His Black Sheep Bride (3 page)

As if conducting his own wardrobe assessment, Sawyer gave her a sweeping look that ran up from her peep-toe slingbacks to her knee-length sheath dress, held up by spaghetti straps.

His eyes paused for a moment at her chest, before he raised them to her annoyed expression. “A redhead who isn't afraid to wear red. You never disappoint.”

“I'm so glad you approve!” She couldn't help feeling there was an element of disapproval in his words. He was of her father's world, after all. Bohemian jewelry designers didn't fit.

In the next instant, however, he surprised her by reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

She stilled as he paused to finger a teardrop peridot earring. The contact was intimate—erotic, even—though he wasn't touching her directly.

“I'm interested in having some jewelry pieces designed,” he said, his deep voice sending an involuntary thrill through her.

Pushing aside how very aware of him she was, she asked, making her voice sugary, “For your current love interest?”

He took his time answering. “You could say that.”

She looked at him with exaggerated disbelief. “Am I to assume that's why you arranged to intercept me at a fashion event? Because you're looking for a jewelry designer?”

“Among other things.”

She held on to her irritation because it was easier to deal with than how disturbing his nearness was. “Let's get back to what you're doing here. Or should I say, how you knew I'd be here?”

He gave her a level look. “One guess.”

“My father,” she said flatly. “Correct.”

Her lips tightened. “When I see him again…”

She castigated herself now for revealing to her father some of the details of her social and business schedule in response to his seemingly casual questions a couple of weeks ago when they'd met for lunch.

No question she and her father needed to have a serious conversation. One that included the reasons why he shouldn't interfere in her life. It apparently wasn't enough she was based in New York and he was often in London, putting the breadth of the Atlantic Ocean between them.

Sawyer regarded her with an unreadable expression. “Marriage is not such a crazy idea.”

“Don't tell me you're still considering this!”

“The idea has its merits.”

“And here I was thinking you sought me out to have a trinket designed for your current flame! Instead, you hauled yourself here in order to make a marriage proposal. Now
there's a good, solid reason to attend a froufrou fashion event, when everyone knows you have zero interest in fashion!”

Thank goodness they were in a semiprivate area of the room, Tamara thought. The last thing she needed was for their argument to be witnessed by avid onlookers.

“Are you done?” he asked, his topaz eyes glittering.

Not by a mile.
“How efficient of you. Well, you can erase the marriage proposal from your BlackBerry calendar! Good luck with the rest of your day.”

She turned away, but she'd taken only two steps when he grasped her arm and swung her back toward him.

“You have to be the most prickly woman I know,” Sawyer muttered.

“Yet another reason I wouldn't make a suitable wife,” she flung back. “I can bring home the sarcasm, serve up your ego in a pan and never let you forget you're a—”

“Damn.”

In the next moment, Sawyer's lips came down on hers.

Tamara stilled.

Sawyer's lips were soft but firm, and in the next instant, Tamara became aware that he tasted sweet but heady and carried the warm scent of man.

Sensation coursed through her, and her body hummed to life. She'd been kissed before, of course, but kissing Sawyer, she was discovering, was like doing vodka shots when she was used to beer.

Time slowed. She felt the heavy thump of her heart, and became aware of his lean, muscular strength pressed against her.

She reached up to clutch Sawyer's shoulders, and in response, he made a low, growling sound and deepened the kiss.

Her brain radioed the message that she'd been right to steer clear of him in the past. The man was pure testosterone
poured into a suit—and he was sending her pheromones into chaos.

Help.

And then the sound of laughter came through the heavy, thick curtains. And just like that, she felt jolted from his sexual spell.

Tearing her lips from Sawyer's, she opened her eyes and shoved him away.

Her heart hammered as he rocked back a half step. But after a moment, his face went smooth and cool.

It was as if the hot lover of a moment ago who had caused her senses to riot had morphed back into the tycoon with an implacable facade.

“Well,” Sawyer said slowly, “I guess we answered one question.”

A question? She was thinking more in terms of exclamation points. Lots of them.

“Which is?” she huffed.

“We have no problem with sexual chemistry.”

Her eyes widened. “Get over yourself.”

He gave her a sweeping look, and muttered, “It's you I think I need to get over.”

A wave of heat washed over her. An image of Sawyer, naked and looming over her in bed, flashed through her mind.

“You need to come with a warning label!” she shot back.

His smile was rather wolfish. “Isn't that what I'm proposing?” he asked. “Make the world safe for other women. Take me off the market.”

“I'm a jewelry designer, not a lion tamer.”

“You could be both,” he said, his voice smooth as honey.

She cursed herself for finding his sexual banter seductive. Wasn't she an educated, independent woman of the twenty-first century?

Sawyer, on the other hand, was a throwback to feudal
lords—and thanks to his ancestors, he had a real, present-day title to match.

Well, he'd have to look for his countess elsewhere. She didn't know where—though she supposed a fashion event with plenty of beautiful, pedigreed women tottering around in four-inch heels wasn't a half-bad bet—but she knew she wasn't in the running.

“In any case,” Sawyer said, breaking into her thoughts, “I'm not proposing what your father has in mind.”

“Oh?” she asked with false smoothness. “Then what are you proposing?”

“Your father wants a dynastic marriage. Real but—”

“Loveless,” she finished for him before he could spell it out for her.

He nodded. “It's been done for generations.”

“This is the twenty-first century.”

Of course, it was centuries of ruthless breeding that had produced Sawyer Langsford—a man's man, a captain of industry, a guy who seemed capable of impregnating a woman just by looking at her.

“I'm suggesting a short-term arrangement for our mutual benefit,” Sawyer stated.

“A short-term marriage of convenience?” she asked incredulously.

“Right.”

“Well, I know what you would get out of the arrangement,” she shot back.

“Do you?” he said smoothly.

She ignored the subtext of sexual suggestion. “You'd get control of Kincaid News. But what in the world would be the incentive for me?”

“You'd be doing the right thing for your family,” he said, unperturbed. “The majority of your father's media business is in the United Kingdom, while most of my company is in the United States. With corporate synergies, both our companies
can continue to prosper. Your father needs a successor for the family firm, and I know the media business.”

He added with a quirk of the lips, “Your father would stop trying to interfere in your life. He'd be forever in your debt.”

She frowned. “Only because I'd be married to you!”

The price was too high.

“We'd seem to be married for a short while,” Sawyer allowed. “But we'd both know the truth.”

She felt an unexpected twinge, and then despite herself, she asked, “What about divorce? What happens to the companies then?”

“Once the companies have merged, I'm betting there'll be no turning back. Your father will have his money, and he'll be forced to concede the efficacy of the deal.”

“How convenient for you,” she responded. “You get your hands on Kincaid holdings without the long-term baggage of a Kincaid bride.”

Sawyer's lips quirked again, and this time, she itched to wipe the smile off his face.

“I wouldn't call you a piece of baggage,” he said.

“I'm not marrying you.”

“There'd be additional benefits for you.”

“Those being what?” she retorted.

“I'm in a position to help you move your jewelry business to the next level,” he said. “In a way your father hasn't been.”

Her spine stiffened. “There are too many strings attached,” she said warily. “Anyway, what do you know about my design business?”

“I know Kincaid has refused to become an investor.”

Tamara relaxed. It was apparent Sawyer's only clue about her business had come through her father.

She conceded that Sawyer's persistence was a valuable business trait. But she wasn't going to base her married life
on a business deal—especially one where she had little to gain and all of her hard-won independence to lose.

“No thanks,” she retorted. “I've got the situation well in hand.”

“There you are!”

At the sound of a familiar voice, Tamara turned around and discovered Tom making his way toward them along the line of draped curtains, one champagne flute in each hand.

How had Tom thought to look for her here? Still, she was grateful for the rescue.

“Sorry, babe,” Tom said. “I was intercepted by someone I knew. He was a guy who used to play some of the same gigs as Zero Sum.”

Tom was the quintessential yet-to-make-it-big rocker. He was slightly unkempt, his brown hair curling at the neck of a black T-shirt and matching jacket. He and his band, Zero Sum, hadn't given up on looking for their big break.

Tom had been her occasional date for the past year, whenever he was in town. But right now, Tamara couldn't help contrasting him to Sawyer, who stood about half a head taller, and a world of difference away in smoothness.

Tamara considered herself tall—or at least, not short—at five-seven, but Sawyer had a considerable height advantage on her.

“Tom, you know his lordship, the Earl of Melton, don't you?” she asked, using Sawyer's title in order to strive for some emotional distance between them.

Sawyer's look said he saw right through her ploy.

She ignored him. “My lord, may I present Tom Vance?”

She watched as Sawyer and Tom shook hands and took each other's measure.

“Melton as in Melton Media?” Tom asked.

“One and the same,” Sawyer replied.

Tom's face brightened. “Pleasure to meet you, ah—”

“My lord,” Tamara supplied, trying not to roll her eyes.

“My lord,” Tom repeated, and then shot a grateful look at her. “Thanks, Tam.”

“Tam?” Sawyer queried sardonically. “Like Tom and Tam?”

“You've got it.” Tom grinned, happy as a puppy.

Tamara could see the wheels turning in Tom's head. To Tom, meeting Sawyer was like hitting the networking jackpot. Sawyer's media outlets presented limitless opportunities. Free publicity! Advertising! Name recognition! In short, the kind of opportunity that Tamara's father refused to provide to Zero Sum.

Sawyer glanced at her. “Tam—Ms. Kincaid, excuse me, won't you? There's someone who's expecting me.”

Tamara had no doubt Sawyer had switched from
Tam
to her surname in order to mock her. Still, she was grateful their encounter was at an end.

Unfortunately, she didn't think they'd also put an end to the subject of a dynastic merger—marital, corporate or otherwise.

T
he bar of the Carlyle Hotel was as good a place as any for three notorious bachelors to lie low.

Or rather, two notorious bachelors and one notorious groom, Sawyer amended.

It was ironic for him to lie low, since he was the press. But these were his friends.

Like his two fellow aristocrats, he'd grown up here, there and everywhere. Still, despite their peripatetic existence, he and his bar companions had managed to become friends.

And now they had another thing in common. Ever since the wedding fiasco at St. Bart's nearly two weeks ago, they were imbrued by the scandal of the moment.

The bar, with its dark woods and mellow lighting, was masculine and clubby and the perfect atmosphere to come together and commiserate.

It was also discreet without being sequestered. Because Sawyer would be damned if he was going to tuck in his tail and hide.

“Hell of way to crash a wedding, Easterbridge,” James Carsdale, Duke of Hawkshire, said, going straight to the heart of the matter.

“You could have given us some warning,” Sawyer added drily.

Sawyer had to admire Colin's sangfroid. Of the three of them, the marquess was the most reserved and enigmatic. And now he'd just thrown not one, but two ancient British families into upheaval with his surprising news at the wedding—and his shock-maximizing method of delivery.

In response, Colin Granville, Marquess of Easterbridge, who'd been the last to arrive, took a swallow of his Scotch on the rocks.

They were sitting at one corner of the bar, away from the few other patrons. Since it was a hot and sunny day, and still a couple of hours from sunset, the dark bar was not even half-f.

“You're the media, Melton, and you were a groomsman,” Colin finally pointed out lazily. “A double conflict of interest. You'll understand why I didn't take you into my confidence.”

Sawyer took issue. “You know I was picked as a groomsman because Dillingham and I are distantly related through our mothers. We're not friendly in a true sense.”

“Yes,” Colin responded wryly, “but that fact, along with your role as one of the world's most famous press barons, made you dynamite for the wedding party. The expectation of glowing press coverage was likely more than Dillingham could pass up. Not to mention cementing the extended family relationship.”

Sawyer shook his head. “As it turned out, the only dynamite at the wedding was you, and Dillingham got more media coverage than he bargained for.”

In response, Colin raised his glass in mock salute.

“If you couldn't confide in Melton,” Hawk said, resting his
elbow on the back of his chair so he could lean back in his position between his companions, “you could've at least told me.”

“Spoken like a true international man of mystery, Mr. Fielding,” Colin returned.

Sawyer smothered a laugh. He couldn't picture their carefree, sandy-haired friend trying to pass himself off as a mere mister. Nor did he understand why Hawk would have wanted to.

“Right, and what's going on there Hawk?” Sawyer asked. “The rumor mill, and pardon me for reading my own newspapers, has it that you were more than friendly with a certain lovely wedding planner—”

Hawk grimaced. “What's going on is a private matter.”

“Precisely my point,” Colin said.

“A private matter, Your Grace?” Sawyer quizzed. “You mean between you and your alias, James Fielding?”

“Put a sock in it, Melton,” the duke growled.

“Yes, Melton,” Colin said, siding with Hawk, “unless you'd like us to quiz you on your pursuit of the fair Ms. Kincaid.”

It was Sawyer's turn to grimace. His friends knew his acquisition of Kincaid News was tied up with Tamara's hand in marriage. Fortunately, they
didn't
know the particulars about his most recent interactions with Tamara. She'd gotten under his skin—so much so that he'd kissed her. And it had been some kiss—hot and wonderful enough to leave a man thirsting for more.

“I've seen Kincaid's daughter with a date,” Hawk commented, arching a brow. “Always the same one.”

Sawyer shrugged. “She takes a date from time to time.”

“A date who's not you,” Colin pointed out.

“Just an occasional date?” Hawk probed. “And you know this how?”

Sawyer gave a Cheshire-cat grin. “From the man himself,
Mr. Tom Vance, lately of the rock band Zero Sum, and perhaps soon to be the recipient of some very good career news.”

Colin quirked an eyebrow, for once betraying a hint of surprise.

Hawk started to shake his head. “Don't go there…”

Since he already had, Sawyer gave both of them a bland look. “Know of any good West Coast record producers?”

 

She was sunk.

Or more accurately, practically destitute.

Tamara stared at the letter in her hand. Her bid for investors had fallen flat. Financing was tight these days, and people apparently weren't lining up to give money to a lone jewelry designer with a big idea and not much else to her name.

She'd maxed out her credit cards and had already gobbled up her allotment of small business loans.

She looked around her loft from her seat at a workbench cluttered with pliers, clasps and assorted gemstones. Her business had a name, Pink Teddy Designs, and not much else these days. Yesterday, she'd received notice her rent would be increasing, so soon even the four walls around her would cease to exist—as far as she and her business went, anyway.

She'd have to find another place to live and work. There was no way she could afford a ten percent rent increase—not with things the way they were.

She'd never have admitted this to Sawyer when she'd encountered him last week at the fashion party in TriBeCa, but these days she was hanging by a thread—one that was becoming very frayed very fast, ever since she'd left her salaried position two years ago at a top jewelry design firm to strike out on her own.

Rats.

She was desperate—and Sawyer's words reverberated through her mind.
I'm in a position to help you move your jewelry business to the next level.

No, she wouldn't let herself go there.

And with any luck, Sawyer didn't have a clue as to just how dire her current financial situation was. He hadn't seemed as if he did. In fact, his words to her that night indicated he thought she was looking to expand her business, not merely survive.

She hoped her appearance had also served to throw him off the scent. She'd dressed to project an image of success. She'd worn expensive earrings of her own design to the fashion party—as much for advertising as for anything else, though the earrings were worth much more than the typical Pink Teddy piece of semiprecious jewelry.

Yes, she dreamed of expanding her business and having her name added to the roster of top celebrity jewelry designers. But she'd also had to start small, given her financing, or rather lack thereof. And now she was nearly broke.

People assumed she had money—or at least connections—as the daughter of a millionaire Scottish viscount. In fact, she was entitled to be addressed as the Honourable Tamara Kincaid and not much else. After her parents' divorce when she was seven, she'd gone to reside in the United States with her mother, who had been able to maintain a respectable, but not settled, lifestyle. Instead, thanks to child-support payments, Tamara had been entrusted to the care of a series of babysitters, schools and summer camps while her peripatetic mother had continued to travel and move them within the United States.

Her mother resided in Houston now with husband number three, the owner of a trio of car dealerships, having finally achieved a measure of stability.

Tamara sighed. Partly because of the physical distance, she and her mother weren't very close, but a fringe benefit was that her mother didn't interfere much in her life.

Of course, she could hardly claim the same benefit with
respect to her father, who owned an apartment in New York City.

But unlike her mother, she'd thumbed her nose at her father's money. Because the strings attached had been more than she'd been able to accept. As she'd grown older, her father had made his opinions known, and her artsy tendencies, her penchant for the bohemian and her taste for the unconventional had not gone over well.

Her father's attempts to meddle had, of course, reached their zenith in his crazy plan to marry her off to Sawyer.

Really, that scheme was beyond ridiculous.

Sure, her parents' marriage had been an ill-advised union between an American and a British aristocrat—a still-naive girl from Houston on the one hand, and the young and ambitious heir to a viscountcy on the other. But her starry-eyed mother, who'd imagined herself in love, had been thrilled by the prospect of residing in a British manor house.

In contrast, Tamara prided herself on being a worldly-wise New Yorker. And much as she hated to admit it, she had her father's skeptical nature. She'd inherited her mother's coloring and features, but that's where similarities ended.

She liked her life just fine. She was bohemian with an edge.

A marriage between her and Sawyer Langsford was laughable. They barely spoke the same language, though she had been known to read his paper,
The New York Intelligencer,
and occasionally watch the Mercury News channel.

To Sawyer's credit, Tamara acknowledged, his media outlets didn't stoop to petty sensationalism. And she had to admit he'd built an international media empire from the two British radio stations and the regional newspaper he'd inherited from his father. At thirty-eight, he'd stuffed a lifetime's worth of career accomplishments into a mere fifteen years or so.

At twenty-eight, she was a decade behind Sawyer in experience and worlds away in outlook. Yes, she wanted her
design business to float instead of sinking into the great abyss, and yes, she dreamed of becoming successful. But she didn't aspire to the same lofty heights of empire building that her father and Sawyer did.

She'd effectively been abandoned twice by her father—once, in a transatlantic divorce, and then again by Viscount Kincaid's devotion to his media company. She couldn't—wouldn't—risk acquiring a husband who was from the same mold.

It would be beyond foolhardy, notwithstanding the kiss the other night.

Still, the kiss had repeatedly sneaked into her thoughts over the past few days. Sawyer had made her toes curl. And embarrassingly, she'd clearly responded to him.

But she knew why Sawyer had kissed her. He'd been trying to convince her to agree to a marriage of convenience.

If Sawyer thought she was a pushover for his seduction techniques, however, he had another thing coming. So she'd had a brief and primitive response to his air of raw power and sexuality. She was still well past the age of gullibility—of being swayed by a momentary attraction into a relationship with someone who was so very wrong for her.

In contrast, she and Tom were alike. They enjoyed prowling SoHo at night, appreciated the city, and were both artistic. They were friends, first and foremost.

They weren't two people from very different backgrounds united by lust. In other words, to her relief, they were definitely
not
her parents.

As if on cue, her cell phone rang, and it was Tom.

“You'll never guess what's fallen in my lap,” Tom said.

“Okay, I give up. What?” she replied.

“I'm flying out to L.A. to meet with a big music producer. He heard one of our demos and is interested in signing the band.”

“Tom, that's wonderful!” Tamara exclaimed. “I didn't even know you were in touch with a producer out in L.A.”

Tom laughed. “I wasn't. The guy got his hands on the demo from a friend of a friend.”

“See, networking works.”

Tom gave an exaggerated sigh. “Here's the thing, babe. I'll be gone. Physically, existentially and in every other way.”

She picked up on his meaning.

“What?” she said with mock offense. “You'll no longer be available to be my standby date?”

It was easy for her to adopt a lighthearted tone, she realized. Tom had never been more than a casual, occasional date for her—a reliable escort when she had to attend one social function or another. He was nothing more, despite their Tom-and-Tam epithet, and that was the reason she could be happy for him without rancor.

“Afraid not,” Tom responded now. “Will you ever forgive me?”

“If I don't, you could always write a song about it,” she teased.

Tom laughed. “You're a pal, Tam.”

Tom's words summed up their relationship, Tamara acknowledged. It had always been easy and casual. Such a contrast, she thought darkly, from her fraught interactions with—

No, she wouldn't go there.

“It was a lucky break running into your friend the Earl of Melton.”

Tamara started guiltily. “He's not my friend.”

“Well, friend or acquaintance—”

“And what do you mean it was a lucky break?” she asked, even as she was touched by a feeling of foreboding.

“Well, this music producer has a friend who socializes with the earl. Seems the earl had heard my music—”

She'd just
bet
Sawyer was a fan of Zero Sum.

“—and had talked it up to a friend of his, who passed along the recommendation to his music industry connection.”

Tamara felt a wave of heat wash up her face. He didn't…He wouldn't…

And yet, it was all too convenient.

When she found Sawyer, she was going to let him have it, and then some.

For Tom's sake, however, she forced herself to sound cheerful. There was no reason to rain on Tom's parade by imparting her suspicions about how his lucky break was more than mere luck.

Besides, from Tom's perspective, it didn't matter how his intro to a top music producer had come about. The bottom line was that he was getting his chance to hit it big.