The Merciless Travis Wilde

“Right,” Jake said, after a few seconds. He cleared his throat. “So, ah, so did I tell you guys about the dude with the fabric samples? Man, I swear, he doesn’t speak in any language I ever heard before. Batiste. Bouclé. Brocade. And that’s just in the B’s...”

Caleb forced a laugh.

Jake kept talking and, finally, Travis forced a laugh, too. The waitress came by. They asked for refills on their drinks, talked some more...

And Travis, who had come out tonight for the express purpose of getting a woman he hardly knew, except in the most basic sense of the word, out of his head now realized he couldn’t think about anything except her.

He held up his end of the conversation. More or less. An occasional comment, a laugh when it was expected, but he wasn’t really there.

He was in his penthouse, Genevieve in his arms, her responses to his caresses, his kisses, his deep, incredible possession of her so honest, so passionate, so thrilling...until he’d ruined it, ruined everything by reacting like a selfish, stupid kid...

“Travis?”

He wanted to see her again.

Just—just to tell her he’d been wrong, that he shouldn’t have said—

“Trav?”

He blinked. Focused his gaze on his brothers. They were staring at him, concern etched into their faces.

“Jet lag,” he said with forced good humor. “What I need is coffee. A gallon of it, black and strong and...

His words trailed off.

His heart thudded.

“Travis? You okay?”

The place had gotten crowded with people.

The bunch at the university party up front was still there. If anything, it had grown larger.

Two women, surely from that group, had just walked by. Save-the-Something T-shirts. Real jeans. Leather sandals.

One woman had dark hair.

One had light hair.

The one with the light hair was stumbling. The other was supporting her. Arm around her waist, face a mix of concern and irritation.

“Travis? Man, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said, as the women disappeared into the rear bathroom.

It had to be nothing.

The woman who’d been stumbling had looked just like Genevieve. Exactly like her.

Well, not exactly.

Her hair was that same golden color but it wasn’t loose, it hung down her back in a long ponytail.

And, of course, she wasn’t wearing a dress the size of a handkerchief, or shoes with heels high enough to give a man hot dreams.

So it wasn’t her.

It couldn’t be her.

It was ridiculous even to think it was her...

The bathroom door swung open. The two women stepped through it.

Travis got to his feet.

“Travis,” Caleb said sharply, “what’s going on?”

Hell. It was her. Genevieve. Her face was drained of color and she had her hand pressed to her belly.

“For crissakes, Gen,” the second woman said loudly, “nobody gets sick on two margaritas!”

Travis dug out his wallet, tossed some bills on the table.

“I have to go,” he said, his eyes never leaving Genevieve.

“Go where? Dammit, man, talk to us!”

“I’ll call you later,” Travis said. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”

“The hell it is,” Jake said.

He started to rise but Caleb, who’d turned to watch Travis, grabbed his arm.

“Let him go.”

“Go where? Man, what’s happening?”

“Look.”

Jake looked.

Travis had reached the women. He said something to them. The one with dark hair gave him a quizzical look.

“You mean, with you?” she said.

Travis’s response was loud and clear.

“Absolutely with me,” he said, his tone no longer that of a guy who lived for the moment but, instead, that of the tough, take-no-prisoners fighter pilot he’d once been.

“Fine with me,” the brunette said. She let go of the blonde, who swayed like a sapling in a Texas dust-storm as Travis scooped her off her feet.

“Whoa,” Caleb said.

“Whoa, is right,” Jake said, because after a couple of seconds of struggle, the blonde blinked hard, looked up at their brother and said, “Travis?”

“The one and only,” Travis said grimly.

She looped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his throat. And he, jaw set, eyes hard as obsidian, carried her straight through the room and out the door.

CHAPTER SIX

TRAVIS WAS DRIVING his ’Vette tonight, not his truck. He’d parked it a short way down the street.

He hadn’t thought about it, one way or the other—until he walked out of the bar with Genevieve in his arms.

Now he figured that having to walk a couple of minutes to get to the car was probably a good thing.

It would give him time to cool down.

He was beyond angry.

What in hell was in this woman’s head?

Didn’t she have any sense of reason? Walking into that bar last week, dressed to raise the blood pressure of every man breathing, and now, this. Drinking herself damned near senseless.

He didn’t like rules, didn’t believe in worrying much over what social pundits liked or disliked, but he did have opinions—and one of them was that a woman out of control was not a pretty sight.

As for drunks...

He didn’t like drunks in general but when a woman went that route...

His sisters would say he was being sexist. Maybe he was, but that was how he felt.

And what if Genevieve hadn’t got sick? What would have come next? Would she have let some guy pick her up, take her home? Touch her? Kiss her? Ease her thighs apart, bury himself in all that honeyed sweetness?

So much for calming down. If anything, his anger ratcheted up a notch.

A couple walking toward them laughed.

“Very romantic,” the woman said.

Travis glowered. If only they knew the truth. This was as far from “romantic” as a man could get—and it was stupid.

What he was doing was stupid.

He wasn’t Genevieve’s keeper.

He should have left her with her pals. She was their problem, not his.

It wasn’t too late; he could turn around, take her back to where he’d found her...

Genevieve moaned softly.

Yeah, but she was sick. Drunk, sure. But sick drunk made for a dangerous situation.

Two margaritas, her friend had said.

Hardly enough to get sick on, but she was. The moans. The way she’d clutched her belly. Even the way she’d let him all but kidnap her said everything he needed to know.

She was sick. And she needed—

She needed him.

He’d known it when he heard her whisper his name, when she gave herself over to him, buried her face against his throat.

She felt soft and feminine in his arms. And that sense that she trusted him. Needed him...

He tried not to think about that, or the way it made him feel.

It was a lot safer to concentrate on his anger.

“Damned fool woman,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a shaky whisper.

He hadn’t meant her to hear him, but maybe it was a good thing that she had.

“Yeah,” he said coldly, “right. I’m sure you are. Somebody should have told you that what comes after the booze is never as much fun as the partying that precedes it.

She shook her head. Her hair slipped like silk across his jaw.

“I meant that I’m sorry for this. Not your problem.”

“Damned right,” he growled.

Jennie expected nothing more.

She knew he wouldn’t say she didn’t have to apologize, that he was only glad he’d been there to help her...

Genevieve Cooper, a

re you truly crazy?

It was her alter-ego talking, but Jennie refused to listen. She wasn’t Genevieve, not anymore.

Plus, she knew what Travis Wilde was like. Hadn’t she learned all she needed to know last week?

Besides, he had every right to be harsh and judgmental. He thought she was drunk. How could he possibly know the truth, that what she really was, was incredibly stupid?

No alcohol with these pills, Jennifer, the doctor had said.