The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I mean, how many times can one person say thank you?”

He bent his head to hers, brushed the lightest of kisses on her mouth. There was nothing sexual in the gesture; she knew he’d meant it to be reassuring, and it was.

What would it be like if he kissed her differently, if he kissed her in a way that meant something more?

“Sage? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said briskly. “Three more flights and you can get me out of your hair.”

They climbed the remaining stairs; she stopped on the fourth-floor landing and pointed at the door ahead of them.

“That’s me.”

He held out his hand. “Your keys.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming,” he said dryly, “the lock on this door works.”

She nodded. Gave him her keys. Their hands brushed; hers trembled.

His eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

She shook her head. What could she tell him? Not the truth, that once she stepped through that door and he left, she’d be alone—and that, des

pite the deal they’d made, the promise she’d given that she wouldn’t think about what had happened at the club, she knew the scene would play and replay in her mind.

“You’re frightened,” he said bluntly.

“No,” she said quickly, “I’m fine.”

“To hell you are. And I don’t blame you.”

“Caleb. Really. I’m okay.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he undid the lock, then blocked the doorway with his body.

In his old life, he’d learned never to walk into a place that could prove dangerous without being vigilant. This was the USA, not Iraq or Pakistan, but anything was possible—and after what had happened at the club, what had almost happened downstairs just now, all his adrenaline was flowing.

“Home sweet home,” she said with a little laugh.

You could see all of it from where they stood but there was nothing sweet about it.

A shoebox of a living room. A bedroom. A bathroom. A minuscule kitchen. The place held old, tired-looking furniture but everything was scrupulously tidy.

“Stay here,” he said.

He went through the rooms, one by one, and finally came back to her.

“It’s clear.”

He knew this was the time to say goodnight but he couldn’t get the words out. And when she said, “I know it’s late but—would you like some coffee?” he said yes, absolutely, coffee was just what he wanted.

It was obviously the answer she’d wanted, too. She let out a long breath.

“Good.” She shut the door, set the locks. “To be honest—”