It was fortunate Mitchell hadn’t tried to come. He would have wrecked, most likely…or ended up bedding down in some God-awful roadside inn filled with irritable holiday travelers whose Christmases had been ruined.
Like hers had, she admitted, thinking of spending Christmas with a surly, unpleasant man who clearly didn’t want her in his house. Perhaps there was a motel in the nearby town? But then she thought of the miles down the treacherous, winding road and regretfully dismissed the flickering hope.
May as well admit she was stranded with no hope for immediate escape.
“What a mess. Those weathermen ought to be shot,” Mitchell said irritably. “They say a hell of a snowstorm is moving in, just to top everything off. At least you’re someplace warm and safe.”
Angeline rubbed her arms briskly. Mitchell’s comment had made her hyper-aware of how frigid the room was. She didn’t mention the electricity had gone out. He had enough to worry about.
What with the Millington account and all.
An awkward silence ensued, only to be broken by Mitchell’s hesitant voice. “Alex…he’s treating you all right, isn’t
he?”
“Of course,” Angeline replied bracingly. No father wanted to hear that his son was a rude brute. “My SUV slid into a snowdrift and I couldn’t get out. Your son came to my rescue.”
Mitchell’s laugh sounded harsh. “That’s Alex for you. Always the hero to a damsel in distress.”
An uneasy feeling crept over Angeline…a murky awareness of all the negative energy and emotions that frothed between Mitchell and his son.
It made her feel alone for some reason.
She asked about the Millington account in an effort to rid herself of the uncomfortable knowledge.
It wasn’t until after she’d hung up the phone that she realized Mitchell hadn’t even asked about the health or wellbeing of his son.
Alex welcomed the cool water hitting his roughening skin and tense muscles. It helped him think straight.
Not to mention held in abeyance the strong surge of animal lust he’d experienced when he noticed his father’s girlfriend’s stiffened nipples pressed against the soft, touchable-looking sweater she wore.
The unwanted memory of Angeline Kastakis walking into McAllister’s one spring evening four years ago sprang into his mind. McAllister’s was a favorite hangout for members and traders from the Board of Trade, as well as other LaSalle Street denizens. Alex was there for lunch regularly with his friends, and occasionally for a Friday night drink after work. He’d never seen Angeline there before—not that he knew her name at the time.
She was the kind of woman you’d remember if you saw her.
The three guys he shared a booth with were all staring exactly where he was when Angeline laughed at something her female companion said as they set down their briefcases. She’d removed her tailored jacket and Alex’s eyes had reluctantly left her exquisite face.
“Would you take a look at that,” Steven Ashland hissed in awe.
“Impossible not to. What a rack,” Mike Michevsky murmured, his voice thick with lust.
Alex suppressed a strong urge to tell his friends to shut up. This wasn’t the seventh grade. But then again…Angeline Kastakis was no seventh grader. She was all woman, one who likely inspired idiotic comments from drooling males on a regular basis. She sat down at the bar, her narrow skirt riding slightly higher on her long, stocking-covered legs. Her smooth, lustrous, dark brown hair gleamed in the subtle light as she nodded her head in agreement with what her friend said.
“She’s way out of your league,” someone said from behind their booth, his voice thick with amusement.
Alex glanced around. Mitchell rarely showed up at McAllister’s—it was a little too plebian for his refined taste. Still, Alex wasn’t shocked to see him there. Every once in a while, one of Mitchell’s clients wanted to patronize the popular bar-restaurant, and God knew his father was all about pleasing his clients.
He experienced a familiar flash of irritation when his friends sat up straighter and said polite, eager hellos to his father. Something about his dad always turned his friends into Eddie Haskell.
He slouched down farther in the booth and took a swallow of beer. “You’re undoubtedly right about that,” Alex mumbled, once again staring at the woman at the bar.
“I’ll put in a good word for you if you think you need the help,” Mitchell said.
Alex remained unmoving, glowering while Mitchell greeted and shook hands with Alex’s co-workers, all of whom stared at his father like he was the second coming. His father had quite the reputation in the business community.
“Well, what do you say, Alex?” Mitchell prodded. To everyone else, he probably sounded light and cheerful—a teasing, fond father—but Alex caught the needling edge to Mitchell’s tone. As a child, he’d become familiar with that subtle undertone. “Just say the word, and I’ll mention to her that I know of a strapping young buck who desires to make her acquaintance.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”