Читать книгу The Makeover Takeover - Sandra Paul, Sandra Paul - Страница 11

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.

Lauren looked up. A blond woman was standing at the open doors, staring at Rafe with delight.

His crooked grin appeared. “Well, hello, Nancy,” he drawled.

The blonde slid into the elevator and immediately slunk up next to Rafe. Like a snake, Lauren decided. A busty one.

So this was the Nancy she was supposed to buy a present for.

Lauren faced forward as the door closed. Beside her, Rafe and the woman exchanged pleasantries as “Jingle Bells” ended and “White Christmas” began. Trying to avoid looking in the mirrors surrounding her, Lauren glanced up at the overhead lights, then down at her unvarnished nails. But finally she gave in. She might as well be invisible, she thought, staring at their reflections in the mirrored door.

Rafe stood next to her, but he wasn’t looking at her; not at all. He’d fixed his entire attention on the woman on his other side—and the blonde’s was fixed entirely on him.

Which, of course, was no surprise in either case. The woman looked beautiful in her expensive blue suit, fitted within an inch of her life. Flimsy-looking heels showcased her tiny feet, and a fur hung over her arm. Sleek, sophisticated, she had at least ten years on Lauren’s twenty-four and radiated the confidence those years had obviously given her. And as for Rafe…

Lauren studied him, noting how his crisp white shirt made his hair and eyes look even darker. How the tailored lines of his charcoal suit contrasted sharply with his rugged face. He smiled briefly at the newcomer and his straight teeth gleamed. Beguiling creases appeared in his lean cheeks.

Rafe looked…just fine, too.

Lauren looked away from him to stare woodenly ahead at her own image. With her frumpy cloth coat, striped scarf, and serviceable low pumps—and her long brown hair hanging down in a tangle around her glasses—she looked like a stump. A furry, brown one.

“What are you doing in this area of town?” Rafe was asking Nancy.

“I had an appointment with my accountant on the fourteenth floor and thought I’d stop by your office to see if you wanted to have lunch. I haven’t heard from you for a while,” the woman murmured in a chiding tone, looking up at him from beneath long lashes.

Ooh, bad move, Lauren thought. Rafe didn’t encourage his dates to visit him at the office. It made them territorial, he’d once told Lauren. Sure enough, the expression in his eyes cooled. But he answered pleasantly enough, “Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy at work.”

The blonde pressed again. “You still have my number, don’t you?” She reached out and lightly touched his arm.

Rafe lifted a brow. “It’s on my speed dial,” he assured her.

Lauren tried to turn her sudden snort into the semblance of a cough. “Sorry,” she mumbled, as they both glanced at her in the mirror.

Rafe’s gaze met hers. She quickly looked away as his eyes narrowed a little, but could feel his gaze still on her.

“This is my secretary,” he announced suddenly, as if he’d just remembered she was in the elevator, too. He put his arm around Lauren’s shoulders to turn her toward them. “I think you’ve spoken with her on the phone. Lauren, Nancy. Nance—Lauren.”

Lauren politely stuck out her hand. The blonde had reluctantly grasped it, when Rafe added, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass on lunch today. I’m taking Lauren home. She’s been sick—vomiting and all that.”

Heat swept up Lauren’s face as the other woman snatched her hand away. Nancy stepped back, glanced around the mirrored box as if looking for a way out, then jabbed at the panel.

The elevator jolted to a stop. “I need to—ah, get out here,” the blonde said, edging around Lauren. With a final, “See you, Rafe. Call me!” she disappeared down the hall.

Rafe pushed a button. The doors slid shut again. A distressingly upbeat version of “Sleigh Ride” came on. Lauren glared at Rafe’s pseudo-innocent look in the mirror, and her hands clenched by her sides. “I’d appreciate it,” she said icily, “if you wouldn’t use me as some kind of blonde repellent.”

His eyes crinkled in amusement, but his tone was reproachful as he asked, “Now would I do something like that?”

“Yes!” Annoyed with his antics, Lauren turned toward the panel. “And I have better things to do than to fool around, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to the office and—”

He caught her hand to prevent her pushing the button just as the elevator shuddered to another stop. The doors slid open on the street level. Rafe latched on to her arm. He marched her through the lobby and out of the main entrance into the crisp December air.

Horns blared, traffic roared by on the busy street in front of them. A Salvation Army Santa rang his bell with incessant cheerfulness in front of the building next door, making Lauren wince. Rafe paused on the sidewalk a moment to tug her scarf up over her ears, pushing her hands aside when she tried to stop him. Then, satisfied with his efforts at keeping her warm, he took her arm again, urging her toward the parking structure.

Lauren’s feet slipped a little on the icy pavement. His grip on her arm tightened to steady her.

“You should have worn your boots,” he murmured, glancing disapprovingly at her low heels.

Lauren spat out her scarf and raised her chin as far as possible to tell him, “You didn’t give me the chance! They’re under my desk.” If that wasn’t just like the man, she fumed, retreating back into the wool as the cold Chicago wind nipped her nose. To blame her when he was the one at fault….

He caught her hand as she slid again, and wrapped his other arm around her waist. Tucking her under his shoulder, he almost carried her across the frozen sidewalk. “And what about your gloves?” He raised his brows and gently squeezed her cold fingers with his warm ones for emphasize. “Are those at your desk, too?”

Lauren pressed her lips together. He knew they weren’t; he’d scolded her for not wearing them when she’d come in that morning. So she decided not to answer that question, concentrating instead on trying to keep her balance.

When they reached his sleek black car, she did try to tell him once again that she could get home without his help, but he ignored her, unlocking the door to stuff her gently but firmly inside.

Knowing there was no changing his mind, Lauren crossed her arms and watched the city roll past the window. When he slid a disk into his CD player, she gave him a sidelong glance. Music pulsed from his speakers, a heavy rock song, and he tapped on the steering wheel to the beat.

Her eyes lingered for a moment on his hands, following the movement of his long fingers. Her gaze slid up to his face, following the sharp angle of his jaw up his cheekbone to his eyes. His dark lashes half shielded his gaze, which were fixed on the road ahead as he cut through traffic. As always, he looked completely confident, sure of where he was going and what he wanted.

She knew she didn’t need to give him directions to her apartment. After all, Rafe was the one who’d found it for her. A short time after she became his secretary he’d condemned her first place sight unseen as being in a “dangerous” area. He’d then recommended her present address which he considered much safer; Rafe had grown up in the city, and he knew his Chicago. The rent for the converted Victorian was a little more than Lauren had wanted to spend, but after listening to his horror stories about her first location for an entire week, she’d ended up plunking down the money with a minimum of fuss.

Obviously pleased with his victory, Rafe had helped her move. But then he hadn’t come around again until the Christmas season, when he’d turned up on her doorstep with a tree for her. He’d arrived with one last year, too, and Lauren wondered if he planned to do the same this Christmas. She was trying to think of a polite way to ask—without making it sound as if she expected him to buy her a tree—when they pulled up before her building.

Lauren sighed in relief, thankful the short drive was over. Now he could get back to work. She turned to him as she opened her door. “I really appreciate—”

“You sit right there,” he ordered, switching off the engine. “I’m taking you up.”

The house had been divided into four apartments; Lauren’s was one of two on the second story. As they climbed the outside stairs that had been added to provide a separate entrance, she worriedly tried to remember if she’d straightened up that morning—or if she’d left the place a mess. Probably, the latter, she thought gloomily. She hadn’t felt very well this morning, or last night either for that matter.

She paused on the landing with her key in hand, hoping to head Rafe off. “Thank you for—”

“Here, give me that,” he interrupted, removing the key from her grasp. In less than five seconds he’d opened the door, nudged her inside, and followed right behind her.

Lauren entered reluctantly. Her gaze darted around as she struggled to remove the wool tourniquet Rafe had tied around her neck. The apartment had an open design with the kitchen, dining and living rooms all combined into one big living area. The place didn’t look too bad, she decided, glancing toward the kitchen. She’d left a couple of cupboard doors open and her breakfast dishes were in the sink, but no big deal.

Relieved, she looked up at Rafe to try to thank him again, and caught him staring at her folded laundry, piled on a nearby chair. Right on top of the pile was her white cotton, size 34A bra.

A hot flush crept up her face. Lauren sidled over to the chair, intending to tuck her bra beneath her other clothes. But just as she picked it up, Rafe took off again.

“Where’s your thermostat?” he asked, striding across the living room. “It’s in the hall, isn’t it? Let’s get the heat up in here.”

He disappeared down her hallway, and Lauren hurried after him. She caught up with him by the thermostat located next to her bedroom door—her open bedroom door. Lauren groaned as she glanced inside. Her bed was unmade, her flannel nightgown was thrown across the sheets and her underwear was on the floor.

She yanked the door closed, blocking Rafe’s view of the rumpled bed and the rest of the messy room.

He didn’t seem to notice. He adjusted her thermostat to his satisfaction and turned to go back into the living room. Lauren followed, noting in relief that he was finally heading to the door.

He waited in her tiny foyer for her to catch up. When she reached his side, Lauren took a deep breath to restore her composure, and said in as calm a voice as she could manage, “Thank you for driving me home.”

“You’re welcome,” he responded, his tone as solemn as hers. “Do you want to go to bed?”

Lauren gasped, her startled gaze flying to meet his. “No! I mean, yes. I mean—I’ll do that—just as soon as you leave.”

Unholy amusement lit his dark eyes. Lauren’s face burned hotter than ever. Of course he hadn’t meant the question the way that it had sounded. As if he was planning to go to bed with her. What was wrong with her today?

Instinctively, she lifted her hands to cover her red cheeks, then yanked them down again as she realized she was still holding her bra. She whipped it behind her back again, shutting her eyes in embarrassment. Rafe would tease the life out of her now—he loved to tease every chance he got—and, heaven knew, she’d just given him plenty of ammunition. She lifted her lashes and stared up at him in dread, waiting mutely for him to start.

But he didn’t. Maybe it was the apprehension on her face or maybe he took pity on her because he thought she had the flu. Maybe he simply remembered Mr. Haley was probably waiting back at the office.

Whatever the reason, Rafe merely told her, “Well, I’m leaving now, so go climb in between the sheets.”

He reached for the doorknob, then paused. He turned back to face her and tilted up her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “And forget about coming into work on Monday if you still feel sick. That’s an order, Lauren.”

He released her and left. Lauren bolted the door behind him and sagged against it in relief, her skin still tingling from his touch.

Rafe was still chuckling to himself as he strode down the hall to his office. He’d never seen Lauren so flustered. What a kick she could be sometimes, getting all upset and embarrassed simply because she’d left a bra out. Did she think he’d never seen one before?

He forgot about Lauren’s amusing modesty, though, when he entered his office to find the president of the firm waiting. Kane Haley was sitting on the edge of Rafe’s desk, his broad shoulders hunched as he frowned down at a paper in his hand.

Rafe shrugged out of his overcoat, tossing it on the rack by the door, then moved forward to greet the other man. “Kane—have you been waiting long? Didn’t you get my message?”

“That’s why I waited,” his boss replied, rising to his feet. “How’s Lauren?”

“Lauren?” Rafe shrugged, faintly surprised by the question. “She’s sick, as I said.”

Kane looked back down at the paper, and Rafe realized it was his own scrawled message that the other man was holding. “You say here,” Kane said, “that she has a stomachache.”

“She does.” Surely Kane didn’t think Lauren had lied simply to go home early? “She wasn’t faking, if that’s what you think.”

“I don’t.” Kane dropped the slip of paper down on the desk. He paced to the window—skirting the trash can that Rafe had left in the middle of the carpet—and stood silently for a long moment, looking out at the view. Then he drew a deep breath, and turned, meeting Rafe’s eyes.

“What I think,” Kane said slowly, “is that Lauren might be pregnant.”