The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

He brought the car to a screeching halt at the curb, right beside a fire hydrant and a couple of kids who looked like they’d stepped out of a reality show about street gangs.

Caleb took out his wallet, extracted two hundred-dollar bills and, tearing them in half, gave a half to each kid.

“The car’s still here, untouched, when I come back, you get the rest. Understand?”

The kids grinned and nodded. Caleb went past them, ran up the steps to the front door, pushed it open and raced up the stairs.

Then he was standing outside Sage’s apartment.

His heart was banging but it didn’t have a thing to do with his gallop up those stairs.

What would he say to her? How could he convince her to stop being so stubborn?

Where was Logic-Man when he needed him?

He took a deep breath.

The logic would come, once he started talking. He was a good talker, especially under pressure. It was one of the reasons for his reputation as a hotshot litigator.

Just do it, he told himself, and he rang the doorbell.

Sage had just come out of the shower.

A shower that had been almost ice-cold.

She’d wrapped herself in her robe, padded, barefoot, to the phone and called the super.

“There’s no hot water,” she’d said, and he’d yawned and said yeah, he’d see what he could do, which she knew pretty much meant he wouldn’t do anything and God, that made her angry and she unloaded on him with everything she had.

It wouldn’t change anything about the hot water, but she figured it was better than being in tears, especially since that was how she’d spent most of the past few hours.

The super was collateral damage.

Caleb was the real target.

Didn’t he understand that she didn’t need what he’d offered? His financial support?

She’d provide for her child and herself, thank you very much.

What she’d wanted from him, what she’d hoped for from him—

The doorbell rang.

So much for the super not doing anything.

Sage looked down at herself. Robe. Bare feet. Wet hair flopping in her face. Not a fashion plate but who cared? Mr. Del Gatto wasn’t a fashion plate, either, not when he wore jeans that gave the world a view it couldn’t possibly want whenever he squatted under the sink.

The bell rang again. A fist pounded on the door.

“Dammit,” she heard Caleb roar, “open this door!”

Sage had always thought phrases like the blood draining from somebody’s head were just examples of overblown prose, but she could feel the blood draining from hers.

Caleb had come back.

“Sage!” The door shook under the pounding of his fist. “Open—the—door!”

She hesitated. Then she took a steadying breath, went to the door, undid the endless locks and saw him standing there, big and hard-looking and angry as hell.