The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

His behavior was so masculine. Tough but tender. The sexiest possible combination. True, she didn’t know much about men, well, except for David, whom she adored, but it was impossible to imagine him taking care of her like Caleb.

She was pretty sure he was the guy who’d given her a hard time on the balcony, but when it came to basics, he was the only man who’d looked past her awful costume and come to her rescue.

Now, he was trying to get her to relax. That’s what these conversational forays were all about. She appreciated the effort but what she really wanted was to curl up in a tight ball and pretend she wasn’t here, the way she used to when she was a little girl.

He wouldn’t let her do that.

And he was probably right.

Pretending a thing wasn’t happening hadn’t worked when she was a kid. And it wasn’t working right now.

“… still waiting,” Caleb said.

Sage blinked. “Waiting?”

“Sure. To hear whether it’s good or bad that you wouldn’t have picked me for a lawyer.”

He was smiling. Her heart gave a tiny extra beat. He had a wonderful smile. And he was incredibly good-looking.

“That right hook of yours,” she said, shoving all that nonsense out of her head, “isn’t the lawyerly type.”

He laughed. “Thank you … I think.”

Caleb saw her lips curve in a little smile. Excellent, but the silence crept back in. Not good, he thought, as his mind scrambled for some way to re-start the conversation.

Talking had been good for her. She still clutched his jacket to her hard enough that her knuckles were white, but at least her posture was a little more relaxed.

Say something, Wilde, he thought, and cleared his throat.

“So, if Park Slope is upscale, where you live is …?”

The limo slowed, pulled to the curb.

“We’re here, sir,” the driver said.

Caleb looked out the window. He stared at the street. At the buildings that lined it. Then he stared at Sage.

“This is where you live?”

Wrong tone to use. She stiffened, this time with indignation, but how else was a man to sound when he delivered a woman to her door and that door turned out to be in the middle of what could be called a slum only if you were feeling particularly generous?

They were in front of a four-story house. A charitable soul, or maybe a Realtor, might have said it was part of a historic-looking group of brick buildings.

Caleb wasn’t feeling charitable, and he sure as hell wasn’t a Realtor.

The building was one in a string of identical structures, strung together like beads jammed on a chain. He saw boarded-up windows. Rusted iron bars. Sagging steps that led to sagging stoops.

The street itself was long. Narrow. A couple of the streetlights were out.

The place looked like an ad for urban blight.

What he didn’t see were people.

It was late, sure, but this was the city that boasted that it never slept.

“Thank you,” Sage said.

Caleb swung toward her. The driver was at the door, opening it. She was getting ready to step out of the car.

“Wait a minute.”

“This was very kind of you, Mister … Caleb.”

He caught hold of her arm.

“I said, wait a minute!”

She hissed, jerked against his hand. Wrong move, dammit! He could almost see what she was thinking.

Carefully, he let go of her.

“I only meant … Are you sure this is the correct address?”

Her expression changed, went from fearful to defiant.

“Very sure. This is where I live.”

Caleb thought of a polite way to tell her that her surroundings were dangerous, but surely she already knew that.

It didn’t matter. She read his mind.

“Not quite Park Slope,” she said with a thin smile.

To hell with being polite.

“No,” he said bluntly, “it sure as hell isn’t.”

The faint smile vanished.

“Am I supposed to apologize because you don’t approve?”

“No. Of course not. I only meant …” He stopped, took a long breath, let it out and started again. “Where’s the subway?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to picture you making this trip each night, that’s why!”

“I—I usually walk home from the subway with a friend.”