The Makeover Takeover. Sandra Paul
that farther away than you set it last time?” she asked doubtfully, pushing up her glasses as she glanced at him.
“No.”
“But—Rafe!” Her frown deepened as he shrugged out of his jacket. “What are you doing? Mr. Haley—”
“Doesn’t give a damn how I’m dressed, as long as I get the job done—and I do. Every time.” Rafe lifted his brows, studying her disapproving face as he began to roll up his white shirtsleeves. “Surely you don’t expect me to play a serious game in my suit?”
“Why not? You know you’ll beat me with or without it.”
She made the last comment almost beneath her breath, but Rafe heard it anyway. Like his coordination, his hearing was excellent. He gave her a reproachful look. “Hey, don’t I always give you a sporting chance?” She opened her mouth, but before she could reply, he interjected, “Of course, I do. I’ll shoot at double the distance.”
“Like that’s going to matter,” Lauren grumbled, but he could tell he had her hooked. She made a practice motion with the ball toward the can before adding, “I think you just like to make me play because then you can always win.”
Rafe suppressed another smile at the faint disgust in her voice. It wasn’t like Lauren to complain. She usually participated in each contest in resigned silence.
He prudently kept his mouth shut, although he could have told her it wasn’t beating her that he enjoyed so much, but rather watching the fierce determination she put into the games. Like now, for instance. She’d forgotten all about Kane Haley’s imminent arrival and had abandoned that aloof, grave expression she seemed to feel lately was appropriate as his secretary. Instead, her face was screwed up in a fierce scowl of concentration, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses as she visually measured the distance to the goal.
He let her study it for a few seconds longer, then prompted, “Ready?”
She nodded, her long, straight brown hair swinging gently against her cheek. “Ready.”
She lifted the ball. Just as she was just about to release it, he said, “Wait!”
Lauren almost lurched out of her chair. She gasped, her blue-gray eyes wide with alarm, her glasses askew on her small nose. “What? What’s wrong?” She straightened her glasses and glanced nervously at the door. “Is Mr. Haley coming?”
“Nah. We just forgot to make a bet.”
Her eyes narrowed again—on him this time. “I don’t want to bet. I keep telling you, betting is illegal.”
“Now would I suggest doing something illegal?” Her expression said yes, but before she could answer, he did it for her. “Of course not,” he said smoothly. “I was just thinking of a simple, friendly wager—maybe for a small exchange of services.”
She still looked suspicious. “What services?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” He pretended to consider a moment. “How about if you win, I make a Christmas donation to the women’s shelter you’re collecting for. A hefty donation.” No need to tell her, he decided, that the check was already made out and ready to be donated in either case. The incentive would spur her on.
Sure enough, her eyes lit up, then turned wary again. “And if I lose….”
“If you lose, then all you have to do is a little Christmas shopping for me. Pick up something for a few of my friends.”
“What friends?”
“Oh, I dunno. Maybe Amy. And Maureen. And possibly Nancy.”
Now she really looked disapproving—and definitely torn. Rafe kept his expression serious with an effort. He’d asked her last week to pick up some gifts for the women he was currently dating, and she’d responded with a stiff little speech about “gift-giving being a personal thing” and “not feeling right about doing it for him” and how she was sure “his friends would rather have something he’d chosen himself.” He’d listened and agreed, but hell, he had no idea what to get women, and he hated buying gifts anyway.
It would be much better all around if Lauren just did it for him.
He knew he wasn’t actually giving her any choice; the women’s shelter was a big deal to Lauren. She really got into stuff like that. Charities. Church. The new child-care facility Maggie Steward, Kane’s administrative assistant, was adding to the corporation. Anything she felt would help make someone’s life better always caught Lauren’s attention. No way on earth would she be able to refuse a possible donation.
But he asked her anyway, “So whaddaya say? Just get them whatever women like. Throw it all on my credit card.”
“Fine,” she answered, gritting her small white teeth.
Now he’d really riled her up. She pressed her lips together and picked up a pen. She deliberately wrote down a line on her notepad, and even took the time to scribble something in the margin.
Finished finally, she threw down her pen. She glared at him, then glared back at the basket. Jabbing at her glasses, she set her delicate jaw and pushed up the sleeves of her brown sweater. She even wiggled forward to perch at the extreme edge of the chair, tugging down the hem of her brown plaid skirt as it inched up above her knees.
Settled into position, she lifted her arm again. With a mighty scowl and a jerky flip of her wrist, she released the ball.
The orange missile shot straight toward the basket and plopped down—three feet short.
Rafe wanted to howl at the frustration on her face. She was stiff as a baseball bat now with her hands clenched into small fists by her sides. But instead of laughing, he shook his head in mock commiseration. “Ah, damn. That’s too bad,” he said sympathetically. He scooped the ball up from the carpet. “Let’s see if I can do any better.”
He made a minor production of measuring off his shooting range, making sure he doubled the distance Lauren had thrown from. Then with a casual toss, he threw the ball.
He nodded in satisfaction as it sank right in the can. Man, he was good. He glanced at his secretary to see if she fully appreciated his prowess, and his smile disappeared.
Lauren looked sick. Her pale skin had a yellow cast and as he watched, she flinched, then wrapped her arms around her waist.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, but the words ended on a small gasp. “I just have a small pain in my stomach.”
He frowned as she tightened her arms again. “What do you mean pain?” he demanded. “Like appendicitis?”
“No. Really—I’m fine.”
“There’s a flu bug going around—”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted, dismissing his concern with an airy wave of her hand.
A second later, however, she clasped that same hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in alarm. Jumping up, she looked frantically at the trash can—still decked out with its silly net—then dashed out the door.
Chapter Two
When Lauren emerged from the women’s restroom a few minutes later, she was feeling much better. She’d splashed cold water on her face, rinsed out her mouth, and was sure she could make it through the rest of the day. But then she saw Rafe leaning against the wall outside with his arms crossed, wearing his black overcoat. Her brown coat and scarf were slung over his arm, and he had the scuffed brown messenger bag she used as a purse clutched in his big hand.
He straightened at the sight of her. “Okay, let’s go,” he said briskly, before she could speak. “You’re sick and I’m taking you home.”
“I’m not sick,” Lauren said, automatically