His Black Sheep Bride by Anna DePalo

Author:Anna DePalo
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Silhouette
Published: 2010-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

Early the next morning, Tamara knocked on the partially open door of Sawyer’s study before walking inside.

Sawyer looked up at her knock.

He stood, hands braced on hips, behind a massive wood desk at the other end of the room. Sunlight shafted in from the windows, bathing him in a beam of radiance. He looked like a historical lord plotting his next conquest. She quelled the feeling that in this case that might be her.

Breathing in deeply, she sauntered farther into the room. They had missed his study on their tour of the house the day before, though they’d skipped very little else.

As she’d suspected, Gantswood Hall was heavy with the weight of history. The walls of the reception rooms were mounted with Gainsboroughs, van Dycks and other priceless works of art, including portraits of Sawyer’s ancestors. Busts and other valuable sculptures dating back hundreds of years were showcased in the halls and entry. Beautiful molded-plaster ceilings added to the ambience of centuries of genteel wealth.

“Do you always stand behind your desk?” she asked now, half expecting to see Sawyer contemplating a battle map—no doubt like ancestors of yore.

“Not always, but sometimes,” Sawyer responded, lips curving. “It helps with the restless energy when I’m deliberating something.”

“And what would that be?” she asked.

“Some architectural improvements to a set of outlying buildings on the estate,” he responded.

While he pushed together papers on his desk, she scanned the room.

Sawyer’s study was more or less what she expected it would be. It had beautiful built-in bookshelves and old and valuable artwork. All that was missing, she thought wryly, was a pipe and smoking jacket and the late Alistair Cooke announcing the beginning of Masterpiece Theatre.

Interestingly, however, the room displayed what looked like a variety of travel memorabilia, including various framed photos.

She stopped before a bookshelf and examined a wood mask that appeared to be painted with gold and bronze.

“Nepal,” Sawyer said.

She glanced at him. “I didn’t realize you’d ever been.”

“Five years ago. But I did not attempt to scale to the top of Mount Everest, in case you’re wondering.”

“Of course,” she quipped. “You’re too busy climbing to various corporate pinnacles.”

At his chuckle, she glided on along the line of bookshelves until her eyes landed on a mahogany frame. Bending toward it, she realized it was a photo of a helmeted Sawyer emerging from a tank.

“Embedded with an army unit at the front lines,” he elaborated, sauntering toward her.

She arched a brow as she turned to look at him. “Working as a war correspondent is part of your job as head of a news corporation?”

“Only occasionally. Don’t tell.”

“Far be it for me to ruin your reputation as a stuffy aristocrat.”

“After my studies at Cambridge,” he said, “I did a brief military service.”

“Couldn’t escape the family tradition?” She knew many upper-class families still looked upon a military career as a gentleman’s calling.

“Didn’t want to,” he responded, refusing to be drawn in.

She turned away, and seeking a more neutral topic, pointed to a framed photo of him and three people dressed in traditional African garb standing in front of a nondescript building.

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