The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

“There is no but, Caleb. I’m the one who’s been dealing with this—what did you call it? This ‘situation.’”

“While I was oblivious to it.” He could feel a little curl of anger forming again. “Which brings me to a question. Why didn’t you contact me when you realized you were pregnant?”

“For starters, I didn’t know your last name. I didn’t know anything about you, except that you lived in Texas. What we did … what I did …” Color striped her cheeks. “I still can’t believe it. And believe me, I’m not proud of that.”

Images flashed through his head. Waking in the middle of the night, his body on fire for her. Trying to ignore what he felt and then the realization that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and then her in his arms, hot and wild in his arms …

“I don’t regret that night,” he said, his voice husky. “Neither should you.”

She stared at him. Then she shot to her feet.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Caleb rose, too. He stood beside her, too close, too masculine, too everything she had tried so hard to forget.

“That’s why we’re here,” he said. “To talk about it.”

“About—about the baby. Not about—”

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

“Stop!” Sage closed her eyes, as if that might make this all go away. “I don’t want to—to—”

“Hell, no! Neither do I.” He put his hand in her hair, turned her face up to his; hair fell in a silk swirl over his fingers. “But I can’t stop it. Memories of you. How you tasted. How you felt. How it was, to be inside you …”

She slapped at his hand.

He clasped her face. Raised it to his.

“No,” she said sharply, but it was too late.

His mouth was on hers and he was kissing her, kissing her with weeks of pent-up desire, with passion and yet with tenderness.

His tongue sought entry into the sweetness of her mouth and she moaned, parted her lips and let him in.

An eternity later, he raised his head, but he didn’t let go of her.

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” He knew there was an edge to his voice. So what? What he’d just done wasn’t logical but surely this question was. “You were going to go through with a paternity test rather than tell me the truth?”

“Let go of me.”

“Answer the question. Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

“You weren’t much interested in the truth three months ago. Why would you have wanted to hear it yesterday?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You walked out of here that night. No questions, nothing. You just—you just slugged David, told me what you thought of me, and you were gone.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, and? That was how things ended between us. Now you’re saying that when I found you waiting for me in that hotel yesterday I should have stuck out my hand, smiled and said, ‘Hello, Mr. Wilde, it’s nice to see you again and oh, by the way, I’m carrying your child?’” She jerked free of his hands, eyes flashing with defiance and anger … or was it pain? “What a fantastic conversation-starter that would have been!”

He wanted to tell her she was wrong—but she wasn’t. He would never have believed her. He wasn’t even sure why he believed her now.

Except, he did.

The events of the morning had changed everything.