His Black Sheep Bride (Aristocratic Grooms 1)

“In earrings and a necklace, of course,” he murmured, echoing her words.

In fact, he’d love to describe what he was looking for—in and out of bed.

The truth was, he acknowledged to himself with some degree of surprise, if he’d ever let himself really look over the years, he’d have said Tamara wasn’t too far off the mark from what he usually looked for in a woman, though he’d never dated a redhead.

She had inherited her mother’s model looks and figure. She had generous br**sts and hips, but still managed to look willowy and statuesque. And she had amazing bone structure. Her lips were full, balanced by an aquiline nose and delicately arched brows over crystalline green eyes. She was good enough to grace the cover of any glamour magazine, if she chose. That she didn’t choose said a lot about her.

Physically, she fit his type. But he’d always envisioned someone who embraced his aristocratic heritage as his bride.

Tamara pulled a white paper pad in front of her, and then reached for a pencil. “Describe to me what you’re looking for. If the design isn’t to your liking, we can always play around with it. Computerized design technology is an amazing thing these days, but I prefer to start with an old-fashioned sketch.”

He cocked his head and regarded her. “Something unique. Something that will have people take a second look.”

“That’s a wide universe,” she replied archly, her pencil hovering.

He shrugged. “Let your imagination run wild.”

She gave him another narrow-eyed look, as if she was thinking of hitting him over the head, or wondering at his audacity—the equivalent of asking the wife to pick out a gift for the mistress.

“I’m thinking of a choker,” she said sweetly.

He laughed softly, and she put down her pencil and reached for a three-ring binder.

“Here,” she said. “These might give you some ideas. They’re some computerized drawings I’ve done.”

“Great,” he said, taking the binder from her.

While he paged through her drawings, she occupied herself with arranging objects on her desk and pointedly ignoring his study of her designs.

Finally, he set the binder on the table with deliberate casualness. He wasn’t going to let her off the hook too easily. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to stop until he got it.

“These are good, but I need more,” he said.

She looked nonplussed. “More?”

“Yes. It would be better if you modeled some of your designs for me.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in, but then her eyes flared, and their gazes clashed.

He shrugged, a smile playing at his lips. “Call it a singular lack of imagination.”

He watched as she seemed to grit her teeth. How much was she willing to do for a lucrative commission?

He could practically see the wheels turning in her head. How far would she go to indulge his whims?

“Which one?” she finally asked with exaggerated patience.

He had little doubt her use of the singular was deliberate. She had no intention of modeling any more than the bare minimum for him.

Ignoring her hint of impatience, he picked up the binder again and thumbed through it.

Her designs were good. Better than good. He’d inherited the Langsford family jewels, and in addition, he’d bought his share of pricey jewelry over the years, so he was no novice buyer. And to his practiced eye, these designs looked fresh and different.

“This one,” he said, stopping at a page and showing it to her.

She shook her head. “That piece has been sold. I don’t have another one here like it.”

Unperturbed, he moved on to another page. “What about this one?”

“That’s topaz. The yellow gold setting wouldn’t be right for diamonds and emer—”

“Humor me,” he said with all the assurance of someone used to calling the shots—and being right. “I’m not looking at the metal but at the design.”

“Right. Of course.”

He hid a smile. The client was always right. She couldn’t argue there, much as she obviously wanted to.

Tamara pushed back her chair and marched over to a safe across the width of the loft. After opening the safe door, she removed two velvet boxes.

Sawyer watched her intently, his body stirring.

Without looking at him, she stepped over to the gilded full-length mirror mounted on the nearby wall.

From the smaller of the two boxes, she retrieved one earring and then another, putting them on one by one.

Sawyer shifted in his chair.

“You need to put your hair up in order to show them off properly,” he said, his voice resonating in the quiet room.

Tamara compressed her lips, but then, with a show of impatience, as if she found all this ridiculous, and still refusing to look at him, she reached into a nearby drawer. She removed a plastic clip, and proceeded to put up her hair.

Sawyer parted his lips and sucked in a deep breath as heat shot through him.

The image in the mirror was enticing, enchanting even. When was the last time he’d seen Tamara with her hair up?

The earrings were about two inches long, the large, multifaceted topaz stones at the ends of them catching the light. They moved fluidly along with Tamara, brushing the tendrils of hair that had failed to find a home in her plastic clip.

Sawyer resisted the urge to go to her and press his lips to the tender curve of her neck. He knew he was playing a dangerous game that he was at risk of getting caught up in himself.

Tamara bent to the larger of the two velvet boxes and lifted out an exquisite and elaborate fringelike necklace with topaz stones.

Sawyer stood up abruptly. “Let me help you.”

Before she could argue, he was behind her, taking the necklace from her unresisting fingers.

“I’m an expert at doing and undoing clasps,” she protested weakly.

“Nevertheless, let me make the gallant gesture.”

“Practicing for the real moment?” Tamara tossed out, her words belying her response of sexual awareness, her ni**les outlined against the fabric of her dress.

Sawyer let his lips curve lazily. “If I were, then I’d do this next.”

He didn’t think. He just gave in to temptation.

Fortunately, in this case, business and pleasure were one and the same.

Five

Tamara felt a sizzle shoot through her as Sawyer nuzzled her ear, and then bit down gently on her earlobe, the large topaz stone of her earring rocking between them as he did so.

She swallowed, holding back a small gasp. Sawyer’s body, hard and unyielding, brushed against hers, igniting a simmering heat in her.