The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

He felt his heart do something—well, something weird. It turned over. Or maybe it lifted. Whatever, it was a strange sensation.

It had to be his gut, not his heart. He hadn’t eaten anything this morning. He hadn’t even had coffee.

He reached for his mug of tea. Drank some. Tried not to gag.

Sage laughed. He looked up.

“You look as if you’re eating worms.”

“Hey, worms aren’t so bad.” He grinned at the expression on her face. “Grow up with a couple of brothers who’re always ready for a dare, you end up doing a lot of things you don’t generally talk about in polite company.”

She sat down across from him. No laughter now.

“Like what to do when you find out the woman you—you were with is pregnant.”

“The woman I made love with,” Caleb said in a low voice.

Their eyes met. After a long few seconds, she looked away, caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He watched, and tried not to think about how soft and sweet her flesh was there.

“So,” she said, “so … I’ve been making plans. Well, I’ve been trying to but with Caldwell hounding me—”

“Forget Caldwell.” Hell, why did his voice sound so rough? “Forget him,” he repeated. “He’s not going to bother you again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said, his voice even rougher. “It’s just the right thing to do.” He cleared his throat. “What plans have you been making?”

“The first, the one at the top of the list …” She sat forward, her hands wrapped around the mug of tea, her eyes bright. “I’m moving out of here.”

“Damned right you are.”

“I’m going to look for a place in—well, I’m still not sure. I thought maybe Queens. Or Long Island. Maybe even New—”

“A house,” Caleb said. “A kid needs a yard. A dog. Space to run in.”

“I thought about a house but renting is probably—”

“Renting isn’t a good idea. It might be now, considering the economy, but by the same token, there are houses on the market that are excellent va

lues.”

Sweet Jesus.

Travis would be proud of him. Or maybe not. He sounded more like a stuffed three-piece suit than a man who was about to become a—about to become a—

“Maybe,” Sage said, “but I have to be realistic.”

“Absolutely. Being realistic is my specialty.” Had he actually said that? “What I mean is, I’ll draw up some plans and—What?”

Sage’s eyes had narrowed. She was good at narrowing them; he’d noticed that about her, and it inevitably presaged an oncoming storm.

“I’ve been drawing up plans for almost three months.”

“I’m sure you have, but—”