The door swooshed open again, and Angie looked around more cautiously th
is time, hoping to see Rhys. Instead, she found a doctor who hardly looked old enough to shave, his smooth, freckled face wreathed in a bright smile. “So you’re awake, are you? It’s about time. I’m Dr. Kent. How are you feeling?”
“I’ll let you talk to your doctor now, but I’ll be back later,” June promised before slipping out.
“How is Rhys?” Angie demanded before the door had even closed behind her co-worker.
The doctor chuckled and shook his sandy head. “Honestly, the two of you! He wouldn’t even let us treat him last night until you’d been taken care of, and now here you are asking about him before you even find out about your own injuries. It must be love.”
She smiled. “It must be. So, how is he?”
“He’s fine. I slipped him a pain medication to help him sleep. He’ll probably be out for a couple more hours—long enough for me to make a safe escape, anyway,” he added with a grin. “That’s one intimidating man, you know that? It wasn’t easy for the staff to treat you with him hanging over our shoulders threatening dire consequences if you weren’t given the very best of care.”
“That’s Rhys,” Angie admitted fondly, beginning to relax now that she had official confirmation that Rhys was all right. She listened quietly as the young doctor outlined her own injuries, telling her that her recovery would not be immediate and it would not be painless, but promising that she would eventually be as mobile as ever, The informal conference was interrupted only once by a delivery of flowers from some of Angie’s coworkers. The messages were warm, sympathetic and touching. She blamed her resulting tears on her weakness. Noting those tears and the trembling she couldn’t quite control, Dr. Kent stood to leave. “Get some rest, Ms. St. Clair.”
“Angie.”
“I can increase your pain medication a bit if you need it, Angie.”
She wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she didn’t want to feel drugged again. “No, I don’t need it. Thank you.”
“All right. Call the nurse if the pain gets worse. I’ll leave an authorization for medication.”
“Thank you,” she repeated, hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. Her legs hurt—in fact, she decided grimly, her entire body hurt.
She wanted Rhys.
She got, instead, Gay and Darla, who entered cautiously, poking their heads into her door to see if she was awake. “Oh, Angie,” Gay exclaimed, rushing in, her arms full of packages. “We’re so sorry. How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” Angie admitted wryly. “But I’m lucky to be alive. I’m not complaining.”
“We won’t stay long,” Darla promised. “We had to see for ourselves that you were all right. The news report sounded so awful.”
Angie tilted her head curiously, then wished she hadn’t. Raising her hand to her temple in a vain attempt to massage the pain away, she asked, “What news report?”
“Both radio and television have covered the explosion and fire, describing the way Mr. Wakefield rescued you,” Gay explained, her eyes round with awe. “You were so lucky that he arrived at exactly the right time.” She didn’t go on to ask why Rhys was arriving at Angie’s house at that time of night, Angie noticed with weary amusement. “Anyway, we brought you some stuff. We know all your own things were destroyed, so we called some of the gang from the office and everyone chipped in to buy you some gowns and a robe and slippers, some undies and makeup, a few other things you’ll be needing. If you need us to pick you up a couple of outfits to get you by until you can go shopping, just let us know, okay?”
For the second time in a hour, Angie’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you. That was so thoughtful of you.”
Darla shrugged modestly. “We wanted to do it,” she said simply. “It was all we knew to do to help.”
Gay took a deep breath. “Angie, we wanted to tell you that we’re really sorry about everything you’ve been through lately. We heard about your father. It was on the news during the report about the explosion at your house.”
12
CHOKING ON A COUGH, Angie cleared her throat and asked weakly, “My—uh—my father? He was mentioned on the news?”
Gay flushed as Darla threw her an exasperated look. “Well—um—I guess one of the television reporters recognized your name or something. Or maybe they checked into your background when they heard you were engaged to Mr. Wakefield—he’s pretty well-known in this area, you know. Anyway, they said your father had gotten into some trouble in Boston and he’s—well, incarcerated. Now we understand why you’ve been so reluctant to talk about your past. But we want you to know it doesn’t matter to us. I mean, gosh, everyone has a black sheep in the family. My uncle—”
“Gay,” Darla interrupted with a pained expression. “Maybe you’d better just hush. Angie’s tired. She needs to rest.”
“You’re right. We’ll see you later, Angie. Be sure and call if you need anything, okay?”
Angie managed a smile. “Thanks, Gay. Darla.”
Rhys burst into the room before they could leave. His hair was singed, sooty and wildly disarrayed, his once-white shirt smudged and torn, his expensive slacks beyond salvaging. He smelled of smoke and sported several neat white bandages. Angie thought he looked wonderful.
With barely a nod for her visitors, he crossed the room in three long strides and sank to the edge of the bed beside her. Her eyes locked with his stormy ones as he slipped a hand behind her head and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss couldn’t have been more gentle if she were made of spun glass. The breath he took when it ended was long, ragged, harsh. “Oh, God, Angelique,” he muttered, resting his cheek on her hair.