The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

There was some old saying about the truth setting you free, but that was the thing with old sayings.

Sometimes, they just didn’t make sense.

Back to square one. Why had she told him?

Maybe it was the way he’d taken charge of things today. It wasn’t just that he’d supported her sudden decision not to take the test, it was that he’d flat-out said he refused to let her take it.

It had been a kind of pronouncement.

I am Caleb Wilde. And I am in command here.

The twenty-first-century woman in her should have balked, but she’d loved that he’d made her feel safe and wanted. He’d been her knight again, if only for a little while.

“Sage!” The doorknob rattled. “If you’re sick—”

She stood straight, looked her reflection in the eye, then turned to the door, unlocked it and flung it open.

“I’m fine,” she said calmly.

He didn’t look convinced. Well, why would he? She’d seen herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, her hair was lank; she looked like the “before” part of a vitamin ad.

“In that case,” he said, “we need to talk.”

“We did talk.”

“Not yet.”

Here it was. The handsome, rich, sometimes-nice, sometimes-not-nice guy she’d let turn her world inside-out was about to throw money at her in return for her promise to disappear from his life.

It was an approach better than that of her own biological father, but not by much.

“Look,” she said wearily, “let’s just cut to the chase, okay? I know what you’re going to say.”

“Wow. Such a useful talent.”

“And I can save you a lot of time. I want—”

“You told me. A place to live. A job. Now, it’s my turn.”

What she wanted was for him to go away but, okay, let him talk. She knew she’d never get rid of him until she did.

“Fine,” she said, and swept past him into the cramped living room.

Swept, Caleb decided, was the only word for it.

How a woman in jeans and a T-shirt could seem regal was beyond him to comprehend, but then, pretty much everything about this particular woman was in that category.

He’d never met a woman like her, and whether that was good or bad was still up for grabs.

She took a chair.

He took the couch.

She sat straight, knees together, hands locked in her lap. She was pale, but other than that, she seemed okay.

She’d been in the bathroom for so long, he’d started to wonder if she was sick. Didn’t pregnant women get sick easily? The queasy-belly thing?

He didn’t know a thing about pregnant women.