A Season of Angels Page 0,60

down with the flu. I thought I'd stop by and see if you'd like to come along."

"Tonight?" Monica asked, stalling for time. In truth she was looking for an excuse, anything to get out of this date, but nothing readily presented itself.

"I mentioned this evening to your father and he said you didn't have anything planned," Michael pressed.

"No, I don't believe I do." So her father had put him up to this. She should have realized that sooner.

Michael hesitated, glancing at her as if he were waiting for her to say something more. Uncertain, Monica steadily met his look.

"Did Lloyd mention anything about dinner?"

"Dinner?" She knew she was beginning to sound like a parrot. "Why, yes. Dad did say something this morning about having you over for dinner some evening. We'd be more than happy to have you join us, if you'd like."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight . . . why, sure . . . tonight would be perfect, wouldn't it, since I'll be there for the Methodists' cantata."

"What time?"

"Six," she said automatically, willing to agree to anything that would convince him to leave faster. Knowing Chet was listening in on the conversation made matters ten times worse.

"Great," Michael said, looking well pleased with himself, "I'll see you around six, then. Would you like me to bring anything?"

"No. Everything's under control. Good-bye, Michael," she said, sitting back down at the computer, hoping he'd take the hint and kindly leave while her sanity was intact. She placed her hands on the keyboard until she noticed how badly she was trembling and immediately lowered them to her lap.

"I'll look forward to this evening," he said, reluctantly moving toward the door. He was looking for an excuse to stay, but she refused to give him one.

Despite her obvious signs of distress, she tried to concentrate on the computer screen.

"Your father claims you're a fabulous cook."

"I do a fair job," she muttered. This was getting worse every minute and she didn't know how much more she could bear.

"Good-bye for now."

"Good-bye, Michael," she said, closing her eyes in relief.

Michael left then and the door closed with a soft clicking sound. The instant he was gone, Monica leaped out of her chair, raced around her desk and into her father's study. By the time she arrived she was both breathless and furious.

"Why'd you hide?" she demanded. "Of all the crazy things you've said and done in the last few weeks, this takes the cake."

"It would have required awkward explanations," was all he'd say.

"Well, he's gone now."

"So I see." A frown darkened Chet's face and he glared at her. "So you're going to continue seeing him despite what I said."

"What choice did I have?" she cried, throwing her arms into the air. "I said what I had to, to get him to leave. Besides, what business is it of yours who I do or do not date?" How could he say such things to her when he was the one who'd put her in this predicament!

It took him a long time to answer. "You're right, it's none of my damn business."

Monica was pleased that Chet did care, but she didn't want him to know it.

"Michael's not so bad," he said after a moment. "It's plain as day that he's crazy about you."

The man was full of surprises. First he demanded that she stay away from Michael and now he was urging her to see the other man.

Chet's eyes were clouded as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I should never have come."

He strode past her and in her heart Monica knew if he walked out the door she'd never see him again. She had to do something.

He was all the way across the room, his hand on the doorknob, before she found the courage to speak. "Don't go." She advanced a single step toward him and stopped.

Chet turned around slowly as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. Gradually a grin danced its way across his lips. "You don't want me to leave?"

Her tongue was trapped against the roof of her mouth and she shook her head, unable to say the words a second time. It had demanded every ounce of courage she possessed the first time.

His gaze narrowed into thin, disbelieving slits. "Why not?"

She shrugged.

"Come on, sweetheart, you can do better than that."

"Don't call me that." She backed away from him, as far as she could go, until her buttocks were pressed against the edge of her desk.

"What would you like me to call