Sandra Paul - The Makeover Takeover

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.

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 reaching for her bag.

He relinquished it, but turned her this way and that as he hooked her arms into her coat and tugged it up her shoulders. Then, taking her arm in a firm grasp, he steered her down the hall toward the elevators.

“Rafe—wait! I’m better now,” Lauren told him, trying to dig in her heels.

“Glad to hear it,” he replied, but kept walking, pulling her along with him.

When they reached the elevator, he still didn’t give her a chance to argue, pushing the button and pulling her inside before she could think of a way to convince him she was all right.

The doors closed and he turned to face her. “You’re white as a ghost, Lauren.” Ignoring her protests, he slung the scarf around her neck. He wrapped it around and around to the mellow rendition of “Jingle Bells” seeping from the elevator speakers. “I’m taking you home. I don’t want you driving yourself.”

Lauren pulled down the wool folds stacked up over her nose. “But there’s no need! Mr. Haley—”

“Will understand. I left him a message explaining that you weren’t feeling well. Since it’s Friday, you’ll have the entire weekend to rest up.”

Lauren opened her mouth to protest again, then shut it as she glanced at Rafe’s face. His tone sounded pleasant enough, but the look in his eyes told her he meant what he said.

Lauren sighed, subsiding back into her scarf. She’d seen that look before, whenever he was working on a deal. Rafe was determined to get his way, and any argument she made would simply be a waste of breath.

She decided to try anyway. “I can take a taxi. Or the bus. Or maybe Jay will give me a ride home.”

He glanced down at her, raising his brows in question. “Who’s Jay?”

“Jay Leonardo, the neighbor who drove me in this morning.”

“What’s wrong with your car?” he asked, as the elevator lurched to a stop at the fourteenth floor. The mirrored doors slid open for another passenger.

“I’m not sure,” Lauren told him. “It was slow starting and Jay offered—”

“Why, hello Rafe,” a sultry voice interrupted.