The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

by Sandra Marton

  “You don’t have to—”

  So much for looking as if she belonged here, despite her last year’s, or maybe her last-last year’s, on-sale gray suit, on-sale gray pumps and definitely on-sale gray handbag.

  “I want to,” Sage said gently.

  “Thank you, miss. And—good luck.”

  Good luck, indeed, Sage thought, as she walked across the ornate lobby.

  She had a funny feeling about this meeting. Thomas Caldwell had been so persistent. And then, wham, he’d rolled over.

  She’d felt good about that until this morning, when she’d suddenly thought, Why? Why had he rolled over?

  Her footsteps slowed. The elevators were just ahead. So was a house phone. She could call the suite number he’d given her, tell him he could send her the papers, that she’d have them witnessed and notarized and that he’d have to accept her doing it that way….

  Did she want him out of her life, or did she want him bothering her for the rest of it?

  Sage gave herself a little shake and marched straight to the elevators.

  She was meeting Caldwell in suite 1740.

  For privacy, he’d said, when she’d balked and said she’d prefer meeting in the lobby.

  “I have no intention of running the risk of having this matter made fodder for the media—or were you hoping for the chance at publicity?”

  The elevator car was as elaborate as the lounge, all marble and gold leaf, attended by a little man who looked as if he’d stepped out of an operetta.

  “Your floor, madam,” he said politely, when the doors slid open.

  Sage thanked him and stepped out onto gold-veined white marble. She could hear her heart pounding over the tap-tap-tap of her heels as she walked down the corridor.

  The sooner this was over, the better.

  She paused at the door to suite 1740. Raised her hand to knock. Lowered her hand. Raised it. Checked her watch.

  She was six minutes early. So what? Get in, sign the papers, get out.

  Okay. Time for one of the breathing exercise she’d learned in an acting class. Inhale, one—two—three. Hold, one—two—three-four. Exhale, one—two—three-four-five.

  Better.

  She squared her shoulders. Knocked. The door must have been ajar because it swung slowly open as soon as she touched it. It was like a scene in a bad movie, except the door didn’t squeak. It wouldn’t dare, not in this place.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  Sage took a step forward.

  “Hello?”

  Another step.

  She was in a sitting room, sunlit and handsomely furnished, assuming you were a devotee of expensive funeral parlors. Ahead, to the right, a door to an adjoining room stood partly open.

  “Mr. Caldwell?”

  Still no answer. Butterflies were swarming in her stomach.

  “Mr. Caldwell? I’m not in the mood for games so if there’s someone here—”

  A figure, blurred by the sunlight, stepped through the door from the adjoining room.

  “Hello, Sage,” a husky male voice said.

  She knew that voice. It haunted her dreams.

  “No,” she said, while her heart tried to claw its way out of her throat.

  “How nice to see you again.”

  “No,” she repeated, the word a papery whisper.

  She stumbled back as the figure moved away from the light and became a man.

  Tall. Broad-shouldered. Lean.

  “Caleb?” she whispered.

  His smile was cold and cruel, and transformed his beautiful face into a dangerous mask.

  “Smart girl,” he said.

  She said his name again. Then her eyes rolled up and she crumpled to the floor.

  Caleb said a four-letter word and sprang forward. He caught Sage by the shoulders just before she went down.

  Had she really fainted, or was it an act? She was good at acting; she’d proved it the night he’d spent in her bed.

  In another man’s bed.

  No. This was real. She was limp, head rolling back as he lifted her in his arms.

  Okay. He’d meant to surprise her. Catch her off-guard. Get her to admit she was after the best payoff she could get because, without question, that was her game….

  Instead, he’d stunned her.

  Now, he’d have to deal with high drama as well as what would undoubtedly be tears and sobs. Not that it would have any effect on him.

  She felt fragile in his arms. Almost frighteningly thin. Her face was paper-white except for the dark circles under her eyes.

  But the scent of her was the same.

  Soft. Feminine. Delicate. And when her head drooped against his shoulder, the feel of her hair against his jaw and throat was as silken as he remembered.

  How could memories of her, of that night, still matter? He knew what she was, knew she carried her dead lover’s child, knew she was trying to milk his new client for as many millions as she could get.

  And now, he knew that he was a damned fool for taking on the case, that she could still affect him …

  She moaned.

  The sound shot him back to reality.

  Caleb elbowed the door shut, carried her to a brocade loveseat and lowered her on it.

  “Sage.”

  No answer.

  “Sage,” he said again, his tone sharp as the blade of a knife.

  “Dammit,” he said through his teeth, and he stalked into the bedroom, into the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, soaked it in cold water, wrung it out …

  He had done all this before.

  Brought her a wet cloth. Soothed her with it. Taken care of her, worried over her.

  Yeah, but he sure as hell wasn’t worrying over her now.

  He needed her conscious and fully alert.

  That she looked like hell, that there was a baby in her belly, meant nothing to him.

  Besides, she was tough.

  Nobody had to worry about her.

  Mouth set in a hard line, Caleb went back into the sitting room and squatted next to the loveseat. He wiped her face with the towel, his movements brisk and impersonal.

  “Come on,” he said. “Open your eyes.”

  Her lashes fluttered. Lifted. Her eyes, dark and blurred, met his.

  He dumped the wet towel on a monstrosity of a coffee table, rose and stood over her, arms crossed, legs spread, and waited.

  It took a couple of seconds for her gaze to sharpen. Intensify.

  Then she shot upright on the loveseat.

  Fear glittered in her eyes.

  Good, he thought grimly. That was precisely how he wanted her. Looking nowhere but at him, and terrified.

  “What—what are you doing here?”

  He flashed a tight smile.

  “Such an impolite way to greet an old friend, Sage.”

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice had regained resonance, but he was pleased to see her hand shake as she shoved her hair back from her face. “You aren’t Thomas Caldwell!”

  Caleb unfolded his arms, parodied applause.

  “A brilliant deduction. No. I’m not.” He took a card from his pocket and tossed it in her lap. “Caleb Wilde. Thomas Caldwell’s lawyer.”

  She picked up the card. Stared at it, then at him. Her eyes widened. A man could fall into those blue depths and drown, he thought, and hated himself for the momentary loss of focus.

  “His—his lawyer? But how? How did you—”

  “Just one of those lucky strokes of fate,” he said coldly.

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Trust me, lady. I didn’t believe it, either.” His mouth twisted. “Maybe life has a bad sense of humor.”

  She didn’t respond. He could almost see the wheels turning. Then she took a long, wobbly breath, expelled it the same uneven way, and got to her feet.

  She swayed.

  He almost drew her into his arms.

  It had been an automatic response, he knew, an instin
ctive male reaction to a female in need, but that the thought had even crossed him mind infuriated him.

  “Sit down.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “You want to pass out again?” He grabbed her arm. “Dammit, sit down!”

  She stared at him. Then she wrenched her arm free and sank onto the loveseat.

  “Where’s Caldwell?”

  “Have I spoiled your plans? Were you looking forward to a face-off with a man grieving for his son?”

  “Grieving?” She gave a shaky laugh. “For a lawyer, Mister—” she glanced at his card, still clutched in her hand, “for a lawyer, Caleb Wilde, you’re not very smart.”

  “Your patsy isn’t coming.”

  “My what?”

  Caleb sat down in one of the chairs that flanked the loveseat.

  “How much?”

  “What?”

  “How much do you want for the baby?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Look, let’s not waste time. You told Caldwell you won’t give him his grandchild but we both know that’s bull. Tell me your number and I’ll tell you if you’re anywhere in the ball park.”

  She got to her feet. So did he.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Wilde.”

  Caleb watched her through narrowed eyes. She was good, but then, she was an actress.

  “Let’s get down to basics, Ms. Dalton. The last offer was five million. I’m authorized to up it to six, no higher. Take it or leave it.

  She gave a sad laugh. “You’re pitiful. You and your boss.”

  “He’s my client.”

  “He can be your fairy godfather, for all I give a damn. I came here to sign something that will get him the hell out of my life. Nothing to sign? Then, we have nothing to discuss. And you’d better tell your client or your boss or whatever fancy name the man gives himself that if he bothers me again, I’ll charge him with harassment.”

  She stepped around him. He let her go, watched as she headed for the door.

  The lady was impressive but then, she’d been impressive the night they’d met. It was an interesting combination, that silk-over-steel quality. Her morals left a lot to be desired but he had to respect her for having balls.

  He waited until she was almost at the door.

  “Ms. Dalton. You call my client’s behavior harassment—but he lost his only son. Now you’re telling him he’s going to lose the only grandchild he’ll ever have.”

  She turned and looked at him. “Why don’t you ask him when he really lost David, Mr. Wilde?”

  Caleb suspected there’d been a distance between father and son. The fact was, he didn’t like Caldwell. There was something unpleasant about the man, but that wasn’t his affair. He was an attorney, not a shrink.

  “Family quarrels,” he said evenly, “are not my concern.”

  “Apparently, neither is justice.”

  He smiled thinly. “Trust me, Sage. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

  Her chin rose. “How could I? You don’t have any feel—”

  He moved fast, grabbed her hands and held them at her sides.

  “The feelings I have for you,” he said in a rough voice, “are the ones any man would have for a woman who took him into her lover’s bed.”

  Whatever color remained in her face drained away. “I despise you,” she whispered.

  “You didn’t that night.” He closed the inch between them, transferred both her hands to one of his and lifted her face with the other. “For all I know, you were already carrying his baby.”

  Tears rose in her eyes. “Go to hell!”

  “Were you? Was his child in your womb that night?”

  She called him a word he wouldn’t have thought she’d know—but then, she knew a lot of things he wouldn’t have imagined.

  “You parted your legs for me,” he growled, “and once I left, you parted them for him—”

  Sage spat in his face.

  Caleb stood very still. A dozen responses raced through his head, starting with slapping her …

  And ending with hauling her into his arms, taking her back to the loveseat and burying himself inside her.

  One thought was more contemptible than the last.

  And she—she had brought him to this lowest level of hell.

  He let go of her. Took a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.

  “I suppose,” he said with terrible calm, “this is as good a time as any to ask a question.”

  She lifted her chin. Looked straight at him.

  “No,” she said evenly. “I’m not carrying your child. Believe me, if I were, I might have dealt differently with this pregnancy.”

  Caleb nodded. He’d known this didn’t involve him but only a fool wouldn’t ask—and only a fool would be hurt by the vehemence of her answer.

  What would she say if he told her that it seemed he did have feelings, after all?

  Still, the “no” was what mattered.

  And it was what he’d expected.

  He’d only made love to her one time—had sex with her one time, he thought, coldly correcting himself. And she’d assured him she was on the pill.

  “Then I have only one last thing to tell you.” Caleb paused. “My client will agree not to contact you again.”

  She blinked. “But you said—”

  “With one proviso. He wants proof of paternity.”

  Sage threw up her hands. “Are you as deaf as he is? This baby isn’t David’s.”

  “Let’s say it’s for his own peace of mind.”

  “Can’t you ever speak the truth, Mr. Wilde? He wants the test because he thinks I’m lying.”

  “Either way, take the test and you can put all this behind you.”

  “So this—this was all subterfuge.”

  “If the child isn’t your dead lover’s, you have nothing to fear.”

  Sage took a steadying breath.

  “When does he want the test done?”

  Caleb took a long white envelope from the inside pocket of his dark gray suit jacket and handed it to her.

  “Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

  Her smile was bitter. “Are you always so damned sure life is going to go exactly your way?”

  “Always,” he said, but it was a lie. Life had not gone his way at all. If it had, he wouldn’t be filled with anger and hate for a woman he had so recently wanted more than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “It’s all there. Details of the procedure, the location of the ob-gyn’s office, her credentials. She’s Chief of Obstetrics at Manhattan Hospital. Unless you’d prefer your own doctor …?”

  Sage’s “own doctor” was a pleasant nurse-practitioner she’d seen once at a Planned Parenthood clinic. She doubted if they even did paternity tests, plus that word, procedure, had a very clinical ring to it.

  “I’ll read through this material. If I find a problem with any of it, I’ll let you know.”

  “The lab that will analyze the results has been provided with samples of David Caldwell’s DNA.” Caleb’s lips thinned. “If there are samples from other men you wish to provide …”

  Sage pinned Caleb with a look.

  “You are,” she said, “the most horrible man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

  At that, she opened the door to the suite and stomped out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SAGE spent an hour reading the material Caleb had given her … and the rest of the night trying not to think about what was going to happen in the morning.

  The procedure was called CVS. It involved either a catheter or a long, very sharp needle. Neither sounded pleasant.

  The brochure referred to “minimal discomfort.” More troubling, there was “a slight possibility” of damage to her or the baby.

  That sent her in search of more information.

  She turned on her laptop computer and Googled Chorionic Villi Sampling. The search led her to a web
site where she asked questions of a couple of women who’d gone through it.

  Both said it sounded worse than it was.

  More importantly, they, and their babies, had come through just fine.

  It’ll help if you have someone with you who cares about you, one woman typed, and the other quickly added a smiley face and a heart.

  But there was no one who cared for her. There never had been, not really. Her mother had died a long time ago and the simple truth was, she’d done her maternal duty but “love” had never been part of the equation.

  David was the only person who’d ever cared for her …

  Until Caleb, and the night when he had been her defender, her protector, her lover.

  Her accuser.

  Sage looked at the blinking cursor on her computer screen, typed a quick Thanks, closed her computer and stood up. Her back ached. Another new thing, courtesy of pregnancy. She stretched, then went to the window.

  It was dawn.

  Not much sense in doing anything except getting ready for what lay ahead.

  She showered, dried her hair and pulled it into a ponytail. She put on a white cotton bra and panties; old, faded jeans that were getting a little snug but still fit; and an ancient Wonder Woman T-shirt she’d found in a resale shop.

  Comfort clothes, physically and emotionally. She had the feeling she was going to need some kind of comfort today.

  Then she made a cup of herbal tea, sat down at the kitchen table and went through her options one last time.

  If she refused to go through with the test, Thomas Caldwell would continue to intrude on her life as he waited for her baby’s birth.

  No. Not Thomas Caldwell.

  He’d delegated her to Caleb Wilde.

  He was the man who would haunt her every footstep, every breath until the baby arrived and a much simpler test finally sent him, and his client, packing.

  Sage drank some of the hot tea.

  She had lots to do in the next six months.

  Find a place to live. Out of the city. She could never afford to raise her child in New York as a single mother. Besides, she wasn’t really a city person.

  The one good thing about her own childhood was the memory of green meadows, trees and country roads. She wanted those same things for her child.

  So the first thing was to figure out where she wanted to live. Then she had to find a place to rent.

  Mostly, she had to find a job.