The Ruthless Caleb Wilde. Sandra Marton
with them.
Good-looking women, in duplicates of Blondie’s outfit—tight, low-cut, short, glittery dresses that left bare long, long legs made even longer by sky-high stilettos.
None of the women were as good-looking as Blondie.
Or maybe none of them carried themselves the same way.
She was easy to spot, even in the crowd. She had her hair piled up on top of her head in a mass of curls. Plus, there was the way she held herself. Tall. Proud. Her posture almost rigid.
Forget what she was wearing, that I’m-too-sexy-for-this-dress thing.
It was her bearing that spoke loudest, and what it said was, Keep Away.
Caleb found his eyes glued to her.
He saw what happened when she approached one of the tiny tables ringed around the dance floor and one of the bozos seated at it laughed up at her, said something, and put a hand on her hip.
She pulled back as if that hand was a scorpion.
He saw what happened when she fought her way through the mobbed dance floor with a small silver tray of drinks in her hands and another bozo cupped her bottom.
Somehow, she managed to take a step in just the right direction and sink her spiked heel into his instep.
Without spilling a drop.
Caleb smiled.
The lady could handle herself …
At least, she could until the same bozo followed her, crowded her into a small, miraculously vacant corner, and said something to her.
She shook her head.
The guy said something again. And touched her. One fast, quick grope at her breasts.
Caleb’s smile faded. He stood straighter, tried to see more of what was happening but people walked by, got in the way …
Okay.
Blondie had slipped free. She was moving as fast as she could, heading for what had to be a service door.
The guy went after her.
He got to the door at the same second she did. Caught her by the shoulders. Yanked her back against him. Ground his body against hers.
She fought back.
It was useless.
The man was too big, too determined, probably too high or too drunk. Now he had one hand on her breast, the other, dammit, the other between her thighs …
Anger flashed through Caleb’s blood.
Didn’t anybody see what was happening? Was he the only one who understood that this wasn’t a man making a fool of himself, that it was—hell, it was attempted rape?
He swung away from the balcony railing, dropped his glass on the first table he passed, went through the crowd and down the nearest staircase pretty much the same way he’d gone through linebackers in his days as a tight end on his high-school and college football teams.
Where was she?
He was tall, six foot three, but it was almost impossible to see past this mob.
The service door had been in the back of the room. On the left. He headed in that direction, not bothering with “sorry” or “excuse me” as he shoved his way across the dance floor, just doing whatever it took to get where he needed to be.
It seemed to take a lifetime but finally he broke through the crowd.
Saw the door.
But that was it.
Blondie was gone. So was the guy.
Caleb looked all around him. Nothing.
Okay.
He drew a couple of deep breaths. Some good Samaritan must have seen what was happening and put a stop to it.
Or the guy had figured he’d had his fun and given up.
Or …
Holy hell!
Somebody opened the service door, stepped back fast and let it swing shut. Elapsed time, maybe three seconds … but long enough for him to see everything he needed.
The door didn’t lead to the kitchen. It led to some kind of big, dimly lit closet. A storage area, probably.
Inside, the blonde waitress was pinned against a wall, struggling against a man who towered over her.
Caleb ran to the door. Shoved it open. Said something hard and loud and absolutely ugly.
The man swung toward him.
“What the hell do you want?” he snarled. “This is none of your business. Go on, get the eff out of here!”
Caleb looked at the woman. Her eyes were enormous, her face pale despite the heavy layers of makeup. One strap of her dress was torn and the bodice was falling down.
“Are you all right?”
“He was going to—” Her voice broke. “He was going to—”
“Hey, pal. You deaf? I told you to get the eff out of—”
The man was just about Caleb’s size. He had a muscled body, same as Caleb.
But there was a difference.
One of them was all lust and ego.
The other was all righteous rage.
Caleb went straight at him.
It didn’t take very long. A couple of quick rights, a left to the gut and the son of a bitch staggered and clutched his belly.
“I was just having some fun,” he said.
Caleb’s smile was all teeth.
“So am I,” he said, and hit him one last time.
That was the blow that did it. The guy fell back, hit the wall and went down it, slow and easy, until he lay right where he belonged.
On the floor, at the waitress’s feet.
Caleb looked at him, wiped his hands on his trousers, then looked at the woman. She was even paler than she’d been moments ago.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Her eyes flew to his.
“It’s okay,” he said.
He saw her throat constrict as she swallowed.
“He’s—he’s been after me all night.”
The words were a rusty whisper. She was starting to tremble. Caleb cursed softly, stripped off his suit coat and held it toward her.
“Put this on.”
“I tried to get rid of him but he wouldn’t leave me alone.” A shudder went through her; she looked at Caleb again. “And then he—he grabbed me. And—and he pushed me in here.
And—and—”
Caleb stepped forward, started to wrap the jacket around her. She jumped at the feel of his hands.
“Easy,” he said as softly as if she were one of the fillies he used to tame when he was a kid, working with the ranch hands at El Sueño.
Carefully, he draped his jacket around her shoulders. It covered her from her throat to her knees.
“Come on,” he said. “Put your arms through the sleeves.”
She did. And even more carefully, making sure he didn’t let his hands brush against her, he snugged the lapels together and closed the buttons.
She trembled, but she let him do it.
Her attacker moaned.
Caleb