After Hours

Rhys made no further efforts at intimacy during the long, busy afternoon. His game was one of advance and retreat, designed to lull her into a partial sense of security. Something told him that it would be all too easy to go too far, causing her to bolt in sheer panic.

As both of them had expected, their work kept them busy until the moment the party began downstairs. Angie slipped away before Rhys was able to do so. Some fifteen minutes later, Rhys followed her down, wondering if she’d been reluctant to make an appearance at his side.

Patience, he counseled himself, swallowing his exasperation with her. Be patient, Rhys. Your time will come.

ANGIE WAS RATHER PLEASED by the welcome she received at the retirement party when she entered a few minutes late. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but she had become an accepted member of the staff. Even the three men from engineering whom she had turned down for dates greeted her with friendly smiles. One of them offered to get her a drink. She thanked him, then explained that she preferred nonalcoholic drinks.

He smiled, his dark eyes glittering. “No problem. There’s a fruit drink that I think you’ll like. It’s really very good.”

“Thank you,” she accepted with a smile. “That would be very nice.” And then she was distracted when Gay and Darla approached with husbands in tow for introductions. When the engineer returned with her fruit drink, Angie was in the middle of a laughing, boisterous group, rapidly gaining confidence as she joined in the banter.

The drink obtained for her was delicious. Since she hadn’t had time to grab a bite of anything since breakfast, she welcomed the pulpy beverage, hoping she’d be able to gracefully attack the snack table a little later. When a second glass was pressed into her hand after she’d finished the first, she took it gratefully, still too involved in conversation to pay much attention to the smug looks being exchanged by the three engineers.

Even as she chatted with her co-workers, she was vividly aware that Rhys was watching her from across the room where he stood in conversation with a couple of the vice presidents. She felt his eyes on her almost as if he were physically touching her. She couldn’t read his mood today, but there’d been no mistaking the expression she’d spied in his eyes once or twice. Desire. Rhys Wakefield had decided he wanted her. And Rhys Wakefield was a man who usually got what he wanted.

Trying desperately, unsuccessfully, to ignore him, she took another large gulp of her fruit drink.

RHYS WASN’T FOND of parties. He attended them only when necessary, as it was tonight. His usual practice was to make an appearance, say a few appropriate words and then tactfully disappear. Tonight, however, he lingered, watching Angie.

She was so damned beautiful. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. Every single man in the room—and some of the married ones—had drifted her way at some point during the evening. It occurred to him that she was mingling much more easily with her co-workers now than she had in the beginning. She’d tried to hold them at arm’s length but hadn’t been successful. She was too naturally outgoing to remain aloof for long. Sooner or later she would realize that her father’s mistakes didn’t matter, and then she’d be ready to rejoin the social scene she’d left.

He didn’t try to fool himself into believing that she’d turn to him when that happened. He had very little to offer her. He was too old for her, too much the loner, totally inept when it came to personal relationships. But he’d become increasingly aware that he wouldn’t rest until he’d had her, at least for a little while. If she could turn to him now, while she was still lonely and hurting, if he could offer her anything—well, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad when she moved on. Maybe.

Atwood, the honoree of the party, stopped to thank Rhys for the tribute, as well as the customary gold watch. Rhys wished the long-time employee, who’d been with the company for many years before Rhys had acquired it, the best of luck in his retirement, asking courteously about the older man’s plans. When Rhys glanced back in Angie’s direction, he frowned as he noted the suspicious behavior of the three engineers who’d hardly left her side for the past hour.

What was going on? And just what was in the frosted glasses they were eagerly fetching for her? Knowing his assistant’s policy about alcohol, he decided he’d better investigate.

He was detained before he’d taken more than a few steps. Trying not to be rude, he answered a question from the personnel director and then stopped to listen to something a supervisor from Research and Development wanted brought to his attention. “See me first thing Monday morning and we’ll discuss this,” he instructed as soon as he had the opportunity.

By the time he’d made his way across the room, several more minutes had passed. His attention on Angie, Rhys realized that he’d been right about his suspicions. Her eyes were slightly glazed, her cheeks rather flushed, her laughter too bright. His cool, competent assistant was more than a little inebriated, though she seemed to be handling it amazingly well. He approached in time to hear her cheerfully declining an invitation from one of the engineers to drive her home. By the time Rhys reached her side, another one had tried and been pleasantly shot down.

So, he thought with a tug of satisfaction, Angelique wasn’t quite the easy drunk she’d feared herself to be.

He touched her shoulder. “Having a nice time?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, yes, lovely,” she replied with a vague smile. “Are you?”

“Mmm.” He turned his attention to the engineers, who were starting to sidle away, looking a bit concerned. They stopped dead when he spoke to them. “Perhaps Ms. St. Clair forgot to mention to you that she doesn’t drink?” he inquired blandly, nodding to the insidiously innocent-looking concoction one of them had been prepared to give her as soon as she’d finished the one in her hand. The stricken looks he received in answer confirmed his suspicion that she had, and that the three had been amusing themselves by getting the always-so-cool-and-dignified executive assistant tipsy.

“Oh, I told them, Rh—Mr. Wakefield,” Angie assured him, lightly touching his arm. “This is just a fruit drink.”

He covered her hand with his, still glaring at his rather pale subordinates. “I’m afraid some of that fruit has fermented, Ms. St. Clair. I believe your friends here have been playing a little joke on you.”

Angie looked at the nearly empty glass in her hand and then at the three men standing miserably in front of her. She raised a not-quite-steady hand to her temple. “And I thought I was beginning to feel dizzy from lack of food,” she

moaned.

“That probably had something to do with it,” he agreed. Spotting his secretary standing with her husband a few feet away, he motioned her over. “Ms. St. Clair isn’t feeling well,” he explained. “Would you mind seeing her to the lobby and waiting with her there for a moment? I’ll be taking her home.”

“Yes, Mr. Wakefield. Come on, honey, I’ll help you out,” June offered immediately, taking Angie’s arm. “Goodness, you look pale. I just knew you’ve been working yourself too hard this week,” she scolded gently, leading her charge away. “Didn’t I tell you you have to take better care of yourself?”

Rhys waited until Angie was out of hearing before signaling the three wretched engineers to follow him to a relatively private corner. Aware of the speculative looks of the other guests of the party, he kept his voice low as he told them in a few pithy words exactly what he thought of their sophomoric stunt. By the time he was finished, all three were relieved that they still had their jobs. Pausing only long enough to say his goodbyes to Atwood, Rhys left the party immediately afterward.

June was still scolding when Rhys collected Angie in the lobby. “You’re both alike,” she accused her employer. “All work, no relaxation. You may have learned how to live that way, but Ms. St. Clair isn’t quite as tough as you. You’re both going to have to start taking care of yourselves. See that she gets something to eat tonight, you hear?”

“I will. Thanks, June.”

“Oh, don’t mention it, Mr. Wakefield. Good night, Ms. St. Clair. Get some rest, okay?”