His Black Sheep Bride by Anna DePalo

sketch.”
    He cocked his head and regarded her. “Something unique. Something that will have people take a second look.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œI’m thinking of a choker,” she said sweetly.
    He laughed softly, and she put down her pencil and reached for a three-ring binder.
    â€œHere,” she said. “These might give you some ideas. They’re some computerized drawings I’ve done.”
    â€œGreat,” 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.
    â€œThese are good, but I need more,” he said.
    She looked nonplussed. “More?”
    â€œYes. 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?
    â€œWhich one?” she finally asked with exaggerated patience.
    He had little doubt her use of the singular was deliberate. She had no intention of modeling any more than the bare minimum for him.
    Ignoring her hint of impatience, he picked up the binder again and thumbed through it.
    Her designs were good. Better than good. He’d inherited the Langsford family jewels, and in addition, he’d bought his share of pricey jewelry over the years, so he was no novice buyer. And to his practiced eye, these designs looked fresh and different.
    â€œThis one,” he said, stopping at a page and showing it to her.
    She shook her head. “That piece has been sold. I don’t have another one here like it.”
    Unperturbed, he moved on to another page. “What about this one?”
    â€œThat’s topaz. The yellow gold setting wouldn’t be right for diamonds and emer—”
    â€œHumor me,” he said with all the assurance of someone used to calling the shots—and being right. “I’m not looking at the metal but at the design.”
    â€œRight. Of course.”
    He hid a smile. The client was always right. She couldn’t argue there, much as she obviously wanted to.
    Tamara pushed back her chair and marched over to a safe across the width of the loft. After opening the safe door, she removed two velvet boxes.
    Sawyer watched her intently, his body stirring.
    Without looking at him, she stepped over to the gilded full-length mirror mounted on the nearby wall.
    From the smaller of the two boxes, she retrieved one earring and then another, putting them on one by one.
    Sawyer shifted in his chair.
    â€œYou need to put your hair up in order to show them off properly,” he said, his voice resonating in the quiet room.
    Tamara compressed her lips, but then, with a show of impatience, as if she found all this ridiculous, and still refusing to look at him, she reached into a nearby drawer. She removed a plastic clip, and proceeded to put up her hair.
    Sawyer parted his lips and sucked in a deep breath as heat shot through him.
    The image in the mirror was enticing, enchanting even. When was the last time he’d seen Tamara with her hair up?
    The earrings were about two inches long, the