The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

Sage was silent. That little laugh Caleb had managed to win from her was long gone. She sat huddled in the corner of the wide leather seat, her face turned to the window. All he could see of her was the back of her head and the rigidity of her shoulders beneath his jacket.

And her long, very long legs.

Hell.

He had no business thinking about her legs. Not at a time like this.

She’d had a terrifying experience. Somehow, thinking of her as a woman was wrong right now.

What she needed was … what?

He felt helpless.

She hadn’t wanted to call the cops and he understood that, but surely she needed … something.

Hot tea? Brandy? Someone to talk to? Someone to hold her? She’d let him do that but only for a minute.

He was a stranger. A male stranger. The last thing she’d want was to be in his arms. The trouble was that his every instinct told him to reach for her, draw her close, stroke her hair, let some of his strength leach into her.

She was too quiet. Too withdrawn. After that one little laugh at his pathetic attempt at humor, she’d told the driver her address and she hadn’t spoken a word since.

If only he could draw her out. Get her talking about something. Anything. He’d searched his brain for a way to start a conversation but “What do you think of the weather?” seemed woefully inadequate.

Besides, she wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

The truth was, neither was he.

His jaw tightened. He was still angry as hell.

He’d let the piece of crap who’d attacked her get off easy. A man who’d force himself on a woman deserved to be beaten within an inch of his life.

Caleb let out a long breath.

Except, wiping up the floor with the bastard would only have upset her more. The best thing had been to get her out of there ASAP, and that was what he’d done.

He looked at her again. She’d drawn her legs up under her. And she was trembling.

He leaned forward.

“Driver? Turn off the AC, please.”

Sage turned quickly toward him.

“No, please. Not on my account.”

Caleb forced a quick smile.

“Heck,” he said, trying to sound casual, “I’m doin’ it for me. I’m freezin’ my tail off. You northerners must have a thing for goose bumps.”

Her eyes, wide and almost luminous in the shadowed interior of the limo, searched his face.

“Really?”

“Hey,” he said, doing his good-ol’-boy imitation for the second time that night, doing whatever it took to keep her talking, “Ah’m from Tex-ass.”

The gambit didn’t work. She nodded, said “Oh,” and went back to staring out the window.

Caleb gave it a couple of minutes. Then he tried again.

“So,” he said with enough false cheer to make him wince, “we’re in Brooklyn now, huh?”

It was a stupid question. It deserved a stupid answer. But she was too polite for that. Instead, she swung toward him.

“Yes.”

He nodded wisely. “What part do you live in?”

“It’s called East New York.”

“Interesting name.”

That won him the tiniest twitch of her lips.

“It’s an interesting neighborhood.”

“Meaning?”

“Have you ever been in Brooklyn before?”

“Does a housewarming party in Park Slope maybe seven, eight years back, count?” That won him a faint smile. He wanted to pump his fist in the air but he settled for smiling at her in return. “No, huh?”

“No,” she replied. “Definitely not. Park Slope is upscale. It’s full of lawyers and accountants and … What?”

“That’s who I was visiting that night,” Caleb said. “A lawyer buddy whose wife is a CPA.”

“You’re not going to tell me you’re a CPA!”

“You’re right, I’m not.” He smiled. “I’m an attorney.”

“I wouldn’t have picked you as either.”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed?

Well, because lawyers and CPAs were supposed to be coolly logical, weren’t they?

But this man had acted on pure instinct. He’d protected her. Saved her. She hated the very concept of violence but seeing him put her attacker down had thrilled her.