After Hours

“I had a salad. But I’ll make you something.”

“A tuna sandwich sounds good,” he hinted. She smiled. “You’re in luck. I happen to have a can of tuna.”

“Thanks. I’ll get my own drink.” He headed for the refrigerator, where she’d gotten into the habit of keeping a supply of fruit-flavored soft drinks for him. He was in the mood for a grape soda. And Angelique. He thought he’d better concentrate on the soda first.

Popping the top on the can, he took a step back, then stumbled as he almost tripped over Flower. “Damn cat,” he muttered without heat, reaching for a paper towel to wipe up the soda he’d splattered on the floor.

“Is she all right?” Angie asked in concern, whirling to check on her indignant pet.

“She’s fine,” Rhys answered wryly. “And so am I. Thanks so much for asking.”

She chuckled. “I figured you could take care of yourself.”

Soiled paper towel in hand, he opened the cabinet where she kept her wastebasket. “I was attacked from behind. Blindsided. Taken completely unaware.”

Smiling, she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Poor baby. Want some chips with your sandwich?”

He stood as if frozen in the position of tossing the towel. “I—uh—what?”

Giving him an odd look, she repeated, “Would you like some chips, Rhys?”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Damn, but she was dangerous. All it had taken was a kiss on the cheek and a seductive murmur to reduce him to stammering incoherence. Any man who didn’t take immediate steps to make a woman like that his forever was a fool. Rhys Wakefield had been called many things, but never a fool.

Remembering the towel, he leaned over to throw it away. He was just about to close the cabinet door when he noticed the envelope on the floor. It looked as though it had been dropped carelessly at the trash container, but had missed. Bending, he picked it up, noting the neat handwriting, the return address and the fact that it hadn’t been opened.

“Did you mean to throw this away?” he asked, guessing that the letter was from her father.

She glanced at the envelope in his hand and frowned, then turned to set his plate on the table. “Yes, I did. Your dinner’s ready.”

“It’s from your father, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Throw it away, please.”

“Angelique—”

“Rhys.” Her eyes met his squarely, and there was no misinterpreting the hands-off look she gave him. “There’s nothing my father has to say that I would be interested in hearing—or reading.”

“Maybe he’s just lonely,” Rhys suggested carefully. He wasn’t sure why he was pushing her, but something told him that Angie would never be completely happy until she’d reconciled—at least partially—with her only surviving relative.

“Tough,” she answered, her voice harder than he’d ever heard it. “He’s lying in the bed he made for himself. If it’s not as comfortable as he’d hoped, then it’s his own fault for not being a bit more discriminating in his actions.”

Rhys pulled out a chair and slung one leg over it, scooting up to the table and taking a bite of the sandwich. He chewed, swallowed, then risked one more comment. “I realize that he made some mistakes. But he’s not the first, and he won’t be the last. You said that your childhood wasn’t particularly unhappy. Don’t you have any feeling left for him?”

“He shattered any feelings I may have had,” she muttered, sitting stiffly in the other chair. “The things he did—the things he said to me—I’ll never let myself forget them.”

Rhys set the half-eaten sandwich on the plate. “Are you always this unforgiving?”

Her eyes widened in wounded indignation. “Why are you pushing me about this?” she demanded. “What does it matter to you?”

He didn’t like her wording. His clipped tone probably told her so. “I can’t help wondering if you’ll be this unmerciful if I do something that disappoints you.”

“Rhys! How can you say that?” she

scolded incredulously. “You’d never do anything like my father did. You’re probably the most honest person I’ve ever met, both in business and your personal life. No one could ever compare you to my father.”

“We all make mistakes, Angelique,” he repeated doggedly. “I can’t promise that I’ll never hurt you unintentionally or let you down in some way. If I do, wilt you be this eager to walk away, to sever our relationship?”

She looked at him for a long, taut moment, then reached out to touch his hand with the tips of her fingers. “I don’t think I could ever walk away from you,” she whispered.