The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

Another time, he might have smiled and said he was both, and what did she intend to do about it?

Not tonight.

Right now, he thought, glancing at his watch, what he wanted was for another thirty, thirty-five minutes to slip past. Then he could find his host, if that was possible, tell him he’d had a great time and he was sorry as hell but he had an early-morning appointment back in Dallas …

“… for you?”

Caleb turned around. There was a girl standing just in back of him. Pretty, not spectacular, not in a crowd like this but still, she was pretty. Tall. Blonde. Big blue eyes.

Lots of makeup.

Too much for his tastes. Not that his tastes mattered.

Pretty or not, he wasn’t in the mood.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I’m going to leave soon.”

She leaned in a little. Her breasts brushed lightly against his arm and she pulled back but the contact, quick as it was, shot straight through him.

She spoke again. He still couldn’t hear her, thanks to the music, but he could certainly take a second look.

What the hell was that thing she was wearing? A dress, or something that could have been a dress if you’d added another twelve inches of fabric. It was black. Or deep blue. Iridescent, anyway, glittery, or maybe it was the effect of the light.

Either way, the dress looked as if it had been glued on her. Skinny straps. Low bodice. A sinfully low bodice, revealing the curve of lush breasts.

His gaze drifted lower, to where the dress ended at the very tops of her thighs.

To his amazement, he felt his body and brain coming back on-line.

He smiled. The girl didn’t.

“I’m Caleb,” he said. “I didn’t get your name.”

Those big blue eyes turned icy.

“I didn’t give it.”

So much for that. She might be in the mood for games. He sure as hell wasn’t.

“In that case,” he said in his best, intimidate-the-witness tone, “why are you talking to me?”

“I’m paid to talk to you,” she said, her voice as cold as her eyes.

“Well, that’s certainly blunt but I promise you, lady, I am absolutely not inter—”

“I’m paid to ask what you’re drinking. And to bring you a refill.” This time, the look she gave him was filled with stony satisfaction. “I’m a waitress, sir. Trust me. I wouldn’t have looked at you twice if I weren’t.”

Caleb blinked.

Over the years, a couple of women had told him off. There was the girl in fifth grade, Carrie or Corey, something like that, who’d slugged him after he’d made fun of her over some silly thing at recess. And a mistress—a former mistress—who’d told him exactly what he could do with the farewell sapphire earrings he’d sent her after she’d told him it was time they set a wedding date.

Neither had put him in his place better than this, or even as well.

He supposed he ought to be angry.

He wasn’t.

The fact was, he admired Blondie’s gumption. An old-fashioned, down-home word, gumption, but it was eminently suitable.