His Black Sheep Bride

by Anna DePalo

  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.”

  She tried to look bored, even as the press of his arousal sent a fresh wave of awareness shooting through her. “You’re making me sleepy.”

  Sawyer chuckled before his expression turned seductive and intent again.

  “What’s the matter, Goldilocks?” he muttered, his head bending toward hers. “Are you finding that this bed is just right?”

  And then his mouth met hers again.

  He tasted of wine from their meal, and the scent of some expensive and finely-milled English sandalwood soap clung to his skin. The combination was strangely intoxicating. And she yielded to it, her hands running up his arms until she clung to him, her arms around his neck.

  Damningly, she didn’t think about whether this was right. It just felt good.

  She’d passed the point of reflection and gone on to someplace more elemental.

  Sawyer pressed her against the bedpost, his muscled thigh wedging between her legs.

  He toyed with her lips, and she moaned with each nip and suck and gentle graze.

  “That’s right,” he approved gutturally. “Let me know how you feel.”

  His mouth wandered away from hers, tracing along her jaw, and her head fell to one side, exposing her neck for their mutual pleasure.

  While he kissed the column of her neck, his hands roamed and molded, running down her sides, from the curve of her breasts to the jut of her hips. In response, her fingers curled into his shoulders with pleasure.

  When Sawyer’s mouth came back to hers, he slid his hand up under the hem of her dress. Her head fell back, and she moaned again as his hand brushed aside her panties.

  They both held still as his hand caressed her, his fingers delving into her moist heat, stroking her. From beneath her lashes, Tamara noticed Sawyer’s eyes glittering down at her, his face intent with arousal.

  “Ah, Tamara,” he breathed. “Ah, Goldilocks…”

  Sawyer’s free hand went to his belt, but then he suddenly stopped, his head tilting.

  A moment later, Tamara heard it, too—the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

  Someone was coming up the stairs.

  Just as Tamara frantically jerked away, Sawyer stepped back, his expression turning smooth and businesslike even as he took care to straighten her dress.

  Sawyer was a practiced master of seduction. The thought flashed through her mind a second before she peripherally noticed someone walk past their open doorway.

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed our tour, Tamara,” Sawyer said in a voice loud enough to carry.

 
His eyes laughed down at her, his expression gently mocking.

  “Who was that?” Tamara whispered urgently.

  Sawyer bent his head toward hers.

  “I believe a person sent by the weekly housecleaning service,” he said with a grin, matching her low and urgent tone.

  Argh. Gathering her dignity, or what remained of it, she stepped away from him so that she was no longer cornered by the bedpost.

  “No need to be concerned,” Sawyer said. “I’m sure she wouldn’t have been too surprised to discover an engaged couple locked in an embrace. Embarrassed, maybe, surprised, no.”

  Sawyer had acted deftly to avoid embarrassment to an outside employee. Unfortunately, Tamara thought, her own mortification was unabated.

  She should be thankful that Sawyer had again been thwarted by the unexpected arrival of a third party. Instead, she was concerned, very concerned, by her reaction and increasing susceptibility to his charms.

  “We’re not really an engaged couple,” she responded with false composure. “Or need I remind you of our agreement?”

  Sawyer’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but then his lips quirked.

  He reached out and smoothed her hair. “What’s the harm in a little pleasure along the way?”

  What indeed. She took another step back, and he dropped his hand back to his side.

  “We don’t suit,” Tamara said firmly, “and we never will.”

  His expression turned mocking. “We suited just fine a minute ago—”

  She made a sweeping movement with her arm, gesturing to the room around them.

  “This is not my world,” she said, putting aside her earlier charmed reaction to his town house. “And I’m not going to trade away who I am in exchange for it.”

  He arched a brow.

  “We may need to put on a convincing show that our marriage won’t be a complete sham,” she continued stubbornly, “but we don’t need to be too convincing. And you don’t need practice!”

  Sawyer gazed at her thoughtfully for a second, and then laughed throatily.

  She turned on her heel.

  Unfortunately, this Goldilocks had made her bed, but she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to lie in it.