The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

Was she coming to him? Was she going to bend over him and kiss him? Go into his arms and part her lips to his?

Or was she simply prowling her own apartment for far less dramatic reasons? Maybe she just couldn’t sleep.

Caleb waited for some answering sign. A couple of minutes went by before one came.

She looked away, then walked quietly into the kitchen.

He let out a long breath. It was a disappointment … and yet, it wasn’t.

He hadn’t stayed the night for sex. He’d stayed to protect her … and wanting to make love to her didn’t have a damned thing to do with that.

It was greedy. Completely selfish. Altogether male. And she deserved better, if for no other reason than that she’d put her trust in him.

He had to honor that trust.

Honor, not to put too fine a point on it, was the primary principle by which he lived. It was the same for all the Wilde brothers.

Their old man had been too busy building a four-star career in the military to have been much of a father, but he’d managed to instill a basic code of ethics in his sons.

Honor. Truth. Duty.

If a man committed to those things, he could look at himself in the mirror without flinching.

A dim light went on in the kitchen.

Caleb heard the refrigerator door open, then close. Heard the delicate clink of glass against a countertop, then the whisper of liquid.

She was having a glass of water. Or milk. She was doing her best to keep the sounds to a minimum but his every sense was attuned to her.

What now? Stay where he was? Go to her? See what she needed?

See if she needed him?

He bit back a groan.

He knew the right answer this time. Shut his eyes. Roll over. Pretend he was asleep. That wasn’t just right, it was logical….

But it was a little late to worry about logic, wasn’t it? Because, hell, would a logical man have offered, no, insisted on spending the night on a sofa in the apartment of a woman he hardly knew?

He sat up. Ran his hands through his hair. Thought about closing the first couple of buttons of his shirt, and man, wasn’t that crazy? Maybe he ought to put his jacket back on, too.

He rose to his feet and headed for the kitchen. He wasn’t particularly quiet about it—the last thing he wanted was to startle her—but even at six foot three, how much noise could a barefoot man make?

He paused at the doorway, saw her standing at the counter, an open container of milk close at hand.

Her back was to him.

Her hair streamed down her back.

Longing swept through him, hot and sharp. Go back to that sofa, he told himself. Just turn away and she’ll never even know you were here.

Instead, he cleared his throat.

“Sage?”

She spun around. The glass fell from her hand to the worn linoleum and shattered into what looked like a thousand pieces.

So much for not startling her.

“Sage. Honey.” Caleb rushed into the room. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

“Oh God, Caleb! I thought—I mean, I thought—”

She was shaking. Her face was as white as the milk.

Shards of glass were everywhere.

“Don’t move,” he said. “You’ll cut yourself.”

Too late. A tiny scarlet rivulet had joined the spill of milk.

He held out his arms.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of there.”

She hesitated. Then she leaned toward him, wound her arms around his neck, and he lifted her into his embrace.

God, the feel of her!

Soft. Warm. She smelled fresh and delicate, like a spring afternoon.

He could feel her breath on his throat, her hair against his face. He could feel her breasts, her belly, all of her, pressed against him.

He ached to draw her even closer. To stroke his hand down her spine, tilt her face up to his …

Stop it, he told himself.

This was wrong.

His thoughts. His hunger. Completely, totally wrong.

Maybe that was why he spoke so briskly as he carried her into the bathroom and sat her on the closed toilet.

“Okay,” he said, switching on the light over the sink, “let’s see that cut.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re probably right.” He knelt and took her foot in his hands. “But let’s make certain, okay?”