized about having that kind of cash on hand.

“No strings attached?” she queried.

Sawyer inclined his head in acknowledgment.

Of course, she reminded herself, they both knew that Sawyer wouldn't expect repayment of the money. She had bargained away something else. She'd agreed to a sham marriage.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you…I think. I can promise I'll put the money to good use.” And then because she didn't want him to have the impression that she was completely without resources, she added, “I just met with a client this morning, actually.”

When Sawyer looked at her inquiringly, she elaborated, “It was a hedge-fund wife who recently opened her own boutique in the Hamptons. She bought a bracelet for herself and selected a few other pieces to carry in her store.”

Just then their waiter reappeared, and asked if they were ready to order.

Tamara belatedly realized she hadn't even looked at the menu, but because she'd been to Balthazar before, she ordered the smoked salmon from memory. Sawyer, after a few idle inquiries of their waiter, ordered the grilled branzini.

Afterward, Tamara braced herself and looked at Sawyer squarely. “I suppose we should discuss the wedding itself.”

He smiled faintly. “I'll leave the details to you. I understand many women have preconceived ideas of what their wedding should look like.”

Yes, and in her case, the idea had never been a sham marriage contracted to a very proper British earl.

On top of it all, Sawyer was also a press baron in her father's mold. She could hardly get any closer to exactly what she
didn't
want.

Sawyer studied her. “It seems only fitting, though, that the marriage of the Earl and Countess of Melton occur at Gantswood Hall, the ancestral home of the earls of Melton.”

Tamara resisted pointing out that it was hardly necessary to go to such trouble for what would be a short-lived marriage. But then again, she'd been half expecting Sawyer's proposition of a proper British wedding. “Very well. I suppose the sooner, the better.”

Sawyer's lips quirked. “Anxious, are you?”

“The sooner we begin, the sooner the corporate merger will occur and we can be done with this.”

“How about next week then?”

Tamara shook her head. “Pia would have a heart attack. I already asked her to help plan the wedding. Three weeks.”

“You and Pia Lumley are close.”

It wasn't a question, but a statement. Tamara nodded anyway. “Pia is a dear friend and one of the best bridal consultants around. She also needs all the help that she can get now that—” her voice darkened “—your fiendish friend the Marquess of Easterbridge ruined Belinda's wedding day.”

Sawyer laughed. “‘Fiendish friend'? You certainly have a way with alliteration.”

“Don't change the subject,” Tamara snapped back. “Your friends seem to come in one stripe only—namely, villainous.”

Sawyer arched a brow.

“I suppose you're chummy with the Duke of Hawkshire, too?”

“Yes, but not with his alias, Mr. Fielding.”

“Very funny.”

“Since we're on the subject of our marriage,” Sawyer said drily, “what have you told your friends?”

“Pia and Belinda?” Tamara responded. “They know the truth, and they've already said they'll be at any wedding to support me.”

“Splendid.”

“We'll need a referee if, as I assume, your titled compatriots will make an appearance, too.”

Sawyer inclined his head. “I imagine Hawk and Colin will be there, schedules permitting.”

“Everyone else, including my mother and sisters,” Tamara said determinedly, “will believe that for reasons known only to me, I've decided that you are Mr. Right.”

“Since Hawk has already claimed the moniker Mr. Fielding, I'll settle for Mr. Right without qualm,” Sawyer quipped.

Tamara eyed him doubtfully. “Well, I'm glad that's all resolved—anything else?”

“Since you mention it—”

Tamara tensed. “Yes?”

“There is the small matter of where we'll reside after the wedding.”

Tamara felt her stomach plummet. Why hadn't she thought of such an obvious and all too important detail?

“I'll keep my business in SoHo,” she said automatically.

“Right,” Sawyer agreed, “but we won't convince anyone
that we're serious about this marriage unless you move into my town house after the wedding.”

Share a roof with Sawyer? They could barely share a
meal
without sparks flying.

“I suppose I can bear it for a short while,” she responded in a disgruntled tone. “Will I have my own wing?”

Sawyer laughed at her sudden hopefulness. “Why don't you come see? It occurs to me you've never been to my home, and that's a detail that should be rectified as early as possible. In fact, what are you doing the rest of the afternoon?”

She wanted to lie. She wanted to say she had a slew of meetings. But if Sawyer could make time in his busy CEO schedule, her demurral would hardly ring true. And besides, he had a point about her becoming familiar with the place where she'd soon be living.

“I'm free,” she disclosed reluctantly.

Sawyer smiled. “Fantastic. We'll ride up there right after lunch. My car is outside.”

The waiter arrived with their food, and as the conversation turned to more mundane topics, Tamara had time at leisure to reflect on what she'd gotten herself into.

Was it too late to back out now?

T
amara wanted to hate everything about Sawyer's life, but she was finding it impossible to do so. Instead, she clung tenaciously to indifference—was it too much to ask?

It was bad enough that Sawyer himself was demonstrating remarkable skill at seduction. Must his lifestyle be an added lure?

Tamara discovered that Sawyer's town house was a four-story structure on a prime block in the East 80s. The limestone facade was set off by black wrought-iron flower boxes at the windows and a matching black front gate. Shrubbery concealed from prying eyes the garden that ran along one side of the residence.

And in an unusual setup for Manhattan, Sawyer's town house boasted its own garage, enabled by the residence's prime corner location.

Except for a few minor details, the house might have been a transplant from London's fashionable Mayfair district—just like its owner.

A middle-aged, uniformed employee came hurrying out the front door and down the front steps of the town house, and Sawyer handed his car keys to him.

“You might as well garage the car, Lloyd,” Sawyer said. “I don't know how long I'll be home.”

The man inclined his head. “Very well, my lord.”

Sawyer glanced from Lloyd to Tamara and back. “Lloyd, this is Ms. Tamara Kincaid, my fiancée.”

Without missing a beat, Lloyd said gravely, “Welcome, Ms. Kincaid. May I offer my utmost felicitations on your engagement?”

Tamara stopped herself from saying that felicitations weren't necessary. Instead, she shook Lloyd's hand and accepted his congratulations before he got into Sawyer's black Porsche Cayenne.

She turned to Sawyer. “What? No Bentley? No valet named Jeeves?”

Sawyer smiled briefly. “The Bentley is at my country estate. I sometimes prefer to drive myself, so Lloyd has time on his hands. There's also a butler, housekeeper and part-time chef, whom you'll soon meet, but no valet.”

He added teasingly, “I like to keep things a little democratic when I'm stateside.”

Tamara nodded at the house. “I'd have assumed a bachelor like you would prefer a penthouse co-op.”

“I find it hard to completely shake the habits of an English country gentleman, even in New York,” Sawyer said as his hand cupped her elbow and he guided her toward the front steps. “I hope you like the town house nevertheless.”

“It has an understated elegance,” she said. “It's…very attractive.”

Understated elegance shouldn't appeal to her, but it did. Sawyer was obviously rich as Croesus, and it was hard to withstand the beauty that money sometimes bought.

In Sawyer's case, Tamara grudgingly admitted, generations
of wealth came with good taste that meant he didn't flaunt his money, so beauty didn't shade into gaudiness.

When had she developed an appreciation for low-key charm? Her mind went back to her meeting this morning with the hedge-fund wife.
The bigger, the better
appeared to be that client's motto. Sawyer just seemed appealing in comparison, she told herself.

When she and Sawyer stepped inside the town house's cool foyer, she took in the gilded mirror on one wall, the crystal chandelier overhead and the black-and-white tiled floor.

Sawyer's cell phone rang, and he fished it out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Excuse me a moment. It's work, I'm sure.”

Tamara turned away. She was grateful for the interruption actually. She needed the reminder that like her father, Sawyer was tethered to a demanding business—a business for which he was marrying her.

A middle-aged woman stepped from the back of the house, an inquiring look on her face as she took in the tableau before her.

Tamara extended her hand. “Hello, I'm Tamara, Sawyer's fiancée.”

She didn't care what the proper etiquette was for a future countess. This one greeted the household help with her first name.

Tamara watched as the chestnut-haired woman briefly looked surprised before her face settled back into a pleasant expression.

Were all the members of Sawyer's household so well trained? Or perhaps, Tamara thought hopefully, they were inured to shock by his various escapades.

“Oooh, gracious!” the woman before her said with a British accent as she shook Tamara's hand. “We thought Lord Melton would never settle down. A crafty one, he is!”

“So true,” Tamara responded.

Sawyer sauntered out of the foyer and into a nearby room, still with his cell phone pressed to his ear.

“I'm Beatrice, the housekeeper,” the woman said. “The butler—”

“Alfred?” Tamara inquired drolly.

Beatrice hesitated, looking momentarily perplexed. “No, Richard, my husband. He's running an errand at the moment.”

Tamara gave a studied sigh. No Jeeves the valet, no superhero's butler named Alfred.

Beatrice clasped her hands together in front of her chest. “I've been praying that Lord Melton would finally find happiness and settle down.”

Tamara didn't know about the finding happiness part, but Sawyer had definitely decided to acquire a countess. “Lord Melton is certainly fortunate that those nearest to him have him in their prayers.”

The devil.

Beatrice threw her a surprisingly perceptive look. “And why not? He's been a fair, kind and generous employer.”

“Have you thought about writing ad copy, Beatrice?” Tamara quipped.

Beatrice laughed lightly. “Oh, you're simply perfect! Exactly the person I've been praying for. You'll do very well here, miss.”

“It's Tamara, please.”

Tamara wanted to protest that she wasn't perfect at all. And, she wouldn't be around long enough to need to worry about how she'd fare.

She wasn't the answer to Sawyer's prayers in any way but one—namely, the bride who would net him Kincaid News.

Beatrice leaned forward conspiratorially. “We use the name Sawyer when we're not around guests.”

Wonderful,
Tamara thought. She'd made jabs about Sawyer's loftiness, but he was turning out to have egalitarian
tendencies to rival any new money Silicon Valley plutocrat. And his housekeeper
liked
him.

She grasped at any straw she could think of. “Tell me he owns a custom-built submarine and employs someone just to shine his shoes.”

Beatrice shook her head, her expression sympathetic. “He's been known to toss his own clothes in the washing machine.”

At that moment, Sawyer reentered the foyer, pocketing his cell phone. “Ah, Tamara, I see you've met my indomitable housekeeper.”

“Yes.”

Beatrice smiled. “And I've met your lovely fiancée. I'm absolutely delighted to offer my congratulations, my lord—”

“Sawyer,” Tamara corrected sardonically.

“I'm going to give Tamara a tour of the house, Beatrice.”

“Of course.” Beatrice turned to Tamara. “I hope you'll feel readily at home here. Please don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything you need.”

After Beatrice departed, Tamara discovered on her tour with Sawyer that his house was decorated in an English style, with furniture from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries blended with more modern pieces. Lively flower patterns on the upholstery contrasted with stripes and solids.

She wanted to hate everything, but unfortunately she was too knowledgeable not to appreciate tastefulness and elegance.

And the house was intimate. Yes, she could identify several valuable objets d'art and a couple of Matisses—Belinda would love them—but the Gainsborough portraits of family ancestors and the Ming dynasty vases had obviously been kept at the historic family home set among thousands of rolling acres in the English countryside. But even with its nod to English décor, this town house was more the home of a twenty-first
century entrepreneur than of an aristocrat with a centuries-old title.

After she and Sawyer had passed through the front parlor and dining room, they went downstairs to the kitchen and servants' rooms. There, she was introduced to André, the chef.

Thank goodness, Tamara thought, for the French chef. At least one person lived up to stereotype.

Afterward, she and Sawyer took a private elevator to the upper floors.

“There are six bedrooms on two floors here,” Sawyer said.

“I'll take the one farthest from you,” Tamara replied. “In fact, since I won't be here for long, and I'd really prefer to remain inconspicuous. What about the maid's room in the attic?”

Sawyer grinned, but Tamara didn't like his too-knowing expression.

“There is no servant's bedroom in the attic. That's only on my Gloucestershire estate,” Sawyer deadpanned.

“How unfortunate.”

A smile continued to play at Sawyer's lips. “Wouldn't you like to judge all the rooms and decide which one is to your liking?”

Suddenly, Tamara became acutely aware that she and Sawyer were on this floor of the house all by themselves, and Sawyer was surveying her with lazy amusement, a gleam in his eye.

She raised her chin. “Like Goldilocks, you mean? No, thank you!”

Especially since one of those rooms belonged to Sawyer himself. She didn't intend to be his latest sexual conquest—even if she was married to him.

“One bowl of porridge may be too hot, another may be too
cold,” Sawyer teased. “One bed may be too big, another may be too small and another may be…just right.”

His eyes laughed at her, and he murmured, “Am I remembering the story correctly?”

Damn Sawyer. He'd somehow injected sexual innuendo into a fairy tale.

“I'm not so discriminating,” she said, tight-lipped.

Sawyer quirked a brow. “Really? Let's put it to the test.”

His hand enveloped hers, and he gently tugged her forward as he pushed open the bedroom door closest to them.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice only slightly breathless.

Peripherally, she noticed they'd stepped into a room with a four-poster queen-size bed and furniture in a gleaming walnut.

Sawyer spun her forward in a dancelike move, and she landed, sitting, on the side of the bed.

Sawyer smiled. “What about this one, Goldilocks?”

“You're ridiculous!”

“Not me, the bed. Too firm, or too soft?”

She bounced off the bed. “Neither!”

“Just right, then?” he said, irrepressibly. “Are you quite sure?”

Before Tamara could react, Sawyer sat on the bed himself, and pulled her back down to him, his mouth settling on hers.

Oh.
All through lunch, she'd tried so hard
not
to think about kissing Sawyer.

He kissed, she acknowledged again, in the same way he did everything else in his life—with an intensity and lazy self-assurance that was hard to resist.

Sawyer's hands came up to either side of her face, anchoring her, his fingers threading into her hair.

He caressed her mouth with his in slow, leisurely strokes.

“Your mouth drives me crazy,” he muttered, and then
stroked the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “It's these lush, pouty lips.”

“Thanks very much! You make me sound like a stripper or a porn star.”

He smiled. “Don't ever disguise them with lipstick.”

She sucked in a breath, but before she could say anything, Sawyer was off the bed and pulling her with him again.

“Where are we going?” she asked on a laughing gasp.

She'd never seen Sawyer let go like this. It was so not in character.

Okay, who was she kidding? It was
thrilling,
and she couldn't help responding to it.

“There are five more bedrooms,” Sawyer said as he strode across the hall, leading her by the hand. “This one is mine.”

Inside his bedroom, he swung her to face him.

Tamara got a general impression of a four-poster king-size bed, more gleaming dark wood and a distinctly masculine feel.

Then her gaze landed on Sawyer again.

“Oh, no,” she said breathlessly, shaking her head at the look in his eyes.

Purposely, he advanced on her, and she backed up until the bedpost stopped her retreat.

Why had she never noticed Sawyer's raw masculinity until recently? Even in a conservative business suit, his tie in place, he looked impossibly sexy. The rakish look in his eyes made her weak-kneed.

A sizzling warmth suffused her. Her breasts tightened, and a heavy ache pooled between her legs.

Maybe before she hadn't wanted to see Sawyer as he was. Maybe
this
was the real reason she'd kept him at a distance.

She itched to caress the firm line of his jaw and the strong column of his neck. She curled her fingers into the palm of her hand to stop herself from doing so.

Sawyer gave her a sexy smile. “What are you thinking?”

“What am I thinking?” she tried, thinking one of them had to hold on to sanity. “Isn't the question, what are you doing?”

He was too close. The inches between them crackled with electricity.

Sawyer's smile widened. “Perhaps I've realized that I'd enjoy having you as my wife in every way.”

“Thanks very much!”

“How long has it been for you?” he murmured. “I know you and what's-his-name weren't intimate.”

Her mouth dropped open, and then snapped shut. “Tom, his name is Tom. And I'm not discussing this with you.”

Sawyer's smile turned lazy and knowing. “That long, then?”

He touched her, smoothing the backs of his fingers down the side of her breast in a gentle caress, and Tamara sucked in a breath.

“Damn you,” she whispered.

He slid his hand up her arm, bringing her into his embrace. “Your eyes tell a different story, Goldilocks.”

“Oh?” she said, cursing the catch in her voice. “Do tell!”

Sawyer searched her face, arousal stamped on his. “Your eyes are already cloudy with desire.”