Angie bit her lip as she read the thermometer. The mercury rested steadily between one hundred three and one hundred four degrees. “It’s not going down. Have you been taking aspirin?”
His frown told her that he hadn’t taken anything since she’d left him. “Honestly,” she scolded, reaching for the aspirin bottle sitting on his nightstand. “If you still refuse to see a doctor, the least you can do is take care of yourself. Do you want to end up in a hospital?”
She gave him two aspirin, then handed him the juice to wash them down. Rhys swallowed the tablets, then shot her an oddly amused look. “Are you fussing over me, Ms. St. Clair?”
“I suppose I am,” she admitted. “Do you mind?”
“Not at the moment.”
She smiled at that. “I’ll try not to make it a habit.”
If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he seemed a bit disappointed. Ridiculous, of course. Must be a trick of the light.
Rhys took another sip of the orange juice, then jiggled the glass. “There’s vodka downstairs. Why don’t you bring up a bottle. Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course. You could fix yourself one—call it preventative medicine.”
“You don’t need it with the cough medicine you’re taking and I don’t drink,” she answered firmly.
His brow quirked curiously. “Never?”
“Never.”
“Any particular reason?”
She grimaced. “Yes. An unpleasant experience. I went to a sorority party in my sophomore year in college, drank entirely too much and spent the rest of the year wondering if I’d done anything completely foolish that evening. I have a low tolerance for alcohol. I don’t remember a thing after about my third drink until the next morning when I woke up praying to be allowed to die.”
“Wake up in a strange bed, Boston?” Rhys asked casually, a hint of a smile playing around his hard mouth.
“I was spared that, thank goodness,” she answered fervently. “My roommate took pity on me and hauled me home sometime in the early hours. She told me later that I’d had plenty of offers of other beds to stay in and that I had cheerfully accepted all of them.”
“A friendly drunk, are you?”
“Evidently,” she agreed. She couldn’t quite believe she was chatting with him this way. It was just that he seemed so different away from the office, still flushed with fever, his hair ruffled boyishly over his forehead. So approachable. So—well, so likable.
“So you haven’t had a drink since?”
She shook her head firmly. “Not a drop. I never want to lose time like that again. I like to be in control of my actions.”
“And a bit more selective about your bedmates?”
She fought down a flush and answered his lazily drawled question in much the same tone. “Exactly. I prefer to be admired for my mind. I don’t want to be every guy’s idea of an easy blonde.”
His gray eyes flicked to her hair. “‘Only God, my dear, could love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair,’” he murmured, his smile deepening just enough to carve a long, straight line into his right cheek. Almost a dimple, she thought wonderingly.
And then she realized what he’d said. “Yeats?” she asked incredulously. “Mr. Wakefield, you read Yeats?”
“I have been known to read for pleasure,” he answered coolly.
She flushed, afraid that she’d offended him. “Of course you do. I didn’t mean—”
“And don’t you think it’s time you started calling me ‘Rhys’? This ‘Mr. Wakefield’ stuff is getting pretty ridiculous under the circumstances.”
That was something else she hadn’t expected. Everyone on his staff called him “Mr. Wakefield,” at least in front of her. Though she’d thought of him as “Rhys” for the past few months, she wasn’t sure she was ready for the more intimate form of address in actuality. Then again, it had been a direct order, more or less. She decided to agree with him, but to make it a point not to call him anything unless necessary. “If you’d like.” She quickly changed the subject. “Are you hungry? I could make you another bowl of soup.”
He frowned and shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You really should eat. You need to try to keep up your strength. If you don’t want soup, I could make something else.”
His frown deepened. “I don’t pay you to cook for me.”