Читать книгу The Ruthless Caleb Wilde - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 8

THE light from the street cast a soft illumination over her.

She wore the sweats he’d seen her in earlier. Her pale golden hair was tousled; her feet were bare.

She looked soft and sweet and so desirable he wanted to get to his feet, go to her and take her in his arms….

But he didn’t.

She was watching him with a stillness that told him she was trying to decide what to do next.

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.

“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.

Bend to her. Bring his mouth to hers. Run his fingers into her silken hair …

“Caleb.”

Her voice was soft. He shuddered under its gentle touch.

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a big smile, “I know. My medical skills are limited, but—”

“Caleb.” She was looking at him, her head tilted back. He could see a pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.

“What?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

“My—my foot is fine. Really. Look. The bleeding stopped and the cut is so tiny it’s barely visible.’

He tore his gaze from her face. She was right. The bleeding had stopped. All that remained of the cut, just as she’d said, was the tiniest possible scar.

What would she do if he put his mouth to it?

He swung away from her.

One more second and he’d be hard as a rock. Then what would become of honor and trust?

He drew a steadying breath, thought about cold rivers, cold lakes, cold streams.

“Washcloths,” he said. “Where do you keep them?”

“Honestly, Caleb—”

“I can clean the cut with tissue but then you’d be that old joke, a woman blissfully unaware her sexy outfit is spoiled by a trailing plume of toilet paper.”

She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. Good. Laughter. That was what he needed.

“Oh, I’m certainly wearing a sexy outfit,” she said. “All right, you win. Washcloths are in that cupboard, on the middle shelf.”

He nodded, got a washcloth from a neat stack of them, then checked the water running into the sink. It was still cold but better than it had been, and he dumped the cloth into the basin, swished it around, then wrung it out.

“Perfect,” he said, squatting down in front of her and lifting up her foot again.

Sage smiled.

“What?” he said, glancing up and catching the smile.

“Only that you were right. You really can be stubborn.”

He grinned.

“Told you.”

He dabbed at the cut. Sage went back to watching him. His hands were big. They were clean, the nails neatly trimmed, but they weren’t the hands of a man who earned his living at a desk. They were strong hands. Powerful. Masculine.

What would they feel like on her?

A rush of heat swept through her. Dammit, hadn’t she thought about him enough tonight? Weren’t images of this man, this stranger, what had kept her tossing in her bed?

Ridiculous, was what it was.

And it had to stop.

She cleared her throat.

“I, ah, I guess I made quite a mess.”

He looked up again.

“My fault. I scared the life out of you.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just—I couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad dreams?”

She shook her head. “No. I just couldn’t—”

“I couldn’t, either.”

“No wonder. That sofa’s—”

He looked up at her again.

“It didn’t have a thing to do with the sofa.”

His voice was low. Rough. She stared at him. Then, slowly, a soft pink glow suffused her cheeks.

She knew what he was telling her. She was what had kept him awake.

How would he react if she told him it was the same for her?

Her heart gave an unsteady bump. Their eyes met and held. Then he rose quickly to his feet.

“Almost finished.” His tone had become brusque. “Let me just dry that cut and put a bandage on it.”

“It doesn’t need a bandage.”

“It does. Are they in the medicine cabinet?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

There was no point in arguing with him. By now, she knew that.

Her knight was a determined man. It was, she had to admit, an admirable quality, especially when all that determination was devoted to taking care of her.

Nobody had ever done that before.

Well, except, sometimes, for David—but that wasn’t the same thing at all.

Caleb made her feel … protected. More than that. He made her feel cherished, which was a silly word to use because he was a veritable stranger.

And yet, that was how she felt with him.

She watched as he took a towel from the rack, took the box of bandages from the cabinet, opened one, then squatted in front of her again.

His touch was gentle. Everything about him was gentle. It surprised her, considering his size, considering the way he’d dealt with her attacker and the pair of animals in the entry hall a couple of hours ago.

And he was intensely focused. On her foot, on the inconsequential wound.

Was he always that way?

Would he be so tightly focused on a woman in bed?

She made a little sound in the back of her throat. He looked up.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“You sure?”

Sage nodded, even though she was no longer sure about anything. How could she be, when one night, one man, had seemingly turned her existence upside down?

She wanted to touch him.

Stretch out her hand. Stroke his hair. It was short. Inky-black.

She wanted to touch his face, too. Trace her finger over those high cheekbones, that strong nose, that sensual mouth.

She wanted to look deep into his eyes, see if they were really blue, or were they black?

And those lashes. The color of soot. Thick. Long.

A woman would kill to claim those lashes.

A woman would kill to claim him.

Heat raced through her again, quick and dangerous. Was she crazy? This wasn’t her thing. Picking up a stranger. Fantasizing about making love with him …

“Don’t,” he said.

His voice was low, the way it had been before. Now it was rough, too, like sandpaper.

Sage blinked. She felt her pulse beating high and fast in her throat. He was watching her, his eyes and mouth narrowed.

“Did you hear me? I said, don’t look at me like that.”

She knew what he meant. The tension in the tiny room had grown thick. She knew what he was doing, too. Warning her. Giving her the chance to turn back.

I don’t know what you mean, was the simple answer, delivered not provocatively but with girlish innocence.

She was an actress. A good one, despite the paucity of credits in her résumé. She could deliver the line and make it believable.

The hell with that.

“Don’t look at you how?” she said, nothing girlish or innocent in the words but rather, a woman’s honest acceptance of what she wanted.

He made a sound that was almost a groan of despair.

“Sage,” he said, “do you know what you’re doing?”

“No,” she whispered. “But I know what I want.”

His eyes turned black as a moonless night. He reached for her, or she reached for him, and when he rose to his feet, she was in his arms.

He kissed her.

Not the sweet whisper of his mouth against hers as it had been before.

This time, his kiss was hungry.

His tongue sought entry and she gave it, willingly, eagerly, wanting his passion. And he gave it. No hesitancy. No caution. He was the man she’d come to know tonight, all male, all heat, all demand.

And she loved it.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. He lifted her off her feet, holding her to him, her breasts soft against his hard chest, her hips pressed to his, his erection powerful against her belly.

Her toes curled with the pleasure of it, and when his mouth left hers, she buried her face against his throat.

“Oh God,” she said. “Oh God, Caleb …”

“Are you sure?” he said hoarsely.

“Yes. Yes. Yes—”

He took her mouth again, carried her into the bedroom, stood her next to the bed.

She reached for the hem of her sweatshirt.

He caught hold of her hands. Kissed them.

“I want to undress you,” he said.

He did. Slowly. Raising her sweatshirt as she raised her arms. Pulling it over her head, then tossing it aside.

She felt the kiss of night air on her breasts, then the heat of his mouth, and she cried out in shocked wonder at the feel of it.

She grabbed his shirt. He shook his head.

“Not yet,” he whispered, knowing that he had to see all of her before this went any further, that his control was slipping away like honey from a spoon.

“Not yet,” he said again, and he hooked his thumbs into her sweatpants and drew them down her hips, down her long legs.

Ah, lord, she was exquisite.

High, rounded breasts. Slender waist. A woman’s hips, lush and lovely. Those long, elegant legs. And at the juncture of her thighs, a mass of gold curls, waiting for his caress.

“Sage. You’re so beautiful….”

She reached for him again. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and now she undid the rest, her eyes never leaving his, their hot glitter burning him like flame.

He shrugged off the shirt. She gave a little hum of delight and skimmed her hands over his muscled shoulders and chest, his six-pack abs.

He’d always taken care of his body, playing sports, training for the Agency, riding his horses. He’d done it because he believed in keeping strong and, yes, he’d done it for vanity, too.