His Black Sheep Bride (Aristocratic Grooms 1)

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.

Oh. All through lunch, she’d tried so hard not to think about kissing Sawyer.

He kissed, she acknowledged again, in the same way he did everything else in his life—with an intensity and lazy self-assurance that was hard to resist.

Sawyer’s hands came up to either side of her face, anchoring her, his fingers threading into her hair.

He caressed her mouth with his in slow, leisurely strokes.

“Your mouth drives me crazy,” he muttered, and then stroked the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “It’s these lush, pouty lips.”

“Thanks very much! You make me sound like a stripper or a  p**n  star.”

He smiled. “Don’t ever disguise them with lipstick.”

She sucked in a breath, but before she could say anything, Sawyer was off the bed and pulling her with him again.

“Where are we going?” she asked on a laughing gasp.

She’d never seen Sawyer let go like this. It was so not in character.

Okay, who was she kidding? It was thrilling, and she couldn’t help responding to it.

“There are five more bedrooms,” Sawyer said as he strode across the hall, leading her by the hand. “This one is mine.”

Inside his bedroom, he swung her to face him.

Tamara got a general impression of a four-poster king-size bed, more gleaming dark wood and a distinctly masculine feel.

Then her gaze landed on Sawyer again.

“Oh, no,” she said breathlessly, shaking her head at the look in his eyes.

Purposely, he advanced on her, and she backed up until the bedpost stopped her retreat.

Why had she never noticed Sawyer’s raw masculinity until recently? Even in a conservative business suit, his tie in place, he looked impossibly sexy. The rakish look in his eyes made her weak-kneed.

A sizzling warmth suffused her. Her br**sts tightened, and a heavy ache pooled between her legs.

Maybe before she hadn’t wanted to see Sawyer as he was. Maybe this was the real reason she’d kept him at a distance.

She itched to caress the firm line of his jaw and the strong column of his neck. She curled her fingers into the palm of her hand to stop herself from doing so.

Sawyer gave her a sexy smile. “What are you thinking?”

“What am I thinking?” she tried, thinking one of them had to hold on to sanity. “Isn’t the question, what are you doing?”

He was too close. The inches between them crackled with electricity.

Sawyer’s smile widened. “Perhaps I’ve realized that I’d enjoy having you as my wife in every way.”

“Thanks very much!”

“How long has it been for you?” he murmured. “I know you and what’s-his-name weren’t intimate.”

Her mouth dropped open, and then snapped shut. “Tom, his name is Tom. And I’m not discussing this with you.”

Sawyer’s smile turned lazy and knowing. “That long, then?”

He touched her, smoothing the backs of his fingers down the side of her breast in a gentle caress, and Tamara sucked in a breath.

“Damn you,” she whispered.

He slid his hand up her arm, bringing her into his embrace. “Your eyes tell a different story, Goldilocks.”