His Black Sheep Bride (4 page)

“I owe this all to you, Tam,” Tom said gratefully. “I don't need to tell you how tough things have been in the music industry lately, so getting someone to take a chance on Zero Sum is a big deal.”

If only Tom knew
exactly
what he owed to her, Tamara thought.

“I'll keep my fingers crossed for you,” Tamara said. “Blow them away.”

“Thanks, babe. You're the best.”

When she ended her call with Tom, she set down the phone and stared at it unseeingly, her brows knitting as she contemplated Sawyer's skullduggery.

She'd barely begun to get herself worked up over Sawyer's fiendishness, however, when the intercom sounded.

After she pressed the intercom button by the front door, she jumped as she heard Sawyer's voice.

She took a deep breath. Apparently her confrontation with Sawyer would occur sooner than she'd expected.

“Come on up,” she said with a semblance of serenity, and buzzed him in.

T
rust Tamara to name her company something ridiculous and suggestive like Pink Teddy Designs, Sawyer thought as he rode the elevator up to the third floor.

The name had been emblazoned next to the buzzer for Tamara's apartment in a cast-iron warehouse building that had long ago been converted into lofts. Located along one of SoHo's narrow side streets, the sidewalk in front of Tamara's building had nevertheless been almost as crowded with pedestrians and street vendors peddling everything from paintings to T-shirts as SoHo's main commercial strips, Broadway and Prince and Spring Streets.

It looked as if Tamara had rented one of the cheaper apartments she could find in one of Manhattan's priciest boho neighborhoods. Factories and warehouses had long since given way to high-end retailers such as Prada, Marc Jacobs and Chanel, though some artists who had bought their lofts when they were cheap still held on.

Of course, Sawyer thought, the businessman in him could
appreciate that Tamara's choice of location made sense. Any business had a certain image to project, and location was part of it. But it seemed as if Tamara had cut corners where she could, starting with choosing a side street and a lower floor, closer to street noises.

He stepped out of the elevator and found Tamara's apartment. But just as he was about to hit the bell, the door opened.

As a first impression, Tamara made quite an impact. In two seconds flat, he registered a short V-neck purple dress, black peep-toe sandals with bows and an opal pendant nestled on the pillow of her cleavage.

His body hummed to life.

“What are you doing here?” Tamara asked, her voice cool and clipped, though her eyes flashed fire.

He twisted his lips sardonically. “That makes twice. Is that the way you greet all your clients?”

“Only the ones who aren't welcome.” Then belying her words, she stepped aside. “What do you mean by
client?
”

Sawyer walked into the boxy but airy loft. “I want to have a piece of jewelry designed, if you'll recall.”

Tamara's face registered disbelief before her eyes flashed fire again. “You can't be serious.”

“That makes twice again. I seem to have a knack for eliciting the same reactions from you.” Then he added, in answer to her question, “In fact, I am serious, and I thought you'd be happy about the offer of business.”

He watched as she clamped her mouth shut.
Splendid.
He'd stopped her adamancy with a tantalizing lure—a reminder of what he had to offer, and what she stood to lose.

Sawyer scanned the loft. It looked like what his prior investigation had revealed: an apartment that also served as an office and business headquarters.

Near the back, he could see a partition that appeared to section off a sleeping area. To his right, near the entry
door, there was a kitchen with light wood cabinets and black appliances. In front of him, the space was dominated by a comfy work area—a deep-red velour couch and armchair, a few potted plants and a large glass-topped table cluttered with what looked, at a glance, like the tools of the jewelry-making trade. A workbench stood off to one side.

The entire space was marked by a high ceiling and accentuated by large, inverted-U-shaped windows that let in plenty of natural light—a precious commodity in Manhattan's pricey real estate market.

Hearing a click as Tamara shut the door behind him, he walked with deliberate casualness to a nearby waist-high glass display case.

He let his eyes scan the bracelets, necklaces and earrings on display, all made from some type of green gemstone.

“It's green agate, in case you're wondering,” Tamara said crisply as she stopped beside him.

He looked up from the case, and she regarded him challengingly, almost defensively.

“I was reading your stare,” she explained.

“You have a unique style.”

“Thank you, I think.”

His lips quirked up. “You're welcome.”

She looked pointedly at his custom-made business suit, as if making a silent judgment about the contrast in their two styles.

Perhaps she was also wondering why he'd bothered to fit a visit with her into his busy work schedule.

He wasn't about to accommodate her unspoken question, however. Because the truth was, though it was late Wednesday afternoon and the middle of his workweek, he'd cleared his schedule in order to come downtown and find her. And if Tamara knew the importance he'd attached to his visit, she'd clam up and retreat. Or more likely, it would raise her hackles again.

“What sort of commission do you have in mind?” she asked finally, saving him from a response.

He figured it was too much to hope she'd had an abrupt change of heart about creating jewelry for him. More likely, her curiosity was simply piqued. But he'd work with that for now.

“A coordinated set,” he said blandly. “Earrings and a necklace.”

“Of course,” she responded with a corresponding lack of inflection. “Do you prefer a particular type of stone?”

He looked into her eyes. “Emeralds.”

“A popular choice—” she gave him a saccharine smile “—but I can't help you. I focus on bridge jewelry made with semiprecious stones—”

“Designing fine jewelry with precious stones can't be much different,” he countered.

Tamara hesitated before conceding grudgingly, “No, it's not.”

“Great, then there's no problem,” he responded smoothly. “Which stones do you like?”

She frowned. “I don't see how that enters—”

“You're a professional designer,” he diverted. “I'd like to know what you think. What stones do you prefer, assuming money isn't an issue?”

She clenched her jaw. “Emeralds. Dark-toned ones.”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Then we're in agreement. Make them big, and surrounded by diamonds.”

She pursed her lips. “Has it ever occurred to you that I simply might not like a commission from you?”

“Never.” He flashed a smile. “You're in business to sell jewelry, and I'm here prepared to spend six figures.”

With an oblique reference, he cast another lure for her. He was a seasoned player at the negotiation table and now he brought his skills to bear.

She looked exasperated. “You are decisive.”

“Yes, I am.” He hid his satisfaction in the chink in her armor. “Aren't most of your clients?”

“I don't usually do custom orders,” she responded. “It's not how I operate. The people who buy my jewelry appreciate something offbeat.”

He grinned. “Not your usual high-society bling bling.”

At her nod, he added, “Then I hope you can…accommodate me.”

It was sexual banter, but he was careful to keep his expression innocent. Nevertheless, she regarded him with suspicious displeasure for a moment.

“No request is too unusual,” she replied finally.

“What a relief.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I'll need a deposit, and you'll have to give me time to contact my suppliers and find the right stones. Fat emeralds are not among my usual orders.”

Touché. Still, he was happy to have her think of him as gaudy and tasteless as long as it got him one step closer to his goal. “Naturally, I understand. I hope I'm not putting you out.”

“Not any more than the unexpected appearance of a persistent would-be client,” she shot back.

The shadow of a smile touched his lips. Tamara certainly knew how to give as good as she got. What a waste she would have been on Tom. Sawyer was not the least bit repentant about his ruthless maneuvering.

Rather than respond directly to her jab, he turned the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go. “I thought you'd be happy about an expensive order.” He glanced around at their surroundings. “I understand you could use some help.”

Now that he had her on the hook, he could afford to drive his point home.

Tamara hesitated. “What makes you think so?”

“I have my sources.”

She scowled suddenly. “Have you been talking to my father?” She held up a hand, as if to stop him. “No, wait. Don't bother answering that question.”

“For the record, it was through my own digging. But what I didn't find out on my own, your friend Tom was happy to volunteer.”

She ignored the reference to Tom and braced one hand on her hip, her eyes narrowing. “You had me investigated?”

He let his lips quirk up on one side. “I like to know who I'm doing business with. Avoids nasty surprises.”

“So I should be flattered?” she demanded, looking outraged. “Is it a compliment that I merited the same full-blown investigation you might accord to a prospective business partner?”

“In or out of bed,” he added to get a rise out of her.

Her face flushed with color. “I see.” She gave him a sweeping look. “And I suppose none of your…girlfriends were infuriated by having to pass muster? Was the privilege of sleeping with you just too great a prize?”

He gave her a slow grin designed to incense. “No complaints yet.”

“Oh!”

For a moment, she looked as if she was speechless with outrage, fishing around for the right words for a proverbial clobbering.

Finally, she bit out, “I suppose that's why you're here today—to order a trinket for one of the lucky winners?”

He cocked his head to the side, and then raised his hand to slowly brush a tendril back from her face.

She stilled.

“You could characterize it that way,” he said in a deep voice that held just a hint of laughter.

She brushed his hand aside. “Fine,” she huffed, her voice nonetheless holding a hint of breathlessness. “It's not my business why my clients come to me—or how.”

“Not too discriminating to do business with the devil?” he baited her.

She gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Let's step over to my desk to discuss what you're looking for.” She paused, and then added emphatically, almost warningly, “In a necklace and earrings coordinate set, of course.”

He gave a low laugh as he followed her.

This sale was costing her, but she was gritting her teeth and bearing it since she needed the money. Pink Teddy Designs meant a great deal to her, and he planned to exploit the attachment to his every advantage. Shamelessly…ruthlessly…unrepentantly.

Because if there was one thing he knew, Sawyer acknowledged as he admired Tamara's backside and shapely legs, it was that Kincaid News was worth the effort…and so was Tamara. And certainly, it would be no hardship to bed Tamara along the way to getting what he wanted.

At her desk—which was actually the large, glass-topped table he'd seen earlier—he sat in a bar-height chair at a right angle to her.

“So describe to me what you're looking for.” She set aside some metal boxes so they sat out of her way, and added belatedly, “In earrings and a necklace.”

“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 breasts 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.