The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

“Sage?”

She spun around. The glass fell from her hand to the worn linoleum and shattered into what looked like a thousand pieces.

So much for not startling her.

“Sage. Honey.” Caleb rushed into the room. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

“Oh God, Caleb! I thought—I mean, I thought—”

She was shaking. Her face was as white as the milk.

Shards of glass were everywhere.

“Don’t move,” he said. “You’ll cut yourself.”

Too late. A tiny scarlet rivulet had joined the spill of milk.

He held out his arms.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of there.”

She hesitated. Then she leaned toward him, wound her arms around his neck, and he lifted her into his embrace.

God, the feel of her!

Soft. Warm. She smelled fresh and delicate, like a spring afternoon.

He could feel her breath on his throat, her hair against his face. He could feel her breasts, her belly, all of her, pressed against him.

He ached to draw her even closer. To stroke his hand down her spine, tilt her face up to his …

Stop it, he told himself.

This was wrong.

His thoughts. His hunger. Completely, totally wrong.

Maybe that was why he spoke so briskly as he carried her into the bathroom and sat her on the closed toilet.

“Okay,” he said, switching on the light over the sink, “let’s see that cut.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re probably right.” He knelt and took her foot in his hands. “But let’s make certain, okay?”

Her foot was small. High-arched. Her toenails were the palest shade of pink.

He wasn’t into feet. Hell, what he was into was women. But he wanted to lift her foot to his mouth, kiss her instep….

A wave of hot longing shot through him.

Quickly, he stood up. Turned on the water in the sink, adjusted it in hopes the icy flow would warm.

“Okay,” he said again, and winced. Okay seemed to have become his favorite word. “Soap? Check. Water? Check. All we need now is a washcloth, a towel and a bandage.”

And a smile from Sage, who was looking at him with no readable expression on her lovely face.

He knew how to change that.