After Hours
That she would forgive him was something she never doubted. Of course she’d been angry with him at firs
t, angry and hurt. Knowing he’d paid a stranger to look into her past made her very uncomfortable. But, being Rhys, he would have seen his actions as the most direct method of finding out what he wanted to know. He hadn’t been motivated by cruelty or mere curiosity, but by his concern for her. Knowing that, how could she remain angry with him?
She loved him, she thought with a pang of need. She loved him so very much. She should be angry with him, but instead she was touched that he’d been worried about her. His action had been typically arrogant, undeniably invasive, even clumsy, but no one else had gone to such trouble for her in longer than she could remember.
He’d had so little experience with caring about someone, with having someone care for him. He desperately needed the love she felt for him, even if he never truly learned how to return it. Again, she found herself being seduced by the feeling of being needed, really needed for the first time in her life.
Maybe—just maybe she could teach him about loving, teach him about sharing, she thought with the first spark of optimism. She didn’t know a great deal about either one of them herself, considering her background, but she’d had her grandparents as an example of what a relationship could be with time and effort. Her past hadn’t seemed to matter to him. If that wasn’t standing between them, then all she had to battle was his natural caution and her own insecurity.
That was all? She almost smiled then, for the first time since she’d stumbled into her house after escaping the office.
Still, they had a chance. But only if she kept the lines of communication open between them. She couldn’t accomplish anything, couldn’t help either of them, by hiding herself away. Spurred by a new surge of determination, she stood, untying her robe as she headed for her bedroom.
RHYS MADE a futile effort to relax by having a warm shower and changing into a comfortable gray fleece running suit. He’d been trying to concentrate on The Wall Street Journal when his doorbell rang at just past nine that evening. He was startled but had no question who he’d find on his doorstep. His pulse increasing in anticipation, he threw open the door.
Angelique stood there looking very young and vulnerable in a soft pink sweater, worn, faded jeans and scuffed sneakers, her fine blond hair caught into a loose ponytail tied with a pink ribbon. “You were right, Rhys,” she told him huskily, her hands twisting nervously at her waist. “I can’t always handle everything alone. I need you.”
He held out his arms and she stepped into them. “I’m here for you, Angelique,” he murmured, his voice rough.
Snuggling into the soft fleece of his shirt, she sighed at the pleasure of hearing those words for the first time in so very long. Maybe it wouldn’t be forever, she warned herself, but he was here for her now. She couldn’t complain.
“Do you want to talk?” he asked, drawing her more fully into the house.
She hesitated only a moment. And then she smiled and slipped her hands beneath his top. “No.”
His chest expanded beneath her palms as he inhaled sharply. “Oh.”
Sliding her hands slowly down his chest until the tips of her fingers slipped beneath the band of his pants, she looked up at him in teasing challenge. “Would you rather talk?”
He cleared his throat forcefully. “Are you kidding?”
She moved her hands lower. She had just discovered the extent of his arousal when his control broke and he swung her into his arms. “If you only knew what you do to me,” he muttered, heading toward the stairs with long, impatient strides.
Clinging trustingly, Angie rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, knowing he’d soon show her exactly what she did to him. Content for now with knowing that the bond between them was more than physical, despite the desire that flared so hotly between them. She didn’t waste time worrying about how long it would last or whether she would survive its end.
At the moment, she had better things to think about.
Better things to do….
FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, Angie and Rhys were together quite a bit away from the office. As if to prove he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with her, Rhys took her to restaurants, the theater, a baseball game. Once or twice they ran into someone from the office. Angie knew tongues must be wagging furiously, but for once she didn’t really care. If that was her price for spending time with Rhys, then she’d gladly pay it. Besides, she thought with grim humor, she was used to being the subject of gossip.
Angie was continually surprised by discoveries she made about Rhys. Though he hadn’t allowed himself much time for movies in the past few years—or any other purely entertainment diversions—he enjoyed them a great deal, particularly sophisticated comedies and adventures. She rented several of the latest videos for him, then spent more time enjoying his obvious pleasure in the films than watching them herself.
She opened a cabinet in his den one day to uncover an extensive collection of vintage rock albums beneath an expensive stereo system. “I didn’t know you liked music so much!” she exclaimed.
He looked up a bit sheepishly from the news magazine he’d been reading. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I usually have some music going when I’m here by myself.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. “Guess it never came up.”
She flipped through the collection, fascinated with the variety. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Elvis, Buddy Holly, The Doors, Joe Cocker, Country Joe and the Fish—and dozens more, most of whom she’d heard of, some she hadn’t. “Seems like your collection stops about the time disco came into style,” she commented teasingly.
He groaned. “No kidding. There hasn’t been anything decent recorded since.”
She spun on one heel, ready to do battle. “Bull,” she said inelegantly. “There’s been a lot of good music in the past ten years.”
“Most of it by the same groups who’ve been recording since the sixties,” he retorted, tossing the magazine aside and getting into the spirit of the good-natured argument. “The Stones, The Beach Boys, Tina Turner, The Who, Rod Stewart.”