His Black Sheep Bride / The Billionaire Baby Bombshell: His Black Sheep Bride / The Billionaire Baby Bombshell. Anna DePalo
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inside the restaurant entrance, she spotted Sawyer immediately. He looked impeccable, as always, in a red tie and pinstripe suit, even if his hair was a little tousled from the wind outside.
Unconsciously, she smoothed her own hair as he approached her.
“You look fine,” he said, his deep voice flowing over her like warm honey.
When she stopped in midmovement, Sawyer’s mouth lifted.
“More than fine,” he amended. “You look great.”
The frank male appreciation that suddenly fired his gaze sent sexual awareness washing over her.
“You don’t look too shabby yourself,” she responded, surprised at the hint of breathlessness that crept into her voice.
She’d tried not to care when dressing this morning, but she’d given up and finally settled on a short-sleeved heather-gray sweater dress cinched by a thin purple belt and paired with magenta patent platform heels.
She was a rebel with a cause, she’d thought defiantly. She didn’t care what a countess was supposed to look like. This is what she looked like.
Sawyer clasped her hand and brushed his lips across hers.
At her surprised reaction, he murmured, “We have to make it look good in public.”
Of course. She steadied herself. “I’m surprised you came downtown. I’d have thought Michael’s or 21 was more your taste.”
Michael’s was favored by the media crowd, and 21 was a clubby bastion famous for the jockey figures that adorned its facade.
“I was looking for a place that was a little off the beaten trail,” Sawyer returned equably, and then winked. “And I thought I’d show you I can be flexible.”
“Well, don’t expect me to convene at La Grenouille with the ladies who lunch.”
“Perish the thought,” he said with mock solemnity, and then smiled. “But I’ll turn you into an uptown girl yet.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she returned drily, even as a frisson of electricity danced across her skin at their repartee.
“It may be pleasurable, too,” he murmured with a glint in his eye, and then cupped her elbow and steered her forward.
She was disconcerted by how attuned she was to Sawyer and their most casual contact. Had the sexual awareness been caused by their recent kisses, or had it always been there—the unacknowledged reason she’d always kept her distance from him?
A restaurant hostess materialized beside them, and without a word, they were guided to a quiet corner table.
This, Tamara thought, was the kind of service Sawyer was used to by virtue of his wealth, title and high profile. It was the type of service she’d likely be accorded as his wife. She was afraid she could easily become accustomed to the red-carpet treatment.
Tamara slid into her booth seat, Sawyer’s lingering touch at her elbow facilitating her way, and Sawyer followed, sitting to her left.
“I’m assuming this meeting is to settle details?” she asked without preamble, settling herself more comfortably on her seat.
“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