After Hours

“I won’t. I’ll check on you later. Call the office if you need anything, all right?”

“Mmm.” He cracked one eye to look up at her. “Thanks again. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Wakefield.”

He was scowling when he closed his eye again. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d said to displease him. He was asleep even as she left the room, casting one last glance back from the doorway and feeling strangely guilty as she turned and walked away.

BY LATE AFTERNOON, Angie realized that she hadn’t had a bite to eat all day. Deciding to take an afternoon break, she shoved some money into the pocket of her suit jacket and walked to the company snack bar, where a number of her associates had gathered for a coffee break. She noted the curiosity on several faces at her almost unprecedented appearance during this scheduled leisure time. Ignoring them, she bought an apple and a soft drink from the vending machines lined along one wall and turned to find a table.

Gay’s voice caught her attention. “Angie. Over here.”

Gay and Darla were sitting at a long, rectangular table with several other women, all of whom were looking at Gay in surprise at her show of friendliness to Mr. Wakefield’s habitually aloof assistant. A bit defiantly, Angie took the one empty chair at the table, giving Gay and Darla a bright smile. “Hi”

The others blinked as if they were astonished that Angie even knew how to smile. For the first time Angie wondered if maybe she’d gone overboard in keeping to herself until she’d sorted out her personal problems. Had she really been so intimidatingly unapproachable? She hadn’t even known she was capable of intimidating people. She’d never had problems making friends before—though now she knew how much money and social position had impressed those so-called friends.

“June told us Mr. Wakefield is ill,” Darla said sympathetically. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“Flu, I think. He has a fever and a bad cough and he says his throat’s sore and he aches all over.”

“You went to see him, didn’t you?” Gay asked, eyeing Angie curiously.

“I took some papers for his signature.”

Leaning her chin on one hand, Gay smiled. “I’ll bet Mr. Wakefield’s a lousy patient.”

Angie couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “You’d win the bet. He is.”

One of the other women, an attractive blonde whose name Angie didn’t know, shuddered dramatically. “I’d be terrified to actually go into his home when he was ill and in a bad mood. He scares me enough when I pass him in the hall here at work.”

“He’s not really so scary,” Angie felt compelled to say. “He’s just—well, he’s a classic workaholic. He gets wrapped up in his responsibilities and forgets about the social niceties.” Even as the words left her mouth, she flushed, realizing how neatly she’d summed up her own behavior of the past few months. She decided right then to make a point to be more friendly to her co-workers in the future. Starting immediately.

SHE WORKED UNTIL after six that evening. Heading wearily for her car, she wrestled with an unwelcome urge to drive straight to Rhys’s house to check on him. He hadn’t asked her to come back, she reminded herself practically. She had no intention of taking any more work to him, hoping he’d give himself the weekend at least to recuperate. He was perfectly capable of calling someone if he needed anything.

Sighing deeply, she slammed the car door shut and shoved her key into the ignition. Of course she was going to his house. She simply couldn’t rest easily that evening until she’d made certain that he was all right.

Ridiculous, of course, to worry about a tough, fiercely self-sufficient man such as Rhys Wakefield. But he seemed so very much alone. Being in a similar situation herself, she could imagine how miserable she’d be if she was to come down with his flu. Maybe he wouldn’t appreciate her concern, but she seemed to have no choice. She still hadn’t gotten over the aching sympathy she’d felt upon hearing that he’d been abandoned, raised without a home or family. Her own mother was dead and her father had proven that he couldn’t be trusted, but at least they’d seen that Angie had had a reasonably happy childhood. Poor Rhys.

Poor Rhys? She snorted at the fleeting thought, knowing how he’d repudiate her pity. She turned the key, then groaned aloud when the engine made a strange grinding sound. “Not again,” she muttered in disgust. The aging car needed more maintenance than she could afford to pay just then. Probably more than it was worth, actually. She’d love to trade, but was still reluctant to take on an additional payment until her finances were more secure. If the car would last only another three or four months, maybe then she’d be more comfortable about trading.

“Come on, start,” she urged, pumping the gas. She exhaled in relief when the engine caught, though it sounded rough. At least it was running.

She hesitated at Rhys’s front door. Should she use the key again? Would he consider that too presumptuous since she was stopping by on her ow

n initiative this time and not at his request? She should have called from the office, she decided belatedly.

Perhaps she should ring the bell. Her finger hovered over the button as a new worry plagued her. What if he was still dizzy? Picturing the stairs to his bedroom, she winced at the thought of him tumbling down them.

She couldn’t risk that, she decided, fitting the key to the lock. She’d apologize for barging in and explain her reservations about ringing the bell. He might not appreciate her consideration, but at least he’d know her reasoning.

Impulsively she stopped by the kitchen, pouring another large glass of juice. Walking quietly up the stairs with the glass, she paused at his open doorway. He was lying on his back in the bed, his right arm covering his eyes, his left hand moving restlessly on his chest as if to massage an ache. A muffled groan drew her inside the room. “Mr. Wakefield?” she said softly, trying not to startle him. “Are you feeling worse?”

He lowered his arm slowly, looking over it with red-rimmed eyes. “What are you doing back? Did something happen at the office? What went wrong?”

“Nothing went wrong,” she assured him, stopping beside his bed and setting the juice on the now-crowded nightstand. “I just wanted to stop by on my way home to check on you. How do you feel?”

His answer succinctly summed up his condition. Accustomed to his blunt speaking after five months of working at his side, Angie only nodded. “I thought so. Have you checked your temperature lately?”

She could tell by his expression that he had not. Shaking her head, she popped the thermometer into his mouth. He cooperated, but his expression told her he was thinking of that other time, as she was. Though she’d assured the young secretary that Rhys wasn’t such a scary person, she wondered now how she’d ever found the nerve to actually threaten him.