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

She looked annoyed. “My father refers to an arranged marriage, and in response, you ask me to dance?”

“Ah, that.”

“I’d call that stoking the fire.”

“I guess I should be relieved you aren’t accusing me of a more sinister deed than asking you to dance.”

She didn’t seem to find his response the least bit amusing.

“Since you mention it,” she said crossly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had advance notice of Colin Granville’s wedding escapade.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Interesting.

Their movements sent them skirting past another couple.

“Everyone knows you and the Marquess of Easterbridge are friends.” She wrinkled her nose. “The aristocratic secret handshake, and all that.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Colin is his own agent. And for the record, there’s no secret handshake. It’s a blood covenant—knives, thumbs, a full moon. You understand.”

She didn’t even bat an eyelash at his attempt at humor. “Your friendship doesn’t extend to plotting society scandals?”

“No.”

“It would help sell newspapers,” she pointed out.

What would help him sell newspapers would be getting his hands on her father’s media empire, he thought.

“Let’s get back to the subject of my so-called game,” he said smoothly. He exerted subtle pressure at the small of her back to guide them in a different direction.

“You’re feeding the beast,” she said emphatically.

By tacit agreement, over the years they’d avoided each other as much as possible whenever they’d had occasion to be at the same social function. The expectation of marriage had been like the white elephant in the room.

Until now.

“Maybe I want to feed the beast.” He’d always tolerated the older generation’s wedding machinations, but lately things had taken a different turn.

She looked startled. “You can’t be serious.”

He shrugged. “Why not? We’ll probably both marry someday, so why not to each other? A dynastic marriage is likely to be as good as any other.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

He scanned the crowd. “Really? Where’s the lucky man?”

Her chin jutted out. “He could not attend today.”

“Tell me you’re not dating another sad sack.” What a waste.

She gave him a withering look.

“So that’s why you’re attending the wedding without a date,” he continued, knowing he proceeded at the risk of incurring her wrath.

“It hasn’t escaped my notice you’re here alone, as well,” she shot back.

“Ah, but there’s a reason.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Which is …?”

“I’m interested in merging Kincaid News into Melton Media. Your father is happy to oblige … if I marry his daughter.” He cocked his head, and then echoed Viscount Kincaid’s words with mock seriousness. “‘Keep everything in the family, you see.’”

Her eyes widened, and then she said something under her breath.

“Exactly,” Sawyer agreed, and then his lips quirked up. “After all, look at all the trouble you and your sisters have given him so far. You’ve all refused to fall in line. Your father’s pinning his hopes on the third generation.”

The song ended, and she made to pull away from him, but he tightened his arm around her waist. He sensed her resistance for a moment, but then he swung her deftly in a semicircle as the band moved into the next song.

He wasn’t ready to let her end their conversation just yet.

And then, she felt good in his arms, he admitted, as delicious curves pressed against him.

If she were anyone else, he’d have been charming her into giving him her phone number—and maybe more. He’d have looked forward to sleeping with her.

He’d have to play his cards more carefully with Tamara, but the end reward would be infinitely greater.

Tamara gave him an artificial smile. “You sound like my father. Are you sure you’re not the same person?”

Sawyer returned her smile with a feral one of his own. Tamara’s father was fit and trim for a man of seventy, but that’s where the physical similarity between the two of them ended. However, the viscount’s salt-and-pepper hair and grandfatherly visage disguised a sharp mind and cutthroat business instincts.

“We’ve both got the stomach for high stakes,” Sawyer responded finally.

“Yes, how can I forget?” she retorted. “Business before pleasure and family.”

He shook his head. “So bitter for someone whose lifestyle has been bankrolled by the family fortune.”

“It’s been at least a decade since I was young enough to be bankrolled, as you put it,” she countered. “I support myself these days—by choice.”

He raised his eyebrows. So Tamara’s image of an independent woman was more than mere show.

“I think the word bitter applies to different circumstances—like going through three divorces,” she said pointedly.

“And yet, the viscount strikes me as someone who’s far from unhappy with life. In fact, he’s such a romantic, he’s trying to get you to walk down the aisle.”

“With you?” she scoffed. “I think not.”

His eyes crinkled with reluctant admiration, even if it was at his expense. “You’re a blunt-spoken New Yorker.”

She arched a brow. “A woman after your own heart, you mean? Don’t you wish!”