His Black Sheep Bride / The Billionaire Baby Bombshell: His Black Sheep Bride / The Billionaire Baby Bombshell

“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?

Seven

Tamara 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.

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