The Makeover Takeover

by Sandra Paul

  Rafe stared into her icy, blue-gray gaze. Hell, yes, he had a problem! And if that wannabe Romeo didn’t quit flirting with her, he’d soon have a problem, too.

  He assumed his most earnest, solemn expression. “Yes, I’m afraid I do. You see, Lauren, this is a hockey game. Smiling at a player the way you just did—well, it makes him happy. And that weakens him—takes away his fighting edge. I thought you wanted the Blues to win, and now here you are, trying to jinx them.”

  “Stop it, Rafe,” she ordered. She averted her face, but he could see her lips quivering with the effort not to smile. “I know that can’t be true.”

  “Sure it is. If you really want to wish him luck—help him get the right attitude to play—then what you’re supposed to do is glare at him. Like this.”

  He gave a demonstration. Over the top of Lauren’s head, he sent the Blues player a look encoded with a silent message. Back off, Buddy. Or I’ll take that stick and wrap it around your throat. And that’s a promise.

  “I think it’s working,” Lauren said dryly from beside him. “He sure looks mad now.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the least I can do after you tried to take away his competitive edge.” Rafe tried to look modest. “Fair is fair, I always say. Now you try it.”

  He put an encouraging—and possessive—arm across her shoulders. He looked at the player again. See? In your dreams, pal. She’s mine. “Give him a glare,” he urged her, squeezing her shoulders in encouragement.

  She glared all right—but in the wrong direction.

  “Not at me,” Rafe said reproachfully. “I’m not playing hockey tonight. And now you’re too late. The anthem is starting.” He rose to his feet.

  When the anthem finished, the game began. The players hit the puck back and forth on the ice. They hit it in the air. Every fifteen minutes or so, they hit each other with their sticks—or threw the sticks aside to use their fists, punching and pounding. Sometimes even yanking on each other’s shirts.

  Lauren loved it.

  “They’re so—so barbaric,” she breathed, earning an amused look from Rafe.

  Her heart raced along with the Blues as they flew down the ice, pushing the puck ahead of them. She groaned as the menacing Blackhawks stole it back again, taking it the other way. She watched in awe as the row of teenage boys next to Rafe cheered wildly while consuming vast quantities of hot dogs, hamburgers and fries. She enjoyed the raucous music, the dramatic tones of the announcer, the close-ups of the crowds on the overhead monitors. She read each of the warnings on the electronic banner as they flowed past: Watch for Flying Pucks. Use Considerate Language. There was so much to see.

  It wasn’t until the first intermission when hordes of spectators scrambled to the concession stands that she remembered the Bentons.

  “They still aren’t here,” she pointed out to Rafe. “Do you think something happened?”

  He didn’t seem concerned. “If it did, Joe has my cellphone number. They probably just got held up.”

  Lauren was about to suggest that they try to call the couple themselves when the players glided back out onto the rink. Forgetting the Bentons, she tensed as the teenagers started whooping at a Blues player who’d immediately broken away from the pack. He skated frantically toward the net, herding the puck in front of him.

  Caught up in the excitement, Lauren desperately shouted, “Score!”—just after the player swung and missed.

  The word lingered in the air, falling into one of those odd pools of silence that sometimes happen in a crowd. Several pairs of eyes turned her way, and the hulking man behind her gave a massive snort. “Give it up, lady. Potocki couldn’t score with a hooker on a corner.”

  “Yes, he could!” Lauren responded loyally, then frowned, uncertain whether she’d defended her player or not.

  Rafe grinned at her dilemma, but he also glanced around to give the hulk a warning look. As he settled back into his chair, Rafe’s hand closed over hers. Picking it up, he held it snugly in his, atop his warm thigh.

  Lauren’s breath caught. Rafe seemed absorbed in the game. Maybe he didn’t realize he was holding her hand again. Probably he’d done it without thinking. Maybe he’d forgotten she was the one sitting next to him—and not Amy, Maureen or Nancy. Unobtrusively, she tried to slip her fingers from his grasp…

  His grip tightened.

  She turned and met his eyes. His dark gaze held a mocking gleam. His mouth curved upward in a small, knowing smile as he asked, “What’s wrong, Lauren?”

  It was another challenge. Just like their bet. And suddenly, it all became clear. Why the Bentons hadn’t shown up. Why he’d asked her to the game. As if he’d stated it bluntly, Lauren knew that if she pulled away, she’d be acknowledging that his touch affected her. That she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she’d told him she was.

  She smiled sweetly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  She stared at the ice, refusing to look in his direction. What did he think? That she was so susceptible to his charm that she wouldn’t be able to resist him? That just because he was holding her hand, she’d fling herself into his arms? How conceited could he get?

  She concentrated on the game. Chaos was erupting yet again. The players skated ever more frantically, graceful yet determined as they chased after their little black disk. Fans screamed at the top of their lungs, urging them on. The heavy man behind her thumped her seat yelling, “Go! Go! Go!” in a hoarse panting voice. The teenagers devised a more complicated chant punctuated with piercing whistles at spaced intervals.

  And yet, all Lauren could think about was her hand tucked into Rafe’s.

  Because now he wasn’t simply holding it; he was playing with her fingers. She was wearing a pearl ring—a gift from her mother—which he twisted absently back and forth while he watched the game.

  Lauren tried to watch it, too. But then Rafe linked his fingers between hers. He idly rubbed his thumb across her palm in a small circular motion. His thumb was slightly rough, abrasive against her soft skin. It almost tickled— but not quite.

  Lauren swallowed as a rush of heat crept from her toes to her cheeks. She’d never realized her palm was so sensitive. He stroked her again, pressing and rubbing. An excited, achy sensation bloomed between her thighs—at her most sensitive, feminine core.

  Shocked at her reaction, she jerked her hand out of his, panic propelling her to her feet.

  “Hey, lady, could you please sit down?” the fat man behind her bawled in exasperation. “There’s a game going on!”

  Automatically, she plopped back down. Rafe glanced at her. That small annoying smile curved his lips again.

  “I’m… hungry,” Lauren said defensively. She looked desperately around, and thankfully spotted a vendor near their aisle. Pointing at the pink plastic bag the man was waving about, she announced, “I want some of—of that.”

  “That” turned out to be cotton candy. Rafe bought her a bag and some peanuts for himself.

  Lauren tore open the plastic with trembling fingers. Okay, nothing to worry about here—just a small setback, easily overcome. She could resist Rafe. After all, she had on her Rebellious Red nail polish. All she needed to do was to keep her cool, not let him see that he was getting to her. At least for the moment he was no longer holding her hand. And now she had something else to think about: food.

  She pulled off a large wad of fluffy candy and stuffed it in her mouth. For a distressing second it just sat dryly on her tongue—like real cotton—then gradually began to melt.

  She tried to concentrate on the sweetness in her mouth, rather than the man calmly munching peanuts beside her. His clean, masculine scent seemed to entice her, inviting her to inhale deeply. His broad shoulder bumped hers companionably—and she fought the urge to lean her cheek against him.

  “Another offside. They need to keep their heads in the game.”

  “They sure do,” Lauren agreed—without the least idea of what he was talking about.

  She stole a glance at his fac
e, watching his mouth tilt up at the corner as he made another comment about the Blackhawks. Her gaze lifted to his eyes, and she became distracted by the thickness of his dark lashes. And his voice—she really liked his voice. The deep, husky sound of it sent shivers up her spine.

  She blinked when suddenly his gaze met hers.

  “Want some?” he asked, holding up his peanut bag. He poured a handful into her palm.

  Lauren clutched them in her fist, then ate them one at a time, afraid that if she wasn’t careful, she might choke. Her throat felt so tight. When she finished the nuts, she reached into her bag for another chunk of cotton candy. More to keep her hands busy—and out of danger—than because she was hungry.

  She pulled loose a sticky clump—and Rafe caught her wrist, lifting the pink tuft to his mouth. He bit down on the candy, tugging it from her fingers. He swallowed and smiled—a heavy-lidded smile that didn’t lighten the intense look in his eyes at all.

  Then his lips closed over her fingers. He sucked gently, making them tingle. Making her feel dazed.

  “Mmm, sweet,” he murmured, his breath flowing warmly against her skin. He nibbled his way down to her palm and licked her there. “And salty.”

  It was erotic—it was crazy. People were cheering and jeering all around them, yet Lauren felt as if she and Rafe were drifting in their own silent, sexy bubble.

  He turned her hand and kissed the delicate skin of her wrist, pressing his lips against her fluttering pulse. He nibbled his way to her fingers again, and took the tip of her little finger into his mouth. She could feel the sharp edge of his teeth against the sensitive pad, and then he circled it with his wet tongue. And obviously, her body was totally confused. Her nipples kept tightening, as if they were being rolled and sucked, scraped ever so lightly with his teeth.

  She held her breath as he sucked harder. His intent gaze, dark with smoldering passion, met hers as he bit down gently.

  Lauren gasped. The crowd roared. Rafe’s gaze flared with satisfaction—then flickered past her. He flung himself over her.

  His body was heavy and limp. Lauren stiffened in outrage beneath him. Now he’d gone too far! He was lying right on top of her—and this was a public place!

  Her face was buried against his shirt. She struggled to turn her head, her voice muffled as she demanded, “Rafe Mitchell, get off of me this instant!” She shoved at his shoulders.

  “Give ’im a break, lady!” The fat man bawled from behind her. “He saved you from that puck, didn’t he? I think it knocked ’im out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Rafe, I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You already told me that,” At least ten times, Rafe added silently, as they walked out to his car. And for the tenth time, he repeated, “And I keep telling you it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But I never should have shoved at you like that. I didn't know that you were unconscious—”

  “I was stunned, not unconscious.”

  “I thought that you were—”

  “I know. Putting a major move on you. You told me that, too. In front of the security staff in the first-aid room.”

  And, judging by their broad grins, the men had absolutely loved it. Rafe couldn’t blame them. It certainly didn’t say much for his seduction technique if Lauren couldn’t tell if he was making a move or if he was uncon— a little out of it.

  His jaw tightened, which made his head throb. He picked up his pace, his boots crunching on the icy asphalt as he strode along.

  Beside him, Lauren took a little skip to keep up, and slipped her hand through his arm. “Honestly Rafe, I really appreciate what you did.” She gave his bicep a grateful squeeze. Her voice was filled with admiration as she added, “And the people at the stadium were so-o-o-o impressed. They showed the whole thing on the overhead monitors, you know. Did you hear the way everyone applauded when you staggered to your feet?”

  “Yeah. I was a real hero. Stopping a puck with my head like that.” He felt like an idiot. He’d been so involved in kissing Lauren’s hand, so enthralled by her breathless response, the darkening passion in her eyes, that he hadn’t even seen the puck flying their way until it was almost too late. Instinctively, he’d tried to protect her, barely getting his hand up in time to deflect the puck a little—right to his temple.

  He sighed, rubbing the bump. Oh, well. At least it hadn’t hit Lauren. And he’d never have to see those thousands of people in the stadium again.

  They stopped beside his car. Rafe started to open the car door for her when Lauren held out her hand. “Here— give me your keys. I'm going to drive.”

  Rafe stared at her. Maybe that puck had hit her after all. Cuz she was talking crazy. “You’re not driving my Porsche.”

  She heaved a loud sigh of exasperation. Her hand remained extended, palm up. She wiggled her fingers demandingly. “Then I’m not getting in the car. You were just knocked—-”

  “Dazed.”

  “—out and you’re in no condition to drive. It isn’t safe.”

  Rafe tried to outstare her but her eyes didn’t waver. He inhaled impatiently. How could he argue about her safety? “Fine. Here.” He slapped the keys in her hand.

  They both got in. Rafe slumped down in the passenger seat, wincing as she ground the gears starting up. They’d only been driving a few minutes, when Lauren announced she was taking him to the hospital.

  Rafe had his gaze glued to the road to help her drive, but he glanced away for a brief second to frown at her. “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. You’ve been grimacing in pain for the last half mile.”

  “That’s because you keep riding the clutch! Would you please get your foot off it?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” She moved her foot. “But I still think you should go to the hospital.”

  He glared at her. “Well, I don’t.”

  After that, Lauren remained silent. Several minutes later, she parked the car in front of her place and got out, still without speaking. Snow sparkled in the moonlight and stars twinkled overhead. The scent of smoke from a nearby fireplace drifted in the air as they climbed the stairs to her apartment. She unlocked the door and went inside, Rafe following at her heels. She shut the door firmly behind him and immediately began helping him remove his jacket, sliding it down his arms.

  His brows rose in surprise. This was a change. He’d expected her to try to hustle him out the door, not to start undressing him. “Lauren?”

  Ignoring him, she whipped his coat off and turned to hang it in the closet. “Go into the living room and sit down,” she ordered over her shoulder. “I need to turn the heat up in here, then I’ll get some ice for that bump. It’s the least I can do since you saved my life.”

  Rafe drew a deep breath, striving for patience. He couldn’t believe she was making such a fuss. His foster mothers’ attitudes had always been pretty much “if someone’s not dead, don’t bother me.” In the marines, you didn’t hold up your troop with minor injuries. But Lauren always had been a softie. He shook his head at her.

  “I didn’t save your life and I don’t need any ice. My head’s fine.”

  “It is, is it?” She turned to face him and crossed her arms, resting her shoulder against the doorjamb. “If it’s so fine, then why did you let me drive your precious car?”

  His mouth opened, then closed. He wanted to answer her, but damned if he could think of a good reason. “Because you ordered me to give you the keys!” he said finally.

  “That was a test. To see how you’d react. You never would have let me drive if you felt one hundred percent okay. Now go sit down while I take off my coat and get out of these shoes. They’re wet.”

  A test, huh? Kind of like his test—when he’d kissed her hand at the game to see what her reaction would be. Remembering how her eyes had dilated with passion, his voice thickened. “Lauren—”

  She pointed toward the living room. “Sit!”

  He watched her disappear into the hallway, then stalked o
ver to the chair next to her couch and sat down. He didn’t want ice; he wanted to get on with her seduction. He folded his arms, stretched out his legs and stared moodily at his feet. His shoes were wet, too. And there was a sticky orange stain on one of the toes. He squinted, trying to figure out what it could be. Soda pop, probably, he decided. He vaguely remembered kicking one of the teenagers’ cups as he’d thrown himself over Lauren.

  He lifted a hand to rub his forehead. Now that he was sitting Still, he realized his head was still throbbing—just a little. His hand hurt, too, on his right palm—probably where the puck had struck it.

  He lowered his hand as Lauren came back into the room. She’d removed her coat and shoes, but was still wearing her fuzzy blue sweater and jeans. Thick red socks were on her feet. She padded past him into the kitchen. “I’m going to get that ice. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.” He didn’t want the ice either, but decided not to tell her that again and start another argument. Fighting with her wasn’t part of his plan.

  He looked toward the kitchen, narrowing his eyes against the bright light from her table lamp. He could hear water running, the refrigerator door open and close. A few minutes later, she came walking out with an ice bag in her hand. She paused by the lamp and dimmed it.

  She must have seen the surprise on his face because she said, “The glare looked like it was bothering you.”

  Rafe felt the muscles around his eyes relax and realized she’d been right. She came around the chair to stand behind him, and gently placed the bag against his temple.

  He flinched, more in reaction to the cold than pain.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No.” He liked the concern in her voice. Maybe he’d been going about this seduction stuff the wrong way, he thought, relaxing a little. After all, he was in Lauren’s apartment—alone with her—and she wanted to take care of him. Why not accept a little TLC?

  He leaned his head back but the chair was too low to support his neck, so he straightened again.