After Hours

She sighed when she was alone once again. She really wasn’t doing a very good job of staying aloof and distant. Even though that first luncheon had been a bit awkward as Angie had tried to make conversation without revealing too much about herself, Gay and Darla had invited her twice more to eat with them. She’d had to decline both times because Rhys had kept her too busy to do more than grab a sandwich at the snack bar downstairs, but they’d seemed inclined to invite her again and always made a point to speak to her when they passed in the hall.

Mickey stopped by her house on occasional afternoons on the pretense of visiting her rapidly growing kitten, but mostly because she’d started keeping cookies in the house for him. And she was having a particularly hard time maintaining a safe distance from her attractive boss, though she still wasn’t particularly popular among the other men at WakeTech. Why was it that when she’d wanted friends, none had been available for her, and now that she wanted to be alone, she was beginning to get close to people?

Shaking her head at the complexities of her life, she headed for Rhys’s office to gather the papers he’d requested.

HER LEFT ARM LOADED with the things—well, most of the things—Rhys had requested from the office, Angie paused before inserting the key June had given her into the lock of his front door. It was the first time she’d seen his house, a large, though rather plain contemporary home in an exclusive neighborhood not far from the more modest subdivision in which Angie lived. There was something a bit too intimate about just opening the door and walking in, though she didn’t want to disturb him by ringing the doorbell. Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob.

Rhys was obviously into minimalism in his decor, was her first observation when she stepped inside the house. Though what was there was top quality, the furnishings were plain, functional and included only essential pieces. A few paintings hung on the walls, but had not been placed with regard to balance or style. There were no knickknacks, photographs or other personal memorabilia.

She thought of a Boston mansion decorated by the trendiest designers, colors and accoutrements changed for each season. Original old masters’ paintings, sterling silver paperweights, crystal chandeliers. Her childhood bedroom, with its yards of antique lace and shelves of Madame Alexander dolls.

She thought of her grandmother’s house, with its profusion of porcelain figurines, candy dishes and doilies. The chipped ceramic dog in the foyer, the mismatched plates in the antique china cabinet, the dime-store print of the Last Supper hanging in the dining room. The patchwork quilts and crocheted afghans her grandmother had made. The crayon drawings Angie had mailed her over the years, all carefully preserved and kept in a scrapbook on the old upright piano, along with numerous photographs of Angie at various stage

s of growing up. And she wouldn’t have traded her current home for the most elegant, high-priced house in Birmingham—or anywhere else, for that matter.

Glancing around uncertainly, she headed for the stairway, assuming Rhys’s bedroom was upstairs. Rhys’s bedroom. She swallowed nervously.

The first door on the right at the top of the stairs was open. Peeking inside, she realized she’d found the master bedroom. The only furnishings were a bed and a large dresser, a nightstand containing a lamp, an alarm clock and a telephone, and a straight-backed chair over which was draped the jacket to the suit Rhys had worn to the office the day before. One painting hung on the wall above the bed—a rather lonely looking scene of a storm-swept seascape. Rhys sprawled in the bed, sound asleep.

Tiptoeing across the plush cream-colored carpet, she paused by the side of the bed, gazing down at her employer. He looked very much as she’d pictured him—tousled, fever flushed, unshaven. Though she’d been prepared to see him that way, the reality still took her aback. He looked so very different from the arrogant, unapproachable man she’d worked with for the past five months. He looked sick and alone. She knew he’d violently reject her sympathy, but it went out to him anyway.

Frowning at the color in his flat, lean cheeks, she wondered how high his fever was and whether he’d taken anything for it. She reached toward him, snatched her hand back, then slowly reached out again, compelled by her concern for him. He was sleeping so soundly. Maybe she wouldn’t disturb him if she—

Her hand had hardly touched his skin before her wrist was caught in a painful iron-hard grip. “Ouch!”

Still holding her wrist, her palm trapped against his temple, Rhys stared up at her, his dark gray eyes a bit bleary but as piercing as ever. “What are you doing?”

“You looked feverish,” she replied as evenly as possible under the circumstances. “And your face feels very hot. Have you taken your temperature?”

“No.”

“Have you taken any medication for it? Aspirin?”

“No.”

“Would you mind letting go of my hand?” she asked carefully. “You’re bruising my wrist.”

He released her immediately. “Sorry. I’m not used to being touched while I’m sleeping.”

“Then I’m sorry I startled you. How do you feel?”

“Lousy,” he growled, looking impatient.

She held on to her own patience with an effort. “Is your throat sore? Does your head hurt? Is there any other pain?”

“My throat’s sore, my head hurts and I ache all over. Is that what you want to hear?” he snapped, propping himself up on one elbow. The sheet that had been draped over him when she’d entered fell to his waist. Angie very nearly dropped her armload of papers.

Rhys Wakefield had been hiding one great-looking body beneath those severely tailored dark business suits.

His chest was broad, tanned and solid, sculpted with the firm muscles of a natural athlete. In contrast to his thick silver mane, the hair on his chest was dark, sparse, angling down from his nipples to a thin line that disappeared beneath the sheet. She couldn’t help mentally following that line further down, which made her knees go weak.

“You—uh—” She stopped, cleared her throat and lifted her eyes back to his face, intercepting an odd, fleeting expression that he repressed immediately. “You’d better lie back down. Do you have a thermometer?”

“In the bathroom. But—”

She didn’t give him time to argue. Laying the reports on the foot of the bed, she turned and hurried into the adjoining bath, needing a few moments alone to regain her composure.

Rhys was coughing when she returned, a thermometer, a bottle of aspirin and her self-control all firmly in hand. The cough was deep and sounded terribly uncomfortable, though he appeared to be more concerned with looking through the papers she’d brought him. “Where’s the Perkins file?” he demanded when he’d caught his breath.