The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

“Caleb. Don’t hurt him.”

“You know this guy?”

“I told you, pal, I live here.”

Caleb’s gaze went to Sage. “Is that true?”

“Yes. It’s true. But—”

“Sage,” the intruder said, sliding his arm around her shoulders, “you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” She paused. “Caleb. This is—”

“David,” Caleb said, his voice flat and cold. “I heard you the first time.”

“No! It isn’t what you’re thinking—”

Caleb gave an ugly laugh. “You don’t know the half of what I’m thinking.”

“Sage,” David said, “what’s going on? I go away overnight, I come back and I find a—a naked guy in our kitchen.”

“Caleb,” Sage said urgently, “there’s a simple explanation for—”

“I’ll bet there is,” Caleb said through a tight smile. “You and lover boy here, you have an arrangement.”

“No!”

“Yes.” David gave an embarrassed laugh, let go of Sage and moved toward Caleb. “Hey, dude, I’m sorry. You just caught me by surprise. Arrangement or not, I probably should have phoned before I barged in.” Smiling, he held out his hand. “We okay now?”

Caleb narrowed his eyes.

Hatred pumped through his veins. For this smiling SOB. For Sage. For himself, most of all, for having been such a fool.

“We’re just fine,” he growled, and for the second time in fewer than twelve hours, he put everything he had into a hard right hook.

Sage shrieked. Her boyfriend went down like a stone, eyes rolled up, feet in a mess of milk and glass. She dropped to her knees beside him.

“David! David, talk to me!” She looked up at Caleb, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You—you hit him. How could you do that?”

Caleb’s lips drew back from his teeth.

“Hell,” he said, “how could I not?”

He strode past her, got his shoes and shirt from the bedroom, his jacket and his sanity from the living room, and went straight out the door.

CHAPTER FOUR

TRAVIS Wilde stood just outside the double glass doors that led into the Dallas offices of Wilde and Wilde, Attorneys at Law.

Beyond those doors, a sea of antique red-oak flooring led to a handmade glass desk, the province of the silver-haired, always-dressed-in-black, stern-faced woman who sat behind it.

Edna Grantham—Miss Edna, unless you wanted your head sheared off—had been his brother’s keeper-of-the-gate since the start of Caleb’s firm.

She reminded Travis of his fourth-grade teacher, a woman with an icy disposition and little tolerance for the occasional foolishness of nine-year-old boys.

He was a grown man now, still occasionally foolish, though only when he chose to be, but old memories died hard, and Miss Edna could quell him with a look, especially when she thought it was in defense of her boss.

Travis knew, in his bones, he was not her favorite person.