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

Six

“Tell him to come in,” Sawyer said into the speakerphone, and then rose from behind his desk.

Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a spectacular view of the Hudson River. The corporate offices of Melton Media were located on the upper floors of a gleaming midtown Manhattan building.

Sawyer had taken several strides when his office door opened and Viscount Kincaid strolled in.

“Melton,” the viscount acknowledged jovially as he came forward and shook hands.

Sawyer wasn’t fooled for a second. Though Tamara’s father was a couple of inches shorter than his own six-two, the older man had an air of prepossession and command that only someone born into authority or accustomed to it for a long time could exude.

In Kincaid, diabolically, the genial visage of a Santa Claus was joined to the shrewd mind of a Machiavelli—a trap for the unwary.

“Shall we proceed down to the executive dining room?” Sawyer asked.

It was well before the daily news deadline for East Coast newspapers going to press, but they were both busy men.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Kincaid said, nevertheless reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket for his buzzing BlackBerry.

Kincaid kept up his end of the phone conversation as they made their way downstairs via the suspended metal staircase that joined the executive floors of Melton Media. They were far from the chaos of the newsroom. Melton Media’s corporate offices were housed in a separate building from The New York Intelligencer.

Sawyer listened as, apparently, Kincaid attempted to verify by phone a juicy rumor that he’d heard at a cocktail party the night before. Clearly, the viscount had the news business in his blood and wasn’t averse to rolling up his sleeves and working the phones himself when necessary.

Tellingly, though, Sawyer couldn’t discern from Kincaid’s end of the conversation what the rumor was or whom the older man was talking to. Sawyer felt the competitive juices start to flow in his blood.

Kincaid was a worthy adversary and would be a worthy business partner.

“Rumor confirmed?” Sawyer asked with feigned idle curiosity when the viscount finished his call.

“Yes,” Kincaid replied with a note of satisfaction.

“I thought we were on the same team,” Sawyer said with mock reproof.

“Not yet. Not until the merger goes through.”

Sawyer’s chuckle held an element of respect. Viscount Kincaid might be a family friend, but he was a fierce competitor.

When Sawyer had asked for this meeting, he’d suggested he pay a call to Kincaid headquarters, but the viscount had gainsaid him. Perhaps Kincaid wanted another opportunity to take a look around the company that would soon merge with Kincaid News.

Sawyer had inherited an already significant company from his father and had built it up, branching out internationally from the British newspapers and radio station that his father and grandfather had run. His grandfather had married into the newspaper business by wedding a publishing heiress, but he’d taken to it like a natural.

Kincaid was a different animal altogether. He’d labored in the trenches of the news business, selling family real estate in Scotland to build up his company. His gamble had paid off handsomely, but Kincaid was no fool. He knew that, in order to survive, Kincaid News needed fresh blood—someone well positioned and savvy enough to take advantage of the new mediums of communication out there, from online sites and streaming to smartphones.

Namely, the viscount needed Sawyer.

And Sawyer was eager to absorb a competitor at a relative bargain.

At that thought, Sawyer paused and mentally grimaced. Correction: a relative bargain and a bargaining relative. Kincaid had turned the business into a family legacy, and he wasn’t going to let it pass into other hands without a familial tie.

He and the viscount entered the executive dining room, which was one floor below Sawyer’s office and had an equally impressive view of the Hudson. The long table had been set for two.

They dined on steak frites accompanied by iced tea. The conversation moved idly from politics and the upcoming elections to the doings of various business associates, until, finally, Viscount Kincaid set aside his fork and fixed Sawyer with a piercing look.

“Well, I know you didn’t invite me here to discuss golf,” Kincaid said gruffly, “so out with it, Melton.”

Unperturbed, Sawyer took his time wiping his mouth and setting aside his napkin. Then he looked at the other man squarely.

“I’d like to ask for Tamara’s hand in marriage.”

Kincaid’s eyebrows rose. “Bloody hell, you’ve done it.”

Sawyer nodded.

“How?”

Sawyer gave a ghost of a smile. “I don’t suppose it could be my charm and persuasiveness.”

Kincaid shook his head. “Hogwash. Tamara would never fall for it.”

“I have been wooing her.” It wasn’t far from the truth. He had been trying to convince Tamara to see things his way.

Kincaid’s eyebrows drew together. “Since when?”

“We preferred to conduct our relationship away from prying eyes.”

Sawyer thought back to his last private encounter with Tamara. She’d been so responsive in his arms, her luscious female curves pressed into him. And he—he’d wanted to tumble her backward and have hot, sweaty sex with her right there in her studio, her red hair fanning out on that damnable red velour couch.

Sawyer felt his body tighten at the memory, and shifted in his seat. “I think you’ll find that Tamara isn’t unaware of her familial obligations.”

His last statement was met with a pause, but then Kincaid waved it away with one hand. “Certainly not in character,” the viscount growled. “She’s shown nothing but disregard until now.” Kincaid shook his head. “Her sisters, too. Three daughters and not a one with an appreciation of what it took to built Kincaid News or how I footed the bill for those fine prep school educations.”

“She does bear you some affection, you know.”

Sawyer would bet that beneath Tamara’s tartness and Viscount Kincaid’s bluster lay a genuine—if oftentimes fraught—bond between father and daughter.

A light appeared in Viscount Kincaid’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a look of cloaked cunning. “Is that so? Then I’ll expect a grandchild to be in the cards in the not too distant future.”

Sawyer schooled his expression—this was a complication that he hadn’t foreseen. “Perhaps Tamara and I would like to enjoy ourselves first.”

“Enjoy yourselves later.” Kincaid settled back in his chair. “In fact, I like the idea of a grandchild so much I fancy I’ll make it a condition of the merger.”

Cagey bastard.

“My daughter enceinte before the merger goes through.”

“That wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“How much do you want this merger?”

“As much as you do, I would have thought,” Sawyer replied drily.

“I can wait,” Kincaid returned. “I’ve got some life in me yet, and God knows I’ve long since pinned my hopes on a third generation taking over the reins of Kincaid News.” Kincaid leaned forward. “The question is, will you or someone else be a worthy caretaker for Kincaid News in the meantime?”

Sawyer said nothing. He’d learned long ago that a tough bargainer didn’t jump in with his next best offer right away. He stayed cool and deliberated his options.

In this case, he supposed he could call the older man’s bluff. Good luck convincing Tamara or either of her sisters to marry another newsman.

But an image suddenly flashed through his mind of Tamara being bedded by some faceless pretender to the throne of Kincaid News, attempting to conceive the sought-for grandchild. He discovered that the thought of some other man fathering Tamara’s child didn’t sit well with him.

Better me than some faceless bastard, Sawyer thought.

Kincaid sat back in his seat, a smile hovering at his lips, seemingly satisfied by Sawyer’s reaction, or at least lack of immediate objection. “Marrying Tamara is the first step. I’ll do everything in my power to see that you actually make it to the altar, including making all the necessary public pronouncements that I’m overjoyed.”

“Naturally,” Sawyer said sardonically.

Kincaid leaned forward again, apparently warming to his subject. “I’ve done all I can up till now to help you, including—” Kincaid looked suddenly sly “—sharing all I know about Tamara’s comings and goings.”

Sawyer had to admit Kincaid had been helpful in that respect. Without inside knowledge, he’d have had a harder time.

“But the second step, the necessary step before I sign over Kincaid News, is getting Tamara pregnant,” Kincaid went on, quirking a brow. “And for that, you’re on your own.”

“Of course,” Sawyer said drily.

Kincaid couldn’t have put it more baldly. Sawyer would have to entice Tamara into his bed.

“Naturally,” Kincaid said, “I won’t breathe a word to Tamara about this new condition to the merger.”

“Thanks for the small favor.”

Kincaid chuckled. “I wouldn’t want her to lock you out of the bedroom just out of spite.”

“Thwarting you has been a favorite pastime of hers,” Sawyer observed with a jab.

The viscount’s face darkened briefly. “Yes, but those days are past now … as long as you get her to the altar.”

Kincaid’s new condition on the merger presented a complication that Sawyer hadn’t anticipated. He’d bargained with Tamara for a marriage of short duration. Once they both got what they wanted, they could go their separate ways. A baby had never been part of the equation.

He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of having a child with a divorce envisioned in the future. But then again, he was thirty-eight, his life was destined to become only busier after the business merger with Kincaid News, and he had a duty to the earldom to produce an heir. Sure, he could wait for a woman suitable for the duties of a countess, but right now that prospect seemed highly indeterminate.

On the other side, there was the very concrete reality of Tamara, who, however unsuited and averse she might be to being a countess, made his blood sizzle.

His body tightened as images flashed through his mind of just how pleasurable it could be to try to conceive an heir with Tamara.

“So, do you agree to the terms?”

Viscount Kincaid’s voice brought Sawyer back from his mental calculations.

Sawyer knew without hesitation what his answer was. “Yes.” He reached for his glass and raised it in mock salute. “To the merger of the Kincaid and Melton lines, corporate and otherwise.”

Tamara waltzed into Balthazar at noon. It had been an easy walk from her loft. She’d been surprised when Sawyer had called and proposed that they meet at a restaurant in her area.

Now, 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 throat. Instead, she found herself succumbing to the effect of his nearness and seductive words more than she cared to admit.

“What was the occasion for the gift originally?” she asked, striving to keep the conversation on an even keel.

Sawyer looked suddenly mischievous. “Do you really want to know?”

She raised her brows inquiringly.

“The birth of my great-grandmother’s sixth and last child.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, well …”

“Quite.” His eyes laughed at her. “One doesn’t get to be the twelfth in a direct line of successive earls without ample fertility along the way.”

“Perhaps you should be seeking a woman who will better accommodate you in the … fecundity department.”

His eyes crinkled. “Perhaps you suit my needs just fine.”

She was unsettled by his cryptic reply, but before she could respond, he picked up her ring hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing the pad of each finger individually.

Her eyes widened as a shiver chased through her.

“Someone I know just walked into the restaurant,” he murmured, a twinkle in his eyes.

She shot him a skeptical look. “Of course.”

“You doubt me?”

She extracted her hand from his loose grip. “Should I?”

Sawyer chuckled, and just then a waiter materialized with a bread basket, followed by their regular server with their wine.

When they were both sipping Pinot Grigio, Tamara attempted to put their conversation on a more businesslike footing. “Tell me about the details that you’ve obviously called me here to discuss.”

He arched a brow. “Your patience has run out? Very well, let’s start with Pink Teddy Designs. How much is your lease costing you?”

She relaxed a little, lowering her shoulders. So Sawyer had come here to make good on his promises.

“Too much,” she repeated.

“It’s a fashionable address—an astute business move.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll cosign your lease renewal.”

Her eyes widened. “How did—?”

He looked at her quizzically. “How did I know the lease was your most pressing concern, you mean? A few discreet inquiries to the landlord netted information on current rents—and the fact that they were going up.”

“Lovely,” she said acerbically. “I didn’t realize my lease was information available to the press!”

Sawyer’s lips twisted wryly. “It’s not, but I happen to know the head of Rockridge Management.”

She made a disgruntled reply.

“You’ll also need a cash infusion.”

Tamara compressed her lips. Knowing it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, however, she forced herself to hold her tongue.

Sawyer considered her. “How does two million dollars for initial financing sound?”

Tamara swallowed. She’d only fantasized about having that kind of cash on hand.

“No strings attached?” she queried.

Sawyer inclined his head in acknowledgment.

Of course, she reminded herself, they both knew that Sawyer wouldn’t expect repayment of the money. She had bargained away something else. She’d agreed to a sham marriage.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you … I think. I can promise I’ll put the money to good use.” And then because she didn’t want him to have the impression that she was completely without resources, she added, “I just met with a client this morning, actually.”

When Sawyer looked at her inquiringly, she elaborated, “It was a hedge-fund wife who recently opened her own boutique in the Hamptons. She bought a bracelet for herself and selected a few other pieces to carry in her store.”

Just then their waiter reappeared, and asked if they were ready to order.

Tamara belatedly realized she hadn’t even looked at the menu, but because she’d been to Balthazar before, she ordered the smoked salmon from memory. Sawyer, after a few idle inquiries of their waiter, ordered the grilled branzini.

Afterward, Tamara braced herself and looked at Sawyer squarely. “I suppose we should discuss the wedding itself.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ll leave the details to you. I understand many women have preconceived ideas of what their wedding should look like.”

Yes, and in her case, the idea had never been a sham marriage contracted to a very proper British earl.

On top of it all, Sawyer was also a press baron in her father’s mold. She could hardly get any closer to exactly what she didn’t want.

Sawyer studied her. “It seems only fitting, though, that the marriage of the Earl and Countess of Melton occur at Gantswood Hall, the ancestral home of the earls of Melton.”

Tamara resisted pointing out that it was hardly necessary to go to such trouble for what would be a short-lived marriage. But then again, she’d been half expecting Sawyer’s proposition of a proper British wedding. “Very well. I suppose the sooner, the better.”

Sawyer’s lips quirked. “Anxious, are you?”

“The sooner we begin, the sooner the corporate merger will occur and we can be done with this.”