After Hours

He swallowed hard.

When was the last time he’d apologized to anyone? Thinking back, he decided it must have been some twenty-five years earlier, when he was fifteen and Aunt Iris had caught him helping himself to a few dollars from her purse. She’d given him what for, he thought with a faint smile of remembrance. He’d already loomed a foot taller than the feisty little woman, but she’d figuratively cut him down to his knees with nothing more than her furious words. When she finished, he was engulfed with remorse, standing with chin on his chest, toe scuffing dejectedly against the worn carpet on her living room floor. And he’d apologized.

Well, she’d made him apologize, to be precise, he thought wryly, but he’d meant it, all the same. He’d been her devoted friend ever since. She’d been the first person to care enough about him to chew him out like that.

His spirited assistant reminded him quite a bit of his former foster mother. And now he was going to apologize to Angelique. He reached for the phone, then pulled his hand back. He would apologize, he assured himself. He just wasn’t quite ready yet.

ANGIE PAUSED OUTSIDE the door to Rhys’s office, her heart in her throat. If there was any other way to get his signature on the papers in her hand…

But his secretary was out to lunch, and sliding the papers under the door seemed somewhat lacking in professionalism. Maybe he wasn’t in his office at the moment. Maybe she could run in, drop them on his desk with a scribbled note of explanation, then have his secretary bring them to her later. Mentally crossing her fingers, she knocked tentatively on the door.

“Come in.”

Her shoulders sagged, then straightened determinedly. Okay, so much for the easy way out. She’d get his signature and she wouldn’t let on for a minute that his tantrum that morning had bothered her in any way. Business as usual, she reminded herself. Strictly business.

“I need your signature on these papers for the personnel department, Mr. Wakefield,” she explained as she stepped into the office, her eyes not quite meeting his.

He nodded silently, holding out his hand. She kept her gaze trained on the precise knot of his tie as she passed the folder to him. She felt him watching her for a moment longer, and then he opened the folder, scanned the neatly typed papers inside and scrawled his name across the bottom of the final page. “Anything else?” he asked, returning the folder to her.

“No, sir. I’ll take these on to personnel now.” She turned with barely restrained haste, relieved that the matter had been dealt with so easily. Now, if only she could get out of here and…

No such luck.

“Angelique.” His voice was deep and the slightest bit rough.

Oh, heavens. Stiffening her knees, she turned reluctantly. “Yes, Mr. Wakefield?”

He took a deep breath. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn he was nervous. Ridiculous, of course. “About the Perkins deal—”

She managed not to wince. Not that again. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said, the words coming out so quickly they ran together. “You were perfectly justified to take care of it as you did. If I’d been here, I’m sure I would have had you handle it, anyway. I was out of line this morning and I apologize.”

She felt her eyes widen and made a deliberate effort not to drop the papers clutched so tightly in her suddenly nerveless hands. “Um—that’s quite all right, sir—um, Mr. Wakefield.”

“Rhys, dammit!” he exploded unexpectedly. “Why the hell can’t you call me by my name?”

She jumped. “I’m sorry, I’m just so used to calling you ‘Mr. Wakefield.’”

He sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair, deliberately relaxing his shoulders. “I know. Dammit, Angelique, you’ve got me apologizing in one breath and yelling at you with the next. What is it with you?”

He really had to stop calling her that, she thought hazily. If he didn’t, it was entirely possible that she was going to melt right at his feet. How was it that he could make her name sound more seductive than the flowery endearments other men had used? “Most people call me ‘Angie,’” she said, hoping he’d take the hint.

“My name,” he reminded her as if she hadn’t spoken. He’d gotten up from his seat behind the desk and now loomed less than two feet in front of her. Those dark brows of his formed a deep V between his intense gray eyes as he stared at her. “Say it.”

Confused by his sudden insistence on such a relatively trivial issue, her cheeks uncomfortably warm, Angie cleared her throat. “All right, Rhys. But if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to use “Mr. Wakefield’ in public. It sounds more professional.”

He nodded curtly, satisfaction written clearly on his arrogantly carved face. “Of course. I would prefer that, myself.” His point made, he returned to his seat behind the desk. “Was there anything else, Angelique?”

She received his message clearly enough. Rhys wasn’t most people. He’d call her whatever he liked. “No, si—um, no, that’s all.” She wasn’t sure how he felt now about “sir.”

He gave what could have been a muffled laugh and shook his head. “Get out of here,” he growled lightly, reaching for his telephone.

That sometimes irrepressible imp inside her reappeared at his unexpected chuckle. Angie made a production of throwing him a snappy salute. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” She whirled with military precision and left the office, back straight, head high. The sound that followed her out was definitely a low laugh.

She made it all the way to her own office before her knees buckled. She fell into her chair with little semblance of grace, unconsciously fanning her face with the folder she’d forgotten to deliver to the personnel office.

If he could put her into this shape with a soft laugh, what would it be like if he actually kissed her? She couldn’t help wondering.