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“Of course,” she managed.
His eyes glinted. “Follow me,” he said, turning. “I’ll show you the house.”
They walked up the front steps together and into the cool, dark front hall, where Sawyer hailed an older woman who appeared to be Beatrice’s counterpart in England—the housekeeper.
“Ah, Eleanor,” Sawyer said. “May I present Ms. Tamara Kincaid, my fiancée?”
As she shook hands with Eleanor, Tamara was careful to disguise her inner turmoil.
Sawyer’s greeting had left her unsure of her footing.
Not good. Not good at all.
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.
“As I recall,” Sawyer said, answering her unspoken question, “we had just arrived at the medical station with vaccines after dodging a handful of armed rebels in a Jeep.”
“Oh.”
She hid her surprise and confusion. Sawyer wasn’t supposed to be Indiana Jones disguised as a staid British earl. He might live the news business, but it was clear it went beyond empire-building and down to the trenches. He helped people, and he found and told their stories.
To her chagrin, Sawyer made her occasional volunteer work serving food in a New York City homeless shelter seem rather insignificant.
“Are you ready to ride?” Sawyer asked.
Why, oh, why, did she have to see sexual suggestion in his words?
He was so close she only had to reach out a hand to feel the hard planes of his chest, or the outline of a muscular thigh beneath form-fitting riding pants.
Sawyer’s topaz gaze traveled over her, from her hair caught in a ponytail to her white shirt, snug-fitting pants and polished black boots.
She wet her lips.
Sawyer’s eyes came back to hers, too knowing. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Had they been talking about something?
“Are you ready to ride?” he repeated, his eyes holding a telltale glint.
“Of course.”
He took a half step closer. “Good…then there’s just one more thing.”
“What’s that?” she asked with a touch of breathlessness.
He bent his head, and she watched his mouth curve…right before he settled his lips on hers.
Her hand came up to his chest, but before she could use it to keep some physical separation, he captured it in his, drew it aside and laced his fingers with hers.
His mouth moved over hers, and when she would have made to pull away, he pressed her back against the bookcases, settling his body against hers.
He coaxed her into a soul-searching kiss even as his free hand roamed her curves.
Her hand curled around his, and he held her firmly.
He fit against her curves, his hard planes pressing her, molding her, and she could feel his growing arousal. She picked up the faint scent of sandalwood soap underneath that of freshly polished leather.
She didn’t want to desire this. Desire him. But pure need fueled her response.
She responded to his kiss with a growing urgency, her hand plowing through the hair at the back of his head.
As if seizing upon her response, he moved his mouth from hers to trail kisses along her jaw. With an impatient hand, he undid the upper buttons of her shirt, exposing the lace of her bra, and then pressed small, warm kisses against the soft flesh of her throat.
