The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

She was, once again, the woman he’d met that night almost three months ago, a heart-aching combination of vulnerability and courage, and she touched something in him no woman ever had.

“I shouldn’t have stormed out of here that night,” he said quietly. “God knows, I was in no position to make moral judgments.”

“Nobody’s in a position to make moral judgments,” she said tightly, “especially without asking a couple of questions first.”

A muscle in his jaw flickered. “What was there to ask?”

“Never mind,” she said wearily. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

She looked up at him, weighing his words. Then she flashed a bitter smile. “Okay. How about, Were David and I lovers?”

“Are you saying you weren’t?”

“Would you believe me if I did?”

Something stirred inside him. “Try me.” Time slipped by. Caleb cursed, clasped her shoulders again. “Dammit, Sage, I want the truth. Were you lovers?”

“No.” Tears rose in her eyes. “He was my friend. My best fr—”

Her voice broke. Caleb wanted to draw her against him and offer comfort but he couldn’t.

Not yet. Not until the images of her with Caldwell were blanked from his mind.

“It was the worst day of my life,” she whispered. “Losing him.”

He nodded. Searched for words of solace … and instead heard himself say, “Why were you living together?”

She gave a snort of disbelief.

“Is that all you and your oversized ego can worry about?”

“Answer the question,” he said coldly, knowing that the ghost living inside him, the Agency operative who’d been trained to trust no one, to reject answers when they weren’t the answers he expected, had suddenly taken over.

“We weren’t living together. Not the way you mean. David needed a place to stay. I said he could stay with me until he found something.”

“So, you’re saying you were roommates?”

There it was again, that quick narrowing of her eyes.

“I’m not saying it, I’m stating it. We were friends. Period. Full stop. End of story.”

Caleb nodded again. One more question. He hated himself for needing to ask it—but he had to know. Dear God, he had to know if he needed to be jealous of a dead man, and if that wasn’t pathetic, what was?

“And where did he sleep?”

The breath hissed from between her teeth.

“Damn you, Caleb! I don’t know why I bothered with this. You’re not interested in the truth!”

“Where?” he demanded, because, sure, he had female friends, he knew men and women could like each other without sex ever entering the equation, but how could a man be near this woman and not want her, not need to touch her?

“He slept where you did,” she said, her voice tight. “We joked that it was the guest bedroom.”

“‘We,’” he heard himself say.

She turned her face up to his. Were her eyes bright with tears or with anger?