After Hours

His hand was on her breast. She filled his palm perfectly. He could almost taste her already as his mouth hovered above the straining lace-covered tip. She arched upward, offering herself trustingly to him.

Trustingly.

He hesitated, lowered his mouth a fraction of an inch more, then groaned and rolled away from her. “Hell.”

Moaning her dismay, Angie reached for him again. “Rhys. Rhys, please.”

Don’t ask me like that, Angelique. He shoved himself off the bed as if the sheets were on fire. Not that he’d have been surprised if they had been after what had passed between them. “Go to sleep,” he ordered harshly, refusing to look at her. “You don’t want this.”

“But—”

“Just go to sleep,” he repeated, heading for the door with long, jerky strides. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He didn’t look back to see if she followed his advice. He walked out the door and straight down the sta

irs, needing a drink more than he could ever remember needing one before. It was a damned poor substitute for Angelique, but the best he could do at the moment.

He hated being noble, he thought savagely, pouring liquor into a glass with enough force to splatter every surface within two feet of him.

“OH, MY GOD.” Angie sat up in the bed, her throbbing head clutched in unsteady hands as she made a valiant effort not to be sick. She was going to die, she thought miserably. She only hoped it would be soon.

When the worst of the pain set off by the mere action of sitting up had passed, she cautiously lowered her hands and opened her eyes to puffy slits. And then her lids flew up in horror as her surroundings finally came into focus. This was not her bedroom. But it was one she recognized. Groaning loudly enough to make her head start to pound again, she covered her face with her hands, quite certain she was going to be sick this time.

She was in Rhys Wakefield’s bed, wearing nothing more than her underwear.

Those fruit drinks. Those damned delicious, refreshingly pulpy fruit drinks. What an idiot she’d been. What a stupid, trusting idiot.

Her fury with herself soon sought a more convenient outlet. The engineers. How dare they trick her that way, lie to her, amuse themselves at her expense? But it wasn’t very satisfying to be enraged with people who weren’t anywhere around. She needed someone she could yell at, someone close enough to provide a target for her frustrated anger. Someone like Rhys Wakefield.

Vague memories of hot, hungry kisses tormented her as she gingerly pulled on the dress she found neatly folded on the chair near the bed. Her right breast tingled with the memory of Rhys’s touch. Unfortunately—or was it fortunately?—she could remember nothing more. How could he take advantage of her that way? And even more annoying, how could she have forgotten the details?

She intended to tell him exactly what she thought of a man who would take advantage of a woman’s vulnerability—especially when he knew why she always tried to stay away from alcoholic beverages. She would speak her mind even if it meant losing her job. She was going to march right down those stairs and—

She stopped in the hallway when a glance through the open door opposite her let her know she had been on the verge of making a worse mistake than trusting the engineers at the party.

The bedroom across the hall from Rhys’s was even more sparsely furnished than his, holding nothing more than a bed and a matching dresser. Sprawled across the bed, still fully dressed except for his shoes, Rhys slept soundly, facedown on the plain brown bedspread. Even in her muddled condition, it was glaringly obvious that he hadn’t taken advantage of her the night before, as she’d been prepared to accuse him.

“Rhys. Rhys, please. “The memory of her own husky voice pleading for his kisses—and more—made her wince in chagrin. Her hands over her burning cheeks, she realized that she must have all but thrown herself at him, but he had pulled away. Far from having the right to berate him, she owed him her gratitude. Which, for some reason, was even more galling.

Taking great care not to disturb him, she turned and walked back into the other bedroom, heading straight for the aspirin she knew he kept in the medicine cabinet in the adjoining bathroom. She washed two of them down with a paper cup of water, rinsed her mouth out, made a hasty effort of tidying her disheveled hair with her fingers and then opened the door, intending to call a cab. She hoped to make her escape before Rhys woke up, not caring that her escape would be somewhat less than gracious.

She’d taken two steps across the bedroom when Rhys appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, Angelique.”

People didn’t really die from hangovers—or from embarrassment, she reminded herself as she answered with whatever dignity she could summon. “Good morning, Rhys.”

He eyed her closely. “I won’t ask how you’re feeling. It’s pretty obvious.”

“Then I must look worse than I thought,” she returned with an attempt at levity.

“You look fine,” he assured her gravely. “A little pale.”

“I hadn’t realized you could be so diplomatic.” She moistened her lips and turned away from him, her bare feet curling into the plush carpeting. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my shoes?”

“Under the bed. I was afraid you’d get up in the night and trip over them.”

“Oh—uh—thanks.” Knowing her face must be an interesting shade of crimson, she slowly started to bend down.

Rhys chuckled and reached out a hand to stop her. His fingers closing gently on her shoulder, he murmured, “I’ll get them. I don’t think your head can take it.”