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CHAPTER ONE
CALEB Wilde was doing his best to look like a man having a good time.
No question, he should have been.
He was in New York, one of his favorite cities, at a party in a SoHo club so trendy that the entrance door was unmarked.
Not that trendy was the description he’d have chosen.
Pretentious struck him as closer to the truth, but hey, what did he know?
Caleb smothered a yawn.
His brain had gone on holiday.
Not because of the noise, even though the sound level in the enormous room was somewhere in the stratosphere, but what else would it be when the DJ was so famous he signed autographs between sets?
Not because of the booze, either. Caleb had been nursing the same tumbler of Scotch almost the entire evening.
And it was definitely not because the party was dull.
The client he’d flown in to see was throwing it to celebrate his fortieth birthday. The room was packed with Names. Hedge-fund managers. International bankers. Media moguls. Hollywood glitterati. European royals. Second-tier, but royals just the same.
And, of course, the requisite scores of stunning women.
The problem was, Caleb was too tired to appreciate any of it.
He’d been on the go since before dawn. A 7:00 a.m. meeting with a client in his Dallas office. A 10:00 a.m. meeting with his brothers at the Wilde ranch. The flight to New York on one of the family’s private jets. Late lunch with this client, the birthday boy. Drinks and dinner with an old pal from his shadowy days working for The Agency.
Caleb smothered another yawn.
Tired didn’t come close. He was damned near out on his feet, and only courtesy had brought him here tonight.
Well, courtesy and curiosity.
He’d celebrated his own birthday not very long ago. A barbecue at the ranch with his brothers and his new sister-in-law, phone calls from his sisters, one from the General—it came two days late, but hey, when you had a world to run, you were always busy.
Everything had been fun, relaxed and low-key. Nothing like this.
“This guy is a little long in the tooth for trendy clubs,” Caleb had told his brothers this morning.
“Because,” Travis had said solemnly, “you certainly are.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, no, not exactly. I mean—”
“We know what you mean,” Jacob had said as solemnly as Travis. “You’re a dinosaur.”
“Absolutely. We can hear your bones creak.”
His brothers had exchanged looks. Then they’d started to laugh.
“You guys sound like a pair of chickens,” Caleb had said with what he hoped sounded like indignation.
“Cluck-cluck,” Jake had cackled, and that had done it. The three of them had grinned, done the obligatory elbow-in-the-ribs, high-five thing grown men do when they love each other, and Caleb, on an exaggerated sigh had said, yeah, okay, he’d make the sacrifice and go to the party.
“And report back,” Travis had added, waggling his eyebrows. “’Cause we equally ancient wise ones want all the details.”
Caleb lifted the Scotch to his lips now and sipped at it.
So far, the details were just what he’d expected.
From the balcony, where he’d settled once he’d found his host and engaged in the necessary two minutes of shouted conversation, he had a view of everything happening on the dance floor. It was crowded up here but nothing compared to the situation down below.
The DJ high up on a platform. The pulsing lights. What looked like a thousand sweaty bodies gyrating in their glow.
And the women, all of them spectacular, lots of them interested enough to give him smiles and glances that only a dead man wouldn’t be able to interpret.
No big surprise there.
It wasn’t his doing, it was the Wilde DNA, a mix of Roman centurion and Viking blood tempered by more than a touch of what was probably Comanche or Kiowa.
The Wilde sisters teased him and his brothers about their looks, and showed no mercy.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Jaimie would say, in a perfect imitation of a swooning Victorian maiden.
“Be still, my heart,” Emily would sigh, her hand plastered to the center of h
er chest.
“So tall. So dark. So dangerous,” was Lissa’s line, delivered with all the drama of an old-time movie star.
And this was perfect Wilde territory. So many beautiful women …
Except, tonight, Caleb wasn’t interested.
“Ah’m jest a country boy from Tex-ass,” he’d told the blonde who’d slithered over a little while ago.
That had gotten rid of her, fast.
Actually, he’d been pretty hard on her, but then, what kind of female batted her lashes at a man and asked, in a breathy little voice he figured was supposed to be cute, was he somebody rich and famous that she was supposed to recognize?
In truth, he was. Rich, for sure. Famous, too, in corporate and legal circles.
Her approach was at least honest.
It certainly was different.
