The Ruthless Caleb Wilde - Page 19
He could only hope that decision involved him.
He kept as still as she, though every part of him was alert to her presence. He slowed his breathing, looked at her from under the screen of his lashes.
His pulse was racing. So were his thoughts.
Was she coming to him? Was she going to bend over him and kiss him? Go into his arms and part her lips to his?
Or was she simply prowling her own apartment for far less dramatic reasons? Maybe she just couldn’t sleep.
Caleb waited for some answering sign. A couple of minutes went by before one came.
She looked away, then walked quietly into the kitchen.
He let out a long breath. It was a disappointment … and yet, it wasn’t.
He hadn’t stayed the night for sex. He’d stayed to protect her … and wanting to make love to her didn’t have a damned thing to do with that.
It was greedy. Completely selfish. Altogether male. And she deserved better, if for no other reason than that she’d put her trust in him.
He had to honor that trust.
Honor, not to put too fine a point on it, was the primary principle by which he lived. It was the same for all the Wilde brothers.
Their old man had been too busy building a four-star career in the military to have been much of a father, but he’d managed to instill a basic code of ethics in his sons.
Honor. Truth. Duty.
If a man committed to those things, he could look at himself in the mirror without flinching.
A dim light went on in the kitchen.
Caleb heard the refrigerator door open, then close. Heard the delicate clink of glass against a countertop, then the whisper of liquid.
She was having a glass of water. Or milk. She was doing her best to keep the sounds to a minimum but his every sense was attuned to her.
What now? Stay where he was? Go to her? See what she needed?
See if she needed him?
He bit back a groan.
He knew the right answer this time. Shut his eyes. Roll over. Pretend he was asleep. That wasn’t just right, it was logical….
But it was a little late to worry about logic, wasn’t it? Because, hell, would a logical man have offered, no, insisted on spending the night on a sofa in the apartment of a woman he hardly knew?
He sat up. Ran his hands through his hair. Thought about closing the first couple of buttons of his shirt, and man, wasn’t that crazy? Maybe he ought to put his jacket back on, too.
He rose to his feet and headed for the kitchen. He wasn’t particularly quiet about it—the last thing he wanted was to startle her—but even at six foot three, how much noise could a barefoot man make?
He paused at the doorway, saw her standing at the counter, an open container of milk close at hand.
Her back was to him.
Her hair streamed down her back.
Longing swept through him, hot and sharp. Go back to that sofa, he told himself. Just turn away and she’ll never even know you were here.
Instead, he cleared his throat.
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