But he’d already pushed the button, giving her a look that dared her to argue with him. She sighed and gave up, knowing that the man her co-workers called the “dictator” was back in full swing. He was quite adept at hiding his gentle, vulnerable side when it suited his purposes.
He wouldn’t be an easy man to live with, she reflected, her eyes closing. It would be a very long time, if ever, before he’d feel comfortable expressing his deepest feelings, though he’d proven that he could do so quite eloquently when inclined. And she loved him so much she ached with it, knowing she wouldn’t change a thing about him even if she could.
He was Rhys. And he was hers. For always.
ANGIE MADE A FACE as she read the Sunday newspaper article early the next morning. One of the nurses had thought she’d want to see it and had brought her the paper with her breakfast. After a matter-of-fact description of the gas buildup that was being blamed for the explosion—pending further investigation—the story dealt in hyperbolic detail on the dramatic rescue by one of Birmingham’s wealthiest and most prominent businessmen, lingering on the spicy hint that Rhys had been arriving at his fiancée’s house at that late hour. The fiancée, it added, was the daughter of Nolan St. Clair, the Boston financier who’d been sentenced to prison earlier that year for tax evasion and other accounting mispractices.
After an extremely uncomfortable night, that wasn’t exactly the way Angie would have chosen to start her day.
By midmorning the telephone on her bedside table began to ring. Gay, Darla, June and Kim each called to check on her and ask if she needed anything. Mickey insisted on talking to her to ascertain for himself that she was all right, earnestly promising that he’d take excellent care of Flower until Angie was out of the hospital.
Angie hung up for the fourth time chewing her lip thoughtfully. It seemed that everyone knew about her father by now. If it made any difference to the friends she’d made since arriving in Birmingham, she certainly couldn’t tell. Had all her friends in Boston wanted to be with her only because of social reasons? Were her friends here in Birmingham truly less judgmental, more accepting—or was it she who had changed? Maybe, she reflected, she’d chosen her friends in Boston for all the wrong reasons. Maybe she’d been as guilty as they of making money and social-position requirements for entry into her exclusive circle. Maybe she’d given more of herself to these new friends, having had nothing else to offer them. It was certainly something to think about.
Staring sightlessly at her lap, she frowned as she considered the rather philosophical questions.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurting? Do you need something for pain?”
Angie hadn’t even realized Rhys had entered the room until he spoke from the side of the bed, his tone urgent. She looked at him in indulgent exasperation, noting that he seemed much better than he had when she’d finally convinced him to leave her bedside the night before. She wished she could say the same for herself. She must look terrible. “I’m not in pain, Rhys—well, not too much, anyway. I was just thinking.”
He spotted the newspaper lying by her side and scowled. “Where’d you get that?”
“One of the nurses brought it to me.”
“Which one?” he demanded, appearing ready to do battle.
“Rhys, it’s all right. She thought I’d like to see it. And she was right.”
“You didn’t want to read that garbage,” he refuted instantly.
“No,” she admitted. “But I needed to know what was said. It’s not as bad as it could have been. At least the article didn’t mention all the questioning I was subjected to during my father’s indictment.”
“There was no need to mention your father at all,” he stated with a moue of distaste toward the paper. “He had nothing to do with what happened to your house.”
She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “He’s a very thorough reporter. Did his research to find out if there was anything interesting about the future wife-of WakeTech’s CEO. Found out there was. That’s his job.”
“His job is to report news, not gossip. The explosion was news. That stuff about your father was gossip.”
“Did you come here to see me or to discuss journalism ethics?” she asked sternly, leveling him a mock-indignant glare.
He smiled and leaned over to kiss her. “To see you. How’d you sleep?”
“I’ve had more comfortable nights,” she admitted. “And I missed you.”
“I tried to stay. You threw me out.”
“You needed some rest,” she replied, then smiled. “And a shower.”
He chuckled. “Point taken. I’ve had a couple of showers since I left here last night. One as soon as I got home, another this morning, after I’d spent a couple of hours looking over your place.”
“You went by my house?”
He nodded, his smile fading. “Yeah. I wanted to see how much damage was done.”
She swallowed. “Was anything left?”
His eyes gave her the answer even before he spoke. “I’m afraid not. The fire spread too quickly for the firefighters to bring it under control. They were lucky to prevent damage to your neighbors’ homes.”
She wouldn’t cry, she told herself firmly, squaring her chin. After all, the important thing was that she and Rhys were safe and together. “I’m glad no one else was hurt,” was all she said.