His Black Sheep Bride / The Billionaire Baby Bombshell: His Black Sheep Bride / The Billionaire Baby Bombshell. Anna DePalo
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“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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