After Hours

And then he looked up and caught her staring at him.

Her cheeks going pink, Angie started to back out of the room. “Excuse me, I—”

“I don’t think I can make it to the bed,” he interrupted quietly, his frustration with the admission evident in the hard set of his jaw. “My knees feel like they’re going to give out on me.”

Forgetting her embarrassment, Angie rushed to his side. “Lean on me, then. You shouldn’t have gotten up.”

“I didn’t have a hell of a lot of choice,” he growled wryly, though he draped his arm around her shoulders cooperatively enough.

Angie told herself that her knees trembled only because he was leaning so heavily against her and not because his long, lean, nearly naked body was pressed so closely to hers, letting her feel the heat and strength of him even through her prim dove-gray business suit. She couldn’t remember the last time any man had affected her quite this way—or had there ever been another time? She hadn’t come even this close to intimacy with a man in a very long time. Unlike most of her former set, Angie had never cared for casual bed-hopping, never indulged in the one-night stands discussed so coyly, so avidly over lunch at the club. Angie had always wanted to care, but the caring had always led to disappointment.

She couldn’t allow herself to start caring now. Most of all, not with this man, who would be so unlikely to offer anything in return.

“When’s the last time you had anything to eat?” she asked, determinedly channeling her thoughts to a more practical topic.

He shrugged as he sank gratefully back onto the bed. “I wasn’t hungry last night.”

“And lunch yesterday was a sandwich at your desk.” She shook her head. “No wonder you’re weak. Between the fever and lack of food, I’m surprised you didn’t pass out at my feet.”

“Used to having men at your feet, are you, Boston?”

The drawled question took her aback. She frowned down at him, noting the faintest teasing twinkle in his usually unreadable eyes. He’d never teased her before. And he’d never called her anything but that stiff, formal “Ms. St. Clair.” Granted, it was rather hard to be formal when he was wearing nothing but a much-too-thin layer of white cotton knit that covered only the essentials of modesty. Still, she wasn’t quite ready for a more personal relationship with him than the one they’d had for the past five months. Deciding to ignore his question—and hoping he’d take the hint—she stepped back. “I bought some soup while I was out. I’ll heat it up. Are you sure you won’t let me call your doctor?”

He gave her a look she knew well enough to recognize as a signal for her to drop the subject. Resisting the urge to sigh again, she started grimly back to the kitchen.

Waiting on her sick, nearly naked employer was definitely not in her job description, she told herself as she prepared the soup. She really should take him a tray and then get herself back to the office.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew she wouldn’t be able to leave him as long as he seemed to need her. It was a unique feeling. No one had ever really needed her before. She decided that was part of the reason she liked her job so much. Rhys obviously needed help at the office and she’d been able to provide that help. And now he needed her again. No, she couldn’t just walk away.

RHYS WAS LYING VERY STILL, his eyes closed, when Angie carried the tray into the bedroom. She paused, thinking that if he was asleep, she wouldn’t wake him. But then his lashes lifted heavily. With visible effort, he pushed himself upright, the sheet draped once again over his lap. Angie tried not to show her relief that he was at least partially covered, nor her concern with his condition.

“I’m assuming you’ll want to feed yourself,” she remarked brightly, setting the tray carefully on his thighs.

“You assume correctly, Ms. St. Clair.”

So he had gotten the message that she didn’t want him reading too much into her taking care of him. Good. After all, she was only being a dedicated employee, right? Her gaze drifted across his chest as she stepped away from the bed. Sure she was.

“Call the office. Tell June to call Phelps and cancel our meeting for this afternoon. And tell her to messenger the Perkins file to me. You can take these papers back when you go and fax them to London.”

“Yes, Mr. Wakefield. Eat your soup.”

His impatient exhale was robbed of its effectiveness by the coughing spell that followed. Angie held the tray steady until he’d stopped coughing, taking care that the hot soup did not splash onto his lap. “I forgot to give you the cough medicine earlier,” she commented, hoping he wouldn’t realize that the sight of him in his underwear had driven the medicine completely from her mind. She reached for it and poured a dose into the spoon she’d brought.

Rhys’s eyes met hers as she spooned the elixir into his mouth. Her hand was trembling when she pulled it back. Damn him for doing that to her. And damn her for being weak enough to let him.

“I’ll go wash this spoon,” she said rather breathlessly, backing away.

“Do it later,” Rhys ordered irritably. “You’ve bounced in and out of here for the past hour. Sit down.”

Biting her lip at his tone, she obeyed, carefully avoiding wrinkling his suit jacket as she perched on the edge of the chair.

Rhys almost sighed. Dammit, now she looked as if she expected him to throw something at her. She’d been as nervous as a cat since she’d arrived, despite that brief show of bravado over the thermometer. He realized the circumstances were a bit awkward, but they’d been working together for five months, spending more hours together than some married couples. She’d seemed comfortable enough with him in the past. Why was she looking at him now as if he were some kind of ax murderer?

“Why don’t you remove the jacket so you can get comfortable,” he suggested, trying to make his tone more conciliatory. “We need to discuss some things before you go back to the office.”

She nodded and stood again, carefully hanging the jacket in the closet before returning to the chair and reaching for a steno pad and the pen he’d used to sign the London papers. She sat with the pen poised, ready to begin, still looking decidedly wary. He noted that she was taking great care not to look at his chest, and he remembered the expression on her face when she’d seen him standing in the doorway in his underwear. Surely she’d seen a man in his briefs before—and less. She was young, but not that young.

This time Rhys did sigh. “Would you relax? I know I’m not in the greatest mood, but I’m not going to physically attack you.”