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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.
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 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?”
