The Makeover Takeover Page 3

  “Nothing. Or maybe everything.” Kane ran his hand wearily through his dark hair. “You see, after Bill called to tell me his wife was pregnant, I contacted the clinic to have my own donation un-donated, so to speak, only to find out it was too late. It seems the clinic goofed—big-time. My donation has already been used, and by a woman at this firm. Someone on the clinic staff saw Kane Haley, Inc., on her insurance form and thought my sperm was being requested.”

  Rafe could feel the back of his neck prickle as the short hairs there literally stood on end. “Holy sh—”

  “—exactly," Kane said grimly. “And now the clinic is refusing to tell me who the woman is, citing a lot of legalese about her right to privacy—never mind my right to know who’s bearing my child. Anyway, I’m lining up a lawyer to get to the bottom of things, but until then… well, to be truthful, it’s been hell. Have you ever noticed how many women work at this firm?”

  Rafe started to nod.

  “How many fertile women there are out there?”

  Rafe changed his nod to a negative shake. That was the last thing he’d ever thought about. Kids weren’t on his agenda at all.

  He stood there silently as Kane rose and paced restlessly, skirting the trash can each time he passed. Kane added, “Every time one of the women around here puts on weight, or gets emotional—or complains of a stomachache—well, I can’t help but wonder…”

  “…if she’s the one,” Rafe concluded.

  He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Whoa. Talk about a good deed coming back to bite you on the butt. He glanced at Kane’s haggard expression and silently shook his head. A situation like this would be hard on anyone, but it must be especially hard for a guy like Kane who obviously took his responsibilities seriously. Even, it seemed, his responsibility to a child he hadn’t planned to help create.

  But he doubted Kane would have much success in his search. “I think you’re wasting your time,” he warned him. “You’ll probably never find her if she doesn’t want to be found. And even if you do, she might not welcome your interference—especially if she’s married.”

  “What if she isn’t married? What if she’s going to try to raise the kid—my kid—on her own, and she needs help? Or the child does? I can’t just walk away and pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  Rafe didn’t know what to say about that, but he could set his boss’s mind at ease on one point. He’d bet his— hell, he’d bet his Porsche—that his secretary wasn’t the woman carrying that child. The tight feeling in his chest eased. “It’s not Lauren,” he said bluntly.

  Kane swung around. “How do you know? Unless…” He slanted Rafe a considering glance. “Are you dating her?”

  “No, of course not,” Rafe said, surprised by the question. “She’s a nice girl, but not the kind of woman I’d ever get involved with.”

  Kane still didn’t seem convinced. “You’re pretty protective of her.”

  “I’m not protective—not personally, anyway,” Rafe told him, growing slightly annoyed. Couldn’t a guy be concerned about a woman—about his own secretary— without people getting the wrong impression?

  Apparently not, since Kane still looked skeptical. So Rafe explained, “It’s just that her mother died soon after Lauren moved here—and she’d never lived on her own before. And Lauren’s, well, she’s sweet and kind of naive. Besides,” he added, warming to his subject, “simply because I object to the thought of an older, experienced man taking advantage of an unsophisticated younger woman doesn’t mean— What?” he demanded, as a smile crossed Kane’s face. “Did I say something funny?”

  “Not at all,” Kane drawled, not bothering to hide his amusement. “But you must admit, coming from you…”

  “What do you mean, coming from me?” Rafe frowned. “The women I get involved with all know the score upfront.” He always made sure of that. No way did he want there to be any misunderstandings later on down the road.

  “If you’re not involved with Lauren, than how can you be so sure she’s not pregnant?” Kane demanded, his expression turning serious again.

  “Because Lauren isn’t the kind of woman to go it alone—to try to raise a child without a father,” Rafe replied, complete certainty in his voice. “Hell, Kane, I’ve worked with the woman almost every day for three years. She’s as traditional as they come. If she wanted a baby, she’d get married first.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t head to a sperm bank to get the job done. She grew up without a father. We talked once about how difficult that can be on a child.” At least, Lauren had talked about it. Remembering a couple of the heavy-handed foster fathers he’d lived with after his own mother had died when he was twelve, Rafe hadn’t been quite as convinced.

  But the firmness of his tone apparently convinced Kane that Lauren wasn’t the woman he was searching for. Kane let the subject drop, and they moved onto a discussion about the latest takeover Rafe was orchestrating. It was clear, however, that Kane’s mind wasn’t on business, and soon Rafe suggested that they postpone the discussion until Lauren’s return. Since it was Lauren’s job to gather the numbers and analyze the data, they would save time if they waited for her.

  Kane readily agreed. “We’ll set up another meeting then,” he said, rising to his feet. “When will she be back?”

  “Probably Monday. From what I hear this bug doesn’t last long,” Rafe said deliberately, wanting to stress again that Lauren wasn’t the sperm bank bandit Kane was searching for.

  Kane studied him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Are you sure—”

  “I am.”

  With a final nod of acknowledgment, Kane left the office, closing the door behind him.

  Rafe walked over and sat behind his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at that closed door a while, filled with profound sympathy for the man—and equally profound thankfulness that he wasn’t in Kane’s shoes. He wondered what Kane planned to do if he ever found the woman and discovered that she did need help. Offer to support the kid? Maybe even marry her? Nah, Kane wasn’t that crazy.

  Catching sight of the message slip Kane had left on his desk, Rafe absently wadded it into a ball and tossed it toward the abandoned trash can. The paper sank without touching the rim. Not that he had anything against marriage. Not at all, Rafe thought, reaching for another scrap. He crumpled that up, too. Marriage was fine for other people. He supposed a wife could be an asset to a man’s career. Especially a rich, well-born, attractive wife with plenty of connections, a category that Maureen, Amy or Nancy all fit into nicely.

  But he personally had no intention of taking such a drastic step. He took aim at the can again. So he made sure to keep his pistol holstered for the most part, and, at the least, to put a silencer on before he shot. He certainly wasn’t going to be trapped by one of his bullets going astray, as Kane’s had done.

  The second paper ball followed the first. Another clean shot, nothing but net.

  Rafe frowned as he considered the matter. How could the clinic make a mistake? What if some woman had learned about Kane’s “contribution” and asked for his sperm on purpose? After all, Kane was a rich and powerful man, and women had been using pregnancy for ages to trap men into proposing.

  If so, then Lauren was definitely out of the running, he decided. He wasn’t sure he’d convinced Kane, but Rafe had no doubts at all on the matter. He knew the woman—hell, he knew her better than anyone. They’d talked quite a bit over the years; were pretty good friends, as well as boss and secretary. She would never do something like that. It just wasn’t in her makeup to chase after a man. Lauren would never try to trap a guy into marriage.

  Still, he could understand why Kane might have suspected her of wanting a baby. When one of the women had brought her newborn into the office a few weeks ago, Lauren’s face had lit up like a kid’s at Christmas. She’d fussed and cooed over the little one, and had even held it for a while—a rather risky move, in Rafe’s opinion. Not only wa
s the kid alarmingly tiny, it spit up more than a fountain in the park.

  But Lauren hadn’t minded. Yeah, there was something—not maternal exactly—but definitely nurturing about his secretary. A slight smile curved his lips, and he leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk. Hell, she even worried about him at times—that he was working too hard or might be tired. There was a kindness, a gentle way about Lauren, that made her seem like the sort of woman who should have a bunch of kids around her knees. Pulling at her with sticky little hands. Clamoring for attention.

  Rafe grimaced. Talk about a nightmare. But Lauren would handle it—revel in it probably. No doubt she would have a baby some day—far, far in the future. But now? No way. As he’d told Kane, she didn’t even date. Whenever he asked her to work late, she never had a moment’s hesitation in complying. Besides, they’d been so busy lately, she wouldn’t have had time to meet a man, even if she wanted to.

  Although… Rafe frowned, lowering his feet and straightening up again… although it appeared she had met one guy at least. This Jay Leonardo person. Her neighbor.

  He shrugged that off. Just because the guy gave her a ride to work, didn’t mean she’d gone out with him. Surely she would have mentioned it if she had.

  Restlessly, he looked around for one more paper to throw before he settled down to work. Since his desk was clear except for Lauren’s notepad, he pulled that closer to tear off a sheet. But when he turned the pad over, he realized she’d made some kind of list on it. That figured; Lauren was always making lists. More than once he’d watched her tick off the items she’d compiled, smug satisfaction on her face as she made each mark.

  To his amusement, he saw that this time she’d doodled little pictures next to each of the reminders she’d written down. In her small, compressed handwriting she’d written: Take gifts to women’s shelter. Boxed presents were next to that one, each adorned with an elaborate bow.

  Number two was Buy decorations for company Christmas party, surrounded by round balls he took to be ornaments.

  The third item didn’t appear to make much sense. Don’t forget the… he squinted, trying to make the last two words out… Barbie bottoms? He didn’t think so. Booby battles? Nope. He was pretty sure it wasn’t that either.

  The doodle beside it proved equally confusing, so his gaze dropped to number four on the list. Buy a special present for Jay. Rafe stared at the happy face beaming beside the words, and his amusement faded. So she was buying presents for the guy, was she? His eyes narrowed. Then she probably was dating him, after all.

  His eyes narrowed even more as he scanned the final item, the one she’d scribbled down before playing basketball. Buy presents for Rafe’s women. What did she mean by that? he thought, irritated by her phrasing. They weren’t his women—not specifically, anyway. What did she think he was? Some kind of sheik or something? He might like to play the field, but he wasn’t stupid enough to put too many players in the game at once. All three women were just friends and nothing more. At least, so far.

  And what had she drawn next to the words? He turned the pad this way and that, then picked it up and held it closer, trying to make out the tiny picture. A cowboy with a lasso? Santa with a whip? He stiffened as he realized there were horns on Santa’s head. She’d drawn a devil, dammit, with its tail curling around to the front. Ending up in a place no tail had any business to be!

  He leaned back, slightly stunned, unable to take his eyes off the offensive little stick figure cavorting in the margin. What the hell was this all about? he wondered, his annoyance growing even stronger. Okay, maybe he had virtually forced her to agree to buy the women gifts—but that didn’t make him Satan, for heaven’s sake! Never would he have believed Lauren could—would—draw something so downright graphic.

  But since she had, that made booby battles a definite possibility, he decided, his gaze returning to number three. Both indecipherable words definitely began with B and— Ah, yes! The squiggle next to them was a bottle. Now he had it! Don’t forget the Barbie bottles. What the…? Damn. That still didn’t make any sense.

  He studied the words once more. Suddenly, his stomach turned, as if the flu bug scurrying around the office had just attacked with a vengeance. That first word wasn’t Barbie but… baby. His jaw tightened as he read the sentence again.

  Don’t forget the baby bottles.

  By six that evening, Lauren was feeling much better. The thick, chalky pink medicine she’d forced down had soothed her upset stomach, and a long afternoon nap had done much to soothe her upset nerves.

  She even felt well enough when she awoke to straighten the apartment. Once that chore was finished, she took a long hot shower then donned a comfortable sweat suit and slippers to lounge around in.

  Feeling clean and cozy, she wandered into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, sipping it as she stared out the kitchen window. Dusk had already fallen, and lights from nearby houses gleamed through the barren trees and darkness. The view blurred as steam condensed on her glasses. Slipping them off, Lauren laid them on the counter, then realized the window was hazy, too.

  She set down her cup. Leaning forward, she reached out to draw a Christmas tree in the mist. The freezing cold pane burned then numbed her fingertip. Outside, snowflakes pelted against the glass in a brief, desperate flurry. But inside her apartment she was warm and safe… and alone.

  Her hand dropped. Lauren stared at her drawing as it slowly disappeared into the mist again. She liked being alone, she told herself. She was used to it. Even as a child, she’d been something of an introvert—my little dreamer, her mother used to call her. She’d always felt more content with her books, her own thoughts and daydreams, than hanging out with a crowd.

  Of course, she hadn’t been completely alone then; she’d had her mother. Most people had at least some family— parents, siblings, even an aunt or an uncle, or two. Or they were married by her age. Sharon Davies in accounting was only a year older, and she’d recently married a handsome widower. Jennifer Holder was near her age, and she’d recently tied the knot, too, and already had a baby. Most of the other single women at work at least had a lover. She had no one.

  But just because a person was alone didn’t mean that they were lonely, she reminded herself. She straightened her shoulders and picked up her cup. Take Rafe, for instance. Like her, he’d lost both parents, although he’d lost them much, much younger than she had. Rafe wasn’t married either—and he liked it that way. Not that anyone could ever call him an introvert. He enjoyed women—lots of women.

  She sipped her tea, the taste warm and bitter on her tongue, as she wondered who he’d be taking out that night. She'd never met the other two women he was currently dating. Still, judging by Nancy—and from the women he’d dated in the past—Lauren had a pretty fair idea of what they must be like.

  For one thing, they were probably older than she was. Rafe preferred dating women who were near his own age of thirty-two, or even a little older. Most likely they’d be wealthy, and she had no doubt at all that, again like Nancy, they’d be beautiful. Not pretty or cute, but striking, with the polished, sleek appearance of women who had unlimited time and money to spend enhancing their looks.

  What would it feel like, Lauren mused, to look like that? To know that when you entered a room, men’s heads turned? She sighed, turning on the tap to clean out her cup. She couldn’t even imagine it. Men just never responded to her that way. Most of the men she knew treated her like a pal, a buddy, a little sister. Or even a generic mixture of all three. The way Rafe did.

  No, Rafe wasn’t aware of her as a woman at all. She rinsed the cup slowly, letting the warm water flow over her cold fingers. So how could she have thought—even for a second—that he was asking her to sleep with him? Wincing in remembered embarrassment, she turned off the tap and set the cup on the drainer. Still, there was no sense worrying about it, she decided in an effort to comfort herself as she dried off her hands. She was sure he’d forgotten all about
the incident—forgotten all about her—as soon as he got back to the office. Probably before he’d even reached his car.

  She threw the towel down on the counter. So what if he had? And why was she thinking about him anyway? Probably he hadn’t gone on a date at all, but had headed to the gym. Rafe was always up for a game of racquetball to release some of his energy.

  Feeling restless herself suddenly, she headed into the living area. This room was her favorite all year round, but she especially liked it during the holidays since it looked so very Christmasy. Forest-green rugs were scattered on the gleaming hardwood floors, and she’d positioned her overstuffed burgundy couches to face each other in front of the small hearth, where a fire burned cheerily. She walked over to one of the couches. Pushing aside the teddy bear reposing in her favorite spot, she sat down and picked up her knitting.

  She realized she’d left her glasses in the kitchen. Oh, well. She could see well enough to work. She began knitting, determined to get over the faint depression that had been plaguing her lately, the soft click and glide of the silver needles providing a familiar accompaniment to her thoughts. She needed to quit thinking about Rafe—about work—so much, and get her mind on other things, she decided. Things she enjoyed. Like reading. And knitting. She smiled wryly. Although making a sweater for her boss probably wasn’t the best way to get him out of her mind. Especially since Rafe wouldn’t like it if he knew how much work she’d put into it.

  Rafe didn’t like getting gifts, especially anything he considered too personal. Still, Lauren had decided to make him the sweater anyway. She'd made him a scarf last year, and he’d been okay with that. Besides, she enjoyed knitting and had no idea what else to get him for a Christmas gift.

  So she’d indulged herself by choosing a merino lamb’s wool in a deep, rich chocolate color to match his eyes. And she’d selected a fisherman stitch to challenge her skill. She held the garment up to judge her progress, pleased to notice that she only had a few inches left to complete. She should have it done in plenty of time for Christmas. He didn’t have to know she’d made it, how many months it had taken her, she decided. Nor how expensive the yam had been. She would just let him assume she’d bought it somewhere, and—