The Makeover Takeover. Sandra Paul

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.”

      Chapter Three

      “Pregnant?”