The Ruthless Caleb Wilde. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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