“What?” she asked impatiently.

“As we promote it more, men will call, and you’ll have perspective from both sides. Guys struggle with relationships, too.”

Angel rolled her eyes. “I know, Darian. I do have a doctorate in clinical psychology. I get that men and women are equally screwed up; don’t worry.”

She was a slight young woman with delicate facial features, luminous skin, and thick, flowing chestnut locks that had a soft auburn sheen to them in certain light. She looked too young to be a high-powered force in Chicago’s child abuse network, yet her evaluations of suspects and victims could make or break a court case. Angel was proud of her work and had been somewhat hesitant when Darian proposed she host a late night radio show about relationships on his soft-rock formatted station. At first she’d scoffed, tapping her expensive high-heeled Prada’s on the gleaming cherry wood floor and crossing her arms over her navy blue Givenchy suit, openly mocking the opportunity.

It had taken some convincing, but eventually she’d given in, thinking it would be fun and much more lighthearted than her nine-to-five gig. Mostly, it was his promise to donate airtime to domestic and child abuse public service announcements that clinched her decision. It was a damn good thing she’d agreed to the trade. The station would go broke paying up, despite the advertising revenues increasing during her time slot, 10 PM to 2 AM every Friday night.

“Lighten up, Angel. This is all in good fun and to improve ratings.” He smirked.

Christina Michaels, the rookie production intern, knocked on the window, and Angel glanced her way. She was blonde and spunky, a tomboy of sorts with short hair and a turned-up nose. Holding up two fingers, she indicated that they would go back on air in a couple of minutes. “Line three, Angel.”

As Angel grabbed the offending headset and mashed them down over her ears, Darian admired the way her firm breasts pressed against the front of her white T-shirt as her arms lifted. She looked a million miles away from the polished, aloof woman he’d met five months earlier in her office downtown. He mentally shook himself. She was damn sexy. So confident and self-assured, yet her curves were soft and womanly.

Darian was slightly chagrined because Angel seemed untouchable and too good to be true. It didn’t matter anyway; he was her boss, and there was no way he could date her, even if she allowed it. He consoled himself by considering that looking at her alone made missing his normal Friday boy’s night out worth it. After she and Chris got the hang of what he expected, he’d be able to skip being in the studio if he wanted. Somehow his buddies weren’t as appealing as they once were. He sighed in regret.

Darian adjusted his own headphones. “Okay, counting down: five, four…” He held up his hands and used his fingers to communicate the rest. Three, two, one, he signaled for her to begin.

“Hello, it’s 12:35 AM and this is Angel After Dark, taking your calls for advice and dedications, here with Christina Michaels, screening your calls and our producer, Darian Keith.” Angel’s sultry voice purred into the microphone as she pushed one lit-up button on the phone in front of her. “Hello, you’re on the air. Do you have a question? Or, maybe a confession?”

Darian’s ears perked up, and he began to write furiously on the legal pad next to him. Jesus, she was hot.

“Hello, is this Dr. Hemming?” a woman’s timid voice asked on the other end of the phone. “Am I on the air?”

“Yes. This is Angeline. What can I help you with tonight?” Dr. Hemming seemed so formal for this type of venue and somehow, being called Angeline or Angel made it more acceptable that she was using her education in a less professional way. She inwardly cringed at the thought.

The woman’s voice cracked as she sobbed softly into the phone. “My boyfriend… I found out—he’s married!”

Oh, hell! Angel thought and pointed to the headset, mouthing the word ‘See?’ to the man sitting opposite her. Darian smiled and plopped back in his chair with a sardonic look on his face as he carefully watched Angel’s facial expressions change from disgust to calm acquiescence.

“What is your name, honey?” Angel’s voice took on the reserved, placating tone she used on the air.

“Celeste. What should I do?”

She sounded very young. Angel was only 28, but hell, this girl sounded like she was barely out of high school. Angel’s heart ached for the young woman’s plight, wondering how any woman would ever get involved with a man who wasn’t available.

Oh, that’s right. Men lie.

Her professional alter ego mentally bitch slapped her to reinforce she wasn’t supposed to stereotype. This wasn’t about her own experiences with men, it was about this poor girl on the phone. She swallowed before continuing.

“That’s a very pretty name. I’m very sorry you’re going through that. I could ask you a lot of background about the situation, but it won’t change the fact that he’s married. He had no business messing with you under these circumstances. It wasn’t fair to you or his wife.”

“But… but, he said he loves me… I didn’t mean…” she cried—“I didn’t know!”

“Celeste, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but this is a self-destructive position you’re in. People say things in the heat of passion to get things they want, but deep down they may not mean them.” Angel winced as the sobbing on the phone increased but she pressed on. “How did you find out?”

“His wife called me. She found my number in his cell phone. I thought it was him when I answered, and it was horrible.” Angel sat back in her chair and sighed heavily. She wanted to rant at the girl for being so fucking stupid. “She called me a whore. But he said he was going to leave her.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“When I confronted him.”

Angel’s eyebrows raised in an expression of incredulity. Then she shook her head in disbelief. Oh, for Christ’s sake, she thought.

“And you’re still seeing him?” When met with silence, Angel continued. “Celeste, I’m here to help you. So, I want you to see that he is making a choice, just like you are. You have a choice here, too.”

“Ye—yes,” the caller stammered.

“He’s still with his wife, isn’t he?” It was more of a statement, which was confirmed when Celeste didn’t answer. “Please stop listening to his words, and start looking at his actions. He’s got it made. She’s not leaving, you’re not leaving, so what’s his motivation to change and give either of you what you need?” Angel tried to keep her voice even, but an angry flush was coming up under the skin of her face and neck. “It’s both of the women in this situation that are being hurt. You have to step back and look at this objectively. How does he make you feel? And I don’t mean during sex or when he’s trying to convince you that you’re the love of his life. I mean when you’re sitting in the dark alone, and he’s gone home to his wife.”

“Horrible. Lonely. I’m heartbroken. It hurts.” The girl snuffled.

“I know it hurts, and you deserve so much more. You deserve to be the only one, to be cherished and loved. Not used when it’s convenient.”

“You’re right,” Celeste admitted reluctantly.

“Good. So what are you going to do?”

After a pause, the woman answered. “End it.”

“Good girl. You’re doing this for yourself, Celeste. He’ll probably beg and plead, that’s how men like him manipulate women. But stay strong, and don’t give in to his bullshit. Go find someone who deserves you. Okay, honey?”

“Okay. Thank you, Dr. Hemming,” she sniffed.

“You’re welcome. Call me in a few weeks to let me know how you’re doing. Be strong, Celeste.”

Angel took a deep breath. The anger on her face was clear in the tight line of her mouth and the furrow between her neatly waxed brows. She shook her head, and Darian wondered if she was going to say something derogatory about that last caller’s guy. He waved his hands and shook his head. One thing he’d learned in the short time he’d known Angeline Hemming: she took no prisoners and spoke her mind without thinking about it first.

No, Angel. Don’t cuss out the bastard, his mind raced. Not on live air.

“Well, this is Dr. Angeline Hemming,” Angel said as she took the next call, “What is your confession?”

Darian breathed a sigh of relief.

“I confess that I’m sick to death of my boyfriend’s arrogant, offhanded manner and the way he treats me!”

“What’s your name?”

“Whitney,” the woman spat as if she hated her own name.

“Well, Whitney, you sound pretty sure of yourself, so I bet you already know the answer that you’re seeking,” she laughed into the microphone. “It’s refreshing, actually,” Angel said dryly, the corners of her mouth turning up in amusement.

“He’s turned into such a bastard! He totally takes me for granted. I mean, I give him everything, and he doesn’t even know I exist! He works all the time, and we never go anywhere that isn’t a company obligation or charity thing. He spends most of his free time with his damn friends, and when we do have sex, he leaves right after.”

Ugh. I know the type, she thought and leaned her chin into her hand, elbow resting on the desk. The index finger on her other hand absentmindedly drew patterns across the smooth surface. “Do you live with him?”

“No. He, uh, well, I have my own place. Lately, I feel like we hardly see each other and when we do, it’s because I’ve asked to see him. And, then he turns it around on me… saying I nag him.”