The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

“I tried to get rid of him but he wouldn’t leave me alone.” A shudder went through her; she looked at Caleb again. “And then he—he grabbed me. And—and he pushed me in here.

And—and—”

Caleb stepped forward, started to wrap the jacket around her. She jumped at the feel of his hands.

“Easy,” he said as softly as if she were one of the fillies he used to tame when he was a kid, working with the ranch hands at El Sueño.

Carefully, he draped his jacket around her shoulders. It covered her from her throat to her knees.

“Come on,” he said. “Put your arms through the sleeves.”

She did. And even more carefully, making sure he didn’t let his hands brush against her, he snugged the lapels together and closed the buttons.

She trembled, but she let him do it.

Her attacker moaned.

Caleb looked down at him. The man’s nose was pouring blood, and angled crookedly across his face. One eye was swollen shut.

Not enough, Caleb thought coldly.

The woman seemed to sense it. She touched his arm.

“Please, could you get me out of this place?”

“Shall I call the police?”

She shook her head.

“No. The publicity … And—and he didn’t—he didn’t … He never had the chance to—to do more than—than touch me. You got here before he could—” She drew a deep breath. “I just want to go home.”

Caleb nodded. It was an excellent idea—until he thought of shoving through the crowd outside.

“Is there a back entrance?”

“Yes. That door, behind you … It leads to a delivery bay.”

In his rage, he hadn’t noticed the door but he saw it now, in the rear wall.

“I’m going to put my arm around your shoulders,” he said. “Just to play it safe. Okay?”

She looked up at him. Her face was streaked with mascara. Her mouth was trembling, and he thought he had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

“Okay?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

Caleb put his arm around her. She stiffened but she didn’t pull free. They walked to the door; he pulled it open.

The street outside was dark and deserted. He’d stepped into enough streets like it, back in his Agency days, to feel every sense come alive.

“Stay close,” he said softly.

She burrowed against him as the door clicked shut. She felt delicate, almost fragile in the curve of his arm.

He wanted to go back into the club and pound his fist into the face of the bastard who’d hurt her again.

But he couldn’t.