The Ruthless Caleb Wilde. Sandra Marton
Now the limo moved swiftly through the dark streets.
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 Too withdrawn.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.
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