After Hours Read online

  After Hours

  GINA WILKINS

  For my writing buddies from 1990, when this book was first published, who are still my friends today, Sally, Linda and Deborah. A little slice of our history!

  Copyright © 1990, Gina Wilkins

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Denise Marcil Literary Agency, Inc.; the agency can be reached at [email protected].

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  1

  “…AND IN ADDITION, I would certainly have quite a few suggestions to make concerning your distribution system. I’ve had several courses in computer distribution, with state-of-the-art training in the field of…”

  Nodding rather grimly, Rhys Wakefield made a nominal show of interest in the eager young applicant’s babble, but the truth was, he’d made up his mind almost the moment the expensively suited young woman had entered the room. No. No to this one, no to the earnest young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a five-hundred-dollar briefcase who’d preceded her, no to the man before him and the woman before him. Bunch of smug, overly confident college graduates who thought that four to six years of classroom lectures and a framed document declaring them well educated made them experts in the world of business. The world Rhys had entered at the bottom and conquered through backbreaking effort, inhuman hours and sheer, single-minded determination.

  He’d hocked himself to his earlobes to purchase a struggling little industrial equipment manufacturing plant, renamed it WakeTech Industries and turned it into a Fortune 500 company within ten years. It was his company, his life, and damned if he was going to let some wet-behind-the-ears college kid come in as his executive assistant only to start telling him how to improve his operation. All of the applicants so far had begun the interviews by telling him the wonderful plans they had for the company, as if hoping to impress him with their bright ideas. What the hell made them think he wanted their advice?

  He wanted—no, he needed—an assistant, not a partner. He’d envisioned someone loyal, eager, dedicated—and, yes, humbly subservient. Though intelligence was a must, formal education wasn’t important, and neither were gender, race, sexual orientation or religious preference. So why hadn’t he found anyone who’d even come close?

  He could only be grateful that he hadn’t given in to his personnel administrator’s urgings to allow her to do her job and hire his assistant for him. Heaven only knows which of the smart-aleck whiz kids he’d have ended up with. He’d continue to do without until he found someone who fit the image he preferred.

  Taking advantage of the woman’s pause to draw breath, Rhys broke in firmly. “Thank you, Ms.—” he had to stop to look down at her application, having forgotten her name “—Baker, but I’m afraid you’re not right for this position. However, I will send your application to the personnel office to be kept on file in case a suitable position does come open.” The words came out in a weary monotone, having been said so many times before that he now recited them by rote.

  Looking slightly incredulous, Ms. Baker tried once more to assure him that he really couldn’t continue to do business without her. Rhys had the distinct impression that she left him with the belief that the prosperous company would be bankrupt within days because he’d held firm to his decision not to hire her.

  Alone in his office once more, he ran a hand over his roughly hewn face in a tired, discouraged gesture and groaned. There was still one applicant left to interview that afternoon. Lord, he hated this. Why on earth had he allowed himself to be talked into hiring an assistant?

  He reached for his phone. “Send in the last one, June,” he ordered with a curtness due—this time—to frustration and boredom. June complied with his instructions without protest, having grown accustomed to her employer’s gruff, no-nonsense manner in the six years she’d worked as his secretary.

  Rhys opened the last application on the desk in front of him, not bothering to lift his eyes from it as someone entered his office. Angelique St. Clair, according to the neatly filled-out form. “Sit down, Ms. St. Clair,” he instructed without polite preliminaries.

  Peripherally aware that his directive had been obeyed, he scanned the application, his eyebrows lifting in proportion to his growing interest. As far as he could tell from reading the terse answers to the standard questions, this person was totally unqualified for the position as it had been advertised. A twenty-six-year-old liberal arts graduate from an expensive Eastern college who claimed to have experience as a social secretary to an unnamed financier, Angelique St. Clair had given no references, listed no boastful accomplishments. Rhys was definitely intrigued.

  He lifted narrowed gray eyes to examine the young woman sitting absolutely still in the deep leather chair before his massive desk.

  She was much too pretty, was his first thought. His second was that she looked even younger than her application claimed her to be. Could be a problem. A delicate blonde may have a tendency to burst into tears the first time he snarled at her. And he would snarl. He’d never claimed to be the easiest guy in the world to work for.

  And then he studied the wide-set, clear violet eyes meeting his steadily, bravely, and he noted the not very well concealed glint that could indicate a stubborn streak. Perhaps a bit of temper. Neither of those possibilities concerned him. He had enough obstinacy and more than enough temper of his own to outmatch even the foolhardiest opponent, never mind a young, fresh-faced blonde who’d probably come only to his chin. And he’d never cared for weaklings, despite his insistence on absolute compliance from his employees.

  “Tell me why I should hire you as my assistant, Ms. St. Clair,” he began bluntly, his eyes never leaving her face.

  Angie took a deep breath, determined not to show this man how nervous he was making her. She’d expected someone older and, she’d hoped, a bit less intimidating. When she’d first seen him, his silver head bent over her application, she’d thought her prior estimate of his age had been correct. And then he’d looked up and she’d realized her error.

  Prematurely gray, Rhys Wakefield was probably not a day over forty. A hard, lean, somewhat weathered forty, but still a good fifteen years younger than she’d expected from his reputation. One tough son of a gun, she’d been told. A hard-nosed businessman with a ruthless drive to be the top in his field, a workaholic who seemed to have few of the needs mere mortals require—food, sleep, entertainment, that sort of thing. A man who controlled his many well-paid, multi-benefited employees with no more than an expressive lift of his straight dark brows. Her tentative inquiries had netted that much, but no one had mentioned that Rhys was relatively young, roughly handsome and as fascinating as he was terrifying.

  His voice was deep, clipped, slightly rough edged. She could detect no particular accent, which sounded rather odd to her after four weeks in Birmingham, surrounded by the slow, soft drawl of the Deep South. Something told her that Wakefield would have no patience for prevarication, no tolerance for bluff. His narrowed gray eyes would spot a lie before it even left her mouth. Tilting her chin, she decided to
lay all her cards in front of him. She’d never really expected to get this job, anyway. But, perhaps, if she impressed him enough, he’d find a place for her somewhere in his organization.

  “I realize that I have no formal training or experience as an executive assistant to the CEO of a company such as WakeTech,” she admitted levelly. “But I can assure you, Mr. Wakefield, that should you hire me, I would be the most dedicated, loyal, hardworking employee on your staff. I learn quickly, I take instructions well, I know when to keep my mouth shut, and I have no aspirations to power or fancy titles. I need a job. I would do nothing that would put me in danger of losing it.”

  Damn, Rhys thought, holding his expression carefully impassive. This one definitely had possibilities, despite her fragile appearance and slightly uppity Boston accent. “You’ve given no references and precious little history on your application, Ms. St. Clair. Mind if I ask why?”

  This was it. Her refusal to give references and her reticence about her past had lost her every other job she’d applied for since arriving in Birmingham a month earlier. Resisting the urge to cross her fingers—or to beg—she continued to meet those piercing dark eyes with her own and answered clearly. “I have no references, Mr. Wakefield, and my past has no relevance to my performance as your employee.”

  Rhys eyed her in silence for a long, taut moment, then closed her file. “I’m not an easy boss, Ms. St. Clair. I’m fair, but demanding. I pay well, but you work hard for every penny you earn. The hours will be long and strenuous, the days off will be rare. I don’t give flowery compliments for work well-done, but I don’t hesitate to point out errors. I don’t like training new people, so I want you to decide now whether you’re going to up and quit when the going gets too tough.”

  “I’m not a quitter, Mr. Wakefield. And, as I said, I need this job.” She tried not to let her rush of optimism show in her expression.

  “Then be here in the morning at eight. And get a good night’s sleep. You’re going to need it.”

  She didn’t even smile. “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, Mr. Wakefield?”

  “That’s all. Stop by personnel on your way out and you’ll be given insurance forms and anything else they need you to fill out. Oh, and Ms. St. Clair—”

  She was already up from her chair. She paused. “Yes, sir?”

  He smiled. “Welcome to WakeTech.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wakefield. You won’t regret hiring me.” She turned and left his office, golden head high, slender shoulders squared, the straight skirt to her sensible gray suit swaying softly around perfectly formed legs that looked impossibly long for her no more than five-feet-five-inch height.

  Watching those legs until the door closed behind her, Rhys resisted the urge to clear his throat. “I hope not,” he muttered in response to her parting words. “I sincerely hope not, Ms. St. Clair.”

  “HOW DID IT GO?” Rhys’s secretary, June Hailey, inquired as Angie passed her desk.

  Here was the Southern accent Angie had expected—warm, friendly, unabashedly curious. “I got the job,” she confided, unable to quite hide her exuberance for the moment. Almost immediately after the smile spread across her face, she suppressed it, replacing it with a more professional, more distant expression. She had no interest in making friends with June or anyone else in her new firm, though she hoped to maintain a pleasant working relationship with all her co-workers. Her life was in chaos, her self-respect in shreds. It would be a long time before she trusted anyone enough to let them get close to her again. All she needed now was her job, her privacy and the refuge of the small, comfortably furnished house her grandmother had left her. Maybe there would come a day when she’d need more. But she had a lot to prove to herself before then.

  Accepting June’s warm congratulations with a rather brusque nod, Angie headed for the personnel office with long, confident strides. And tried to convince herself that Rhys Wakefield’s smile hadn’t just turned her inside out.

  RHYS WAS QUITE PLEASED with his new assistant over the next few weeks. He’d subtly tested her mettle almost immediately after she’d begun working for him when she’d misspelled his name on a report—she’d made the common error of spelling it phonetically, Reese. He’d corrected her rather too bluntly, but other than looking a bit embarrassed at her gaffe, she’d handled the criticism very well. She worked hard, she learned quickly, she didn’t fall apart when he yelled at her, and she kept her opinions to herself unless he asked for them. And she was very nice to look at, a fact that was occasionally as uncomfortable as it was pleasant.

  He noticed her appearance all too often, his attention caught by a toss of her golden hair, a shrug of her slender shoulders, the gleam of indirect lighting on her long, smooth crossed legs as she took notes he dictated to her. He found himself remembering those images during odd times when he was alone—in his office in the evenings, at home on those rare occasions when he wasn’t at the office. He’d had beautiful women working for him before, but there had never been one to interest him quite as much as Angelique St. Clair.

  He couldn’t help wondering about her. Her rare smiles were distant, polite, very professional. He’d never heard her laugh. If she’d made any friends in the company, he wasn’t aware of it. She never protested his requests that she work late or arrive early or come in on weekends during particularly busy times, so if there was a lover, he wasn’t a demanding one. For some reason, Rhys suspected that there was no lover. And yet he’d developed some pretty good instincts about people over the years. There was much more to Angelique St. Clair than she allowed anyone to see. Humor, temper, passion—he believed those emotions simmered beneath the lid she’d clamped so firmly upon them. When and why had she decided to adopt such a cool, aloof facade? What was a woman who’d obviously grown up in the upper echelons of Boston society doing in Birmingham, Alabama, working as his assistant?

  He told himself he had no business wondering. Her privacy was to be respected, as was his. He too kept himself at a distance from others, for what he considered to be very good reasons. He should be relieved, actually. He’d had a secretary once who’d made the silly mistake of believing herself in love with him. It had gotten very awkward, very messy before he’d finally been forced to discharge her in a scene he still couldn’t remember without wincing. Thank goodness there’d be no risk of anything like that happening with Ms. St. Clair. She was too good an assistant to lose over something so unreasonable.

  So, he’d stop wondering what it would be like to stroke those long, silky legs. Stop wondering how those soft, slightly pouty lips would taste. Stop imagining that slender, nicely curved body beneath his. Shifting uncomfortably in his desk chair, he scowled down at the readout in front of him, realizing he’d completely lost his concentration. Damn. Maybe it had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Too bad there wasn’t a conveniently uncomplicated one around who interested him even a fraction as much as his puzzling assistant.

  SPINNING HER CHAIR to face the window of her office, Angie hung up the telephone with a grimace she would not have indulged had anyone been in the room with her. She’d just completed a call to an associate in California, and the man had made every effort to be the breezy L.A. cliche. Weariness making her a bit giddy, in addition to missing both breakfast and lunch that day, she lifted her nose in a mock-snooty expression. “Fan-tas-tic, sweetheart. It’s a done deal,” she mimicked wickedly. “Have your people do lunch with my people. Ciao.” And then she laughed softly at her own foolishness.

  “Let me guess. You’ve been talking to Henderson in L.A.,” drawled a deep voice from the doorway behind her.

  Angie closed her eyes in a mortified wince. Of all people to catch her indulging in a rare bit of frivolity, it would have to be Mr. Wakefield! Composing her expression, she turned her chair around. “Yes, I was,” she admitted, glancing up at him. Something in his gray eyes caught her attention for a moment. A gleam of shared amusement? A momentary awareness of her as a person, not simply an emp
loyee? Surely not, she told herself, dropping her eyes back to her desk. “I have the figures here you requested, Mr. Wakefield. As you can see, they’re almost exactly as you’d predicted.”

  She handed him the report she’d just finished, noting when she did so that his eyes had returned to normal. Shuttered, inscrutable. And she chided herself sternly for unreasonably feeling a bit disappointed that the brief moment of communication was over.

  For the remainder of the day, she was especially careful to be even more efficient and professional than usual. If her employer noted any difference in her behavior, he didn’t comment. But then, he never did.

  SITTING ALONE IN A BOOTH in a trendy restaurant close to her office, Angie scanned The Wall Street Journal as she finished her salad. Having lunch was a rare luxury for her. Rhys—as she called him only in her mind these days—usually kept her so busy there wasn’t time for such leisure. His two-day business trip to Dallas was giving her a break, of sorts—one of the few in the four months she’d worked for him. Not that she’d slacked off at the office, of course. But without Rhys’s constant instructions, she was able to do her work and have time for lunch. As hard as she’d worked during the past months, she still didn’t have the same stamina her employer displayed. She sometimes needed to rest. He apparently did not.

  A familiar voice from the other side of the stained-glass divider that separated her booth from the adjoining one caught her attention. Darla, one of the secretaries from the office, spoke quite clearly. “Did you hear that the new engineer made a pass at the deputy dictator today?”

  The answering laugh was also known to her—Gay Webster, from data processing. “Poor man. Was he still in one piece when she finished with him?”