Sandra Marton - The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

“Nothing has.”

“Really? Is that what you call what went on tonight?”

“That had nothing to do with this.”

“You work in a dangerous place. You live in a dangerous place.”

“It’s called doing what I can to keep a roof over my head.”

“Don’t you have anyone who can help you?”

“I’m doing just fine on my own.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can see—”

One of the apartment doors swung open. Two men stepped into the hall. They were big and ugly; half of one’s face was a blur of homemade tattoos.

Sage had seen them before. They made a habit of saying things to her, ugly things; one always made a clicking sound with his mouth when she walked by.

They scared the hell out of her.

“Whoops,” the one with the tattoos said. “We breakin’ up the party?”

The other grinned, two front teeth gleaming gold.

“Sure looks like it’s gonna be fun.”

“Sure does. You think maybe they want company?”

Caleb’s hands dug into her shoulders. She could almost feel the tension radiating through him.

“Caleb,” she murmured. “Don’t.”

“Kay-Leb,” the tattooed one said in a falsetto, “don’t!”

Oh God!

“Caleb,” Sage said sharply. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, man. You goin’ with her or not? ’Cause if you ain’t—”

Sage twisted free of Caleb’s grasp, grabbed his hand and all but dragged him to the stairs.

He tried to shake loose. She wouldn’t let him. She hung on with fierce determination and he knew that the only way he’d be able to loosen her grip would be to hurt her, and he’d sooner have slit his throat than do that.

“Dammit,” he growled, “I’m not going to run away from those—those—”

They reached the first landing. She moved close to him and put her finger across his lips.

“There are two of them,” she whispered. “And one of you.”

He laughed. It was a hard, terrible sound and she knew that the pair downstairs could never be his equal in a fight.

Still, she couldn’t let him run that risk for her. He’d already done enough, more than enough, to keep her safe tonight.

Sage acted on feminine instinct. “Yes, but what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

“What if you are?” she insisted. “What happens to me then?”

He looked at her.

And the downstairs door slammed shut.

The breath whooshed out of her. She went boneless with relief.

Caleb cursed softly, wrapped his arm around her and she slumped against him. She could feel his heart thudding; his body felt as if it had been forged out of steel.

Then, slowly, he let out a long breath.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

She nodded, turned her face into the curve of his neck. It was okay, now that he was holding her.

What if he hadn’t been here?

She gave a little mew of distress. He held her closer. They stood that way for long minutes. Then she drew back.

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I mean, how many times can one person say thank you?”

He bent his head to hers, brushed the lightest of kisses on her mouth. There was nothing sexual in the gesture; she knew he’d meant it to be reassuring, and it was.

What would it be like if he kissed her differently, if he kissed her in a way that meant something more?

“Sage? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said briskly. “Three more flights and you can get me out of your hair.”

They climbed the remaining stairs; she stopped on the fourth-floor landing and pointed at the door ahead of them.

“That’s me.”

He held out his hand. “Your keys.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming,” he said dryly, “the lock on this door works.”

She nodded. Gave him her keys. Their hands brushed; hers trembled.

His eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

She shook her head. What could she tell him? Not the truth, that once she stepped through that door and he left, she’d be alone—and that, despite the deal they’d made, the promise she’d given that she wouldn’t think about what had happened at the club, she knew the scene would play and replay in her mind.

“You’re frightened,” he said bluntly.

“No,” she said quickly, “I’m fine.”

“To hell you are. And I don’t blame you.”

“Caleb. Really. I’m okay.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he undid the lock, then blocked the doorway with his body.

In his old life, he’d learned never to walk into a place that could prove dangerous without being vigilant. This was the USA, not Iraq or Pakistan, but anything was possible—and after what had happened at the club, what had almost happened downstairs just now, all his adrenaline was flowing.

“Home sweet home,” she said with a little laugh.

You could see all of it from where they stood but there was nothing sweet about it.

A shoebox of a living room. A bedroom. A bathroom. A minuscule kitchen. The place held old, tired-looking furniture but everything was scrupulously tidy.

“Stay here,” he said.

He went through the rooms, one by one, and finally came back to her.

“It’s clear.”

He knew this was the time to say goodnight but he couldn’t get the words out. And when she said, “I know it’s late but—would you like some coffee?” he said yes, absolutely, coffee was just what he wanted.

It was obviously the answer she’d wanted, too. She let out a long breath.

“Good.” She shut the door, set the locks. “To be honest—”

“You know what they say,” Caleb said, smiling. “Honesty’s the best policy.”

She gave him a hesitant smile. “I don’t—I don’t think I could sleep just yet.”

He put his hand under her chin and raised her face to his.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly.

“I know.” She smiled again. “That’s one of the dangers of being an actress. Having an overactive imagination, I mean.”

“Is that what you are? An actress?”

“Uh-huh. That’s why I work nights. At the club. It leaves me free for auditions.”

“Would I have seen you in anything?” he said, and they both laughed, knowing it was the most clichéd of clichéd questions.

“Lately? Well, there’s a commercial for Perrier and if you look really fast, I’m shopper number four at the checkout.”

Caleb grinned. “Shopper number four, huh?”

“I tried for shopper two because she gets a line, but the director thought another actress was better for the part.”

“His mistake.”

She grinned back at him. He wanted to cheer.

“When I get my first Tony or my first Oscar, I’ll point that out in my acceptance speech.”

They both laughed again. Then their laughter faded. Time seemed to stretch; the room filled with heavy silence.

And with awareness.

Her awareness of him.

His, of her.

He could hear his pulse beating in his ears.

He took a quick step back.

So did she.

“Coffee coming up,” she said brightly. “Just give me a minute to change, okay?”

He cleared his throat.

“No problem. I’ll just—I’ll just …” What would I just? Nothing sane, if I’m not careful .

She was gone five minutes, which was fine. It gave him time to get control of himself.

And to wonder what she was changing into.

Images flashed through his head. The kind he should have been ashamed of because there was nothing sexual about any of this, and she confirmed that when she reappeared wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, her face scrubbed clean, her hair loose.