Sandra Paul - The Makeover Takeover

She slapped her notepad down on his desk. “All right—you win. I’ll play you one game—but just one! And for heaven’s sake, let’s make it quick.”

Triumph flashed across Rafe’s face, and he sprang to his feet. “Great! You sit at my desk. I’ll set things up.”

Lauren walked over and settled into his chair. The supple leather still retained the warmth from his body, and she sighed as the heat comforted her, helping to dispel the small shivers chasing along her limbs. Even the thick brown sweater and long wool skirt she was wearing weren’t helping much to keep her warm today.

She wrapped her arms around her middle as another pain tightened the muscles in her stomach. She couldn’t be coming down with the flu—not now. The niggling thought that it might be something else, something even more serious, she pushed right out of her mind. She didn’t have time to deal with any personal problems. There was too much work to be done. The meeting with Mr. Haley this morning, the future meetings she needed to set up to prepare for the Bartlett takeover. Contracts to get ready, decorations to plan for the company Christmas party—the list was endless. And right at the top of it was trying to handle a boss who insisted on wasting valuable time.

She watched Rafe as he paced off approximately seven feet on the plush cream carpet. He placed his empty trash can on the spot. Then he strode back toward her to retrieve a small orange hoop, complete with a net, from a drawer in his desk.

Lauren shook her head at the satisfaction on his face as he crouched to attach it to the rim of the can. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing these silly games?”

“Nope,” he answered, without bothering to look up from his task. “I like to win.”

“You’ll probably end up with ulcers,” Lauren told him morosely, the thought prompted by another wave of nausea. “You’re much too competitive.”

Rafe slanted his secretary an amused glance. If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black, he didn’t know what was. Lauren was competitive, too. She just didn’t know it.

Not many other people would realize it at first glance either. She was definitely a girl who would have played with Barbies and tea sets with her mother, rather than sports with her dad. Everything about her was, well…sort of wimpy. She wore glasses that constantly slipped down the bridge of her small nose. The thick lenses gave her blue-gray eyes a slightly surprised look—like an anxious little mole, blinking in the sunshine. Her mouth was unremarkable, and her thin face and pale cheeks were framed by straight brown hair.

Her movements were precise, her attitude was prim. She didn’t talk about herself much, but Rafe knew her father had died when she was five or so. As a result, she wasn’t used to the rather crude way men could talk—never mind understanding the way they thought. Nor did she have even the slightest clue about the purpose, rules, or even the star players of the games men loved. Not football, hockey, baseball—not any game for that matter. Rafe had discovered that amazing fact barely a week after she started working for him. He’d mentioned Michael Jordan—who could grow up in Illinois and not know about Mike?—and been totally stunned when she’d asked in all sincerity if Jordan worked in the mail room.

Rafe had known right then and there that his new secretary needed help. She needed to get out more. She needed to quit being so serious all the time and so polite. To loosen up a little, build some confidence and learn to survive in the big city. Most of all, as part of his takeover team, she needed to develop some fighting spirit. And nothing was better for achieving all of those goals, Rafe knew, than a little healthy competition.

Hadn’t playing football and baseball kept him out of trouble when he was in high school? Major trouble, anyway. Hadn’t the boxing, the hand-to-hand fighting workouts—the all-night poker games—kept him sharp and aggressive, not to mention solvent, during his stint in the marines? Of course they had. And once he’d gotten his degree on a GI bill, hadn’t his ability to play the corporate game—not to let up on a deal until he had the terms he was after—eventually landed him this job with Kane Haley, Inc.? You’d better believe it.

So—being the great guy he was—he’d taken Lauren under his wing. Every couple months or so, he’d introduced her to a new game, to broaden her experience and help to de-wimp her. She’d learned about hockey by playing “mint hockey” on his desk, using a hard candy for the puck and pencils as their hockey sticks. For tennis, he’d strung up a tiny net of paper clips, and they’d batted a wad of paper back and forth. They’d tackled soccer, baseball—but his favorite game so far was trash-can basketball. Now there was a game that required skill.

Not that Lauren had any. Her depth perception was dismal and her coordination sucked. Still, he couldn’t help believing she had to have potential for something, he reflected as he pulled out the orange foam ball he’d stashed in a potted fern near the window. She was slim for her height of about five foot six or so, and had nice long legs. Her build at least looked athletic enough—until you put her to the test.

He tossed her the ball, then shook his head as she reached out awkwardly and fumbled the catch. Pathetic—simply pathetic.

But her lack of talent wouldn’t stop her from giving the contest her best shot, he knew. Lauren always balked at participating at first—she had completely outdated notions about correct behavior at work—but once he’d bullied, cajoled or tricked her into playing, her competitive nature would rise to the fore. She hated to lose, and entered each of the ridiculous contests with a fierce determination to win.

Rafe hid a slight grin. Already she was frowning over his placement of the basket, her slim brows drawing down over her eyes.

“Isn’t 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.