Читать книгу The Makeover Takeover - Sandra Paul, Sandra Paul - Страница 10

“C’mon, Lauren.”

“No.”

“Why not? We have plenty of time….”

“No, we do not.” Sitting stiffly erect in her chair, Lauren Connor carefully avoided meeting her boss’s eyes across the wide expanse of his oak desk. Focusing on the slice of the Chicago skyline visible in the window beyond his broad shoulder, she added, “Mr. Haley might be here at any moment and the last thing I want is for the head of the company to catch us fooling around.”

“He’s not due for at least another thirty minutes—”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty then. That’s time enough.” Rafe Mitchell studied his secretary’s unrelenting expression, then coaxed, “C’mon, Lauren, it’ll help me relax. This Bartlett deal is really stressing me out.”

Unable to stop herself, Lauren stole a glance at his face. His dark eyes met hers, and her stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the nausea that had been plaguing her all morning. Breaking away from that intent stare, she pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and let her gaze wander over him, trying to assess the truth of his claim.

He certainly didn’t look stressed. As usual, he was leaning back in his chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him and his hands thrust into the pockets of his custom-tailored gray suit. But maybe he was feeling the pressure. No one knew better than she how stressful working at the accounting firm of Kane Haley, Inc., could be, and heaven knew, as Vice-President of Mergers and Acquisitions, Rafe had more than his share of challenges.

On the other hand, no one else knew better than she did how good Rafe was at getting his own way. Even the absurdly hopeful expression he’d donned couldn’t hide the stubborn determination indelibly marked in the hard lines of his face. Rafe Mitchell was tough, and he looked it—from the tight, muscular build of his six-foot-tall body to the shrewd, cynical intelligence gleaming in his dark-brown eyes.

Catching a glimpse of amusement in their depths, Lauren’s spine stiffened even more. “Well, it doesn’t relax me,” she said, trying to make her soft voice sound firm and implacable. “All I end up with is a lot of frustration.”

“That won’t happen this time—I promise,” Rafe said quickly.

She looked at her notepad, pushing her glasses back up as they slipped down her nose again. She doodled on the paper, pretending to add more items to the list she’d made.

“I’ll even let you go first.”

Her pen faltered. To her inner disgust, Lauren could feel herself weakening. She bit her lip, trying not to give in.

His deep voice turned husky with persuasion. “Please, Laurie…”

The last of her resolution crumbled. In the three years she’d worked for Rafe, she never had been able to resist that half-demanding, half-coaxing tone—so why did she think today would be any different? Especially when she wasn’t feeling well enough to deal with him.

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.

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.