Wild Revenge: The Dangerous Jacob Wilde / The Ruthless Caleb Wilde / The Merciless Travis Wilde. Sandra Marton
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jeans were threadbare but a couple of the shirts were usable. He retrieved a blue one. It was too tight but that was the least of his worries.
The real problem was trying to figure out what was going on with him.
They were on the way to breakfast, and he was driving like a man possessed. The speedometer needle hit ninety and kept on going. He always drove fast but tonight—
Tonight, he wished the car was a small, sleek jet that could carry them high above the clouds.
He needed to feel the world fall away below him.
What the hell had happened back in that kitchen? One minute they’d been laughing, teasing each other with memories of the long day they’d spent in bed, anticipating the hours still ahead, and then, all of a sudden, sex hadn’t been enough.
Enough for what?
Jake shot a glance at Addison.
That, as the Danish prince had said a long time ago, was the question.
There’d been that other moment, too, when the truth of his own life had forced its way into his thoughts. Memories of the night he’d lost those men.
Men?
Jake shifted his weight, flexed his hands on the steering wheel.
Boys. Eighteen. Nineteen. The oldest had been twenty-one. And they’d died because he’d been too late, too late, too late—
“Jacob?”
Addison touched his arm. He damn near jumped out of his skin. It took a minute to remember where he was.
Who he was with.
A woman who knew nothing about him except that he was supposed to be some kind of hero.
“Jacob,” she said again, “we’re going awfully fast.”
He looked at the speedometer. Eased his foot off the gas until they were down to a reasonable speed.
Like ninety.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Everything’s fine.”
He wanted to tell her. He ached for it. The sweet relief that would come of telling her that he didn’t deserve the medals, the adulation, the nonsense the world had heaped on him.
He couldn’t.
What if she looked at him the way he looked at himself each morning? Looked at him with disappointment and, worse still, disgust?
Angie’s was right ahead, the sign—Angie’s Café, Open 24 Hours—blinking on and off as it had always done.
Thank God for small favors, he thought, as he pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine.
“See?” he said brightly. “What’d I tell you? Angie’s is never closed. Of course, you won’t find tofu on the menu …”
Her silver eyes were filled with question.
He cursed, reached for her, took her in his arms and held her against his heart.
“Stop worrying about me,” he said softly. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t buying it. He could see it in her face.
“Honey.” His voice roughened. “I just need—I need what you’ve given me, okay? This day. This night.” He paused. “Most of all, I need you.”
It was the truth.
He wasn’t sure what that meant or where it was taking him.
The only certainty was that what was going on inside him scared the hell out of him.
ANGIE’S CAFÉ was warm and brightly lit.
It was also as busy as any place in Times Square would have been at this hour.
A plump woman looked up when they came in. Her eyes widened and she rushed out from behind the counter, greeted Jake with a squeal and a hug. He lifted her off her feet, spun her around as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“You come home to make an honest woman outta me, Jake Wilde?”
Jake grinned.
“If I ever settle down, Angie, it’ll surely be with you.”
The woman laughed and Jake made quick introductions. Angie looked at Addison from head to toe, then nodded her approval and led them to one of the red vinyl booths that lined the walls.
Jake waved away the menu.
“Don’t need it, Angie. I’ve been dreaming of one of your breakfasts for months.”
Angie grinned.
“Eggs over easy. Bacon. Home fries. Biscuits. Grits. And buckets and buckets of coffee.”
Jake smiled. “Add some sausage and you’ve got it.”
“How ‘bout you, miss? You want the same?”
Addison looked up from the menu.
“Do you have Egg Beaters?”
Jake snorted. Addison ignored him.
“If not,” she said politely, “then I’d like one poached egg on wheat toast. No butter on the toast.”
“And?”
“And, that’s it. Oh, coffee, please, with a packet of the blue stuff or the pink stuff instead of sugar.”
“One regular breakfast,” Angie said. “One poached egg, wheat toast and grits.”
“No grits, thank you.”
“Grits,” Angie said, tucking her pencil behind her ear and walking away.
“No. Wait. I don’t want—”
“It’s got nothing to do with what you want, Adoré,” Jake said patiently. “You’re south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Grits come with everything.”
“Mason and Dixon were surveyors,” Addison said, with a toss of her head, “not chefs.”
“They were Northerners.”
She raised an eyebrow. He’d said it the way someone else might say, They were barbarians.
“News flash, Jacob. So am I.”
He grinned. “Yeah, and I’ve decided to look beyond that.”
She stuck her tongue out.
“You’re trying to distract me,” he said in a throaty growl.
She gave him a saccharine-sweet smile.
“Is it working?”
“Want to find out?” he said with a deliberate leer as he reached for her hand.
“Behave yourself,” she scolded, but her smile turned warm and real.
“I’ll behave if you try the grits. Who knows? You might like ‘em.”
“Trust me, Captain—”
“Lieutenant,” Jake said quickly, and suddenly his teasing smile was gone.
“But I thought—”
“Promotions and medals go together.”
Was that irony or bitterness in his voice? She couldn’t tell.
“I don’t understand.”
“They give you a medal, they up your rank. Simple as that.”
She knew it couldn’t