The Commitment (10 page)

Why was it, she silently fumed, that men could come to these things without changing from their business suits? For some insane reason women were expected in "cocktail" wear. The temperature was in the low twenties and dropping with a wind chill designed to freeze an Eskimo and here she was in her ridiculous strappy little heels, her ridiculous strappy red dress, and her ridiculous strappy hairdo. She felt ridiculous.

Why had she let Drake chose her clothes for tonight?

With as much dignity as she could muster in the tight dress, Miranda tottered to the Ladies Room. Before engaging the enemy she may as well refresh the fire-engine red lipstick that matched the dress.

At least the restroom was quiet. An older woman in a well-cut blue evening suit sat at the far end of the mirrored counter.

The plan was all Miranda's idea, well mostly. She and Drake had decided to start attending these social business functions together as husband and wife. During the course of this evening she was supposed to meet Bob Jones as if by accident. She had wanted to wow him with her intelligence. Drake thought the red dress would get his attention faster.

She made a face at her reflection before applying the lipstick. Drake was probably right. She hated it when he was right.

Sighing, she adjusted the new push-up bra before wobbling back to the dining room. Time to start hunting.

Several male heads turned as she entered the room. She straightened. Maybe she should try enjoying the attention. In the past Lucy had been the head turner in the family where as Miranda hadn't even tried.

She surveyed the room. Many faces belonged to men and a few women whom she'd met over the conference table. According to the attendee list, more faces belonged to individuals with whom she spoke regularly over the phone but had never met in person.

Where to start? She tapped her fingernails against her evening bag.

"I see McLain likes to keep it all in the family," a deep voice said from her right.

Miranda fought the urge to jump. As the import of the words sunk in she fought the urge to hit the man who spoke. Her throat dried when she turned and recognized her irritant to be her prey.

Swallowing the sharp retort about Drake's choice in wives, she smiled and said, "Have we met?"

Bob Jones's dark eyes swept her from painted toes to lacquered head then back again. His gaze stopped somewhere below her chin. She assumed he was admiring her new décolletage. In an effort to start a conversation she held out her hand.

The movement must have distracted him enough to bring him out of the daze. He took her hand. "I'm Bob Jones. I've been looking forward to meeting the newest Mrs. McLain."

"Why is that, Bob? And please, call me Miranda." She practiced batting her eyelashes but nearly lost a contact lens in the process.

"I've heard about your business acumen. I had no idea you were also lovely. Congratulations on your marriage." He squeezed her hand. She tugged it away, restraining the urge to wipe it against her dress.

"Thank you."

"May I buy you a drink?"

"White wine, thank you. I am thirsty and I don't see Drake anywhere."

Actually Drake was only ten feet away, but his back was turned. She wished he were standing here offering her a drink instead of this pathetic excuse for a playboy.

Bob returned with the stem of wine. Miranda smiled her thanks and gulped. The cool tingle along the back of her throat calmed her nerves. She glanced over and around Bob. Drake quirked a questioning eyebrow in her direction. She managed not to stick her tongue out at him. No doubt her current companion would consider it a come-on to him.

After another sip for courage, she turned back to Bob. "Tell me more about your company. I understand it's one of Millennium Tech's biggest rivals."

Bob leaned closer, as if to divulge a secret. "We are Millennium Tech's only rivals."

Miranda backed up, holding her drink in front of her like a shield. "Our only rival here in Colorado Springs, but what about the rest of the Front Range and Denver? We have quite a large presence both north and south of here."

Bull’s-eye. Bob's smooth charm slipped. He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together until they were white. The he regained control. "That's the nice thing about being an upstart company," he replied. "No place to go but up." He set his now empty glass on a nearby table. "Another glass of wine, Miranda?"

The shivers that crept up her spine as he purred her name were nothing like the hot fever Drake inspired. She couldn't wait to go home and shower this conversation away.

"I think I'll just nurse this along. I don't have a very good head for alcohol."

She hoped he couldn't hear her teeth grinding together as she smiled back at him. By now he had her backed against the wall. The strong, sweet cologne he wore invaded her nostrils. Its cloying scent made her dizzy. He was too close.

He put a hand against the wall beside her head. The closer he leaned, the more trapped she felt.

"How about lunch tomorrow?"

"Bob, I'm a married woman. Why would I want to have lunch with you?" This game was definitely wearing on her. If he came one inch closer she'd take action.

"I think we could have an interesting exchange of ideas about Millennium Tech and what the future holds in store for both our companies."

"That's more Drake's line than mine," Miranda protested as she tried to slide away. A table prevented her escape on one side, Bob's huge arm on the other.

"Drake doesn't like me." Bob's eyes gleamed as he stared hard at her.

That did it. She bumped into him and spilled her wine down the front of his suit.

It had the desired effect.

"Why you!" Bob jumped back as Miranda made her getaway. She was almost out of the corner, just looking over her shoulder at the commotion of Bob being dabbed at with cloth napkins by a small army of wait staff, when she ran into a solid object--a warm, large, familiar, solid object.

"Being your usual charming self?" Drake drawled as he steadied her with both hands.

She shrugged off his hands. "That man's a slug. I don't know what Lucy saw in him." She shuddered. "Can we go home now? I've had enough fun for one night."

"This was your idea. Did you find out anything from Casanova?"
Miranda glared at him as he found her coat in the coatroom. "He wants to have lunch with me tomorrow. What do you want to bet he wants to do more than discuss the future of our mutual companies?"

Drake raised an eyebrow. "I'll bet another four weeks added to last night."

She flushed. In their rush of passion, fueled by emotional pain and whiskey, neither of them had thought to use birth control. The chances of her becoming pregnant were slim but not impossible. She'd give him four more weeks. She'd also make sure she kept her distance from him until then. And no more whiskey.

"Aren't you worried about me having lunch with that slimeball?" The idea irritated her already raw sensibilities. If Drake could care just a little, show some sensitivity to the woman he claimed as wife, and with whom he had consummated the agreement with such passion.

"Not concerned in the least." He helped her into the car and walked around to the driver's side.

"Why not?"

"A couple of reasons. One, you are not Lucy. I know you. I can trust you." He started the car and pulled away from the curb with a growl of power and a wave of slush.

His face was only visible in the occasional glare of a passing set of headlights or the infrequent streetlight. She saw enough to know his jaw was set.

"What's the other reason?" she asked.

"I'm going to wire you for sound." He chuckled. "Just like in the spy movies. No secrets, Miranda. That's got to be part of our deal, too."

"You don't trust me," she accused, hurt by the thought.

"As I said, I trust you more than I trusted your sister. That's not much. But I have reason to know you have integrity and honesty."

"Swell."

He remained silent after that. Miranda didn't press him again. Once more she played the part of good old Miranda. Honest, trustworthy, kind to animals. Just once she wished he would think of her as more than a means to an end. Last night didn't count, couldn't count. Neither of them could be held responsible for their actions.

That was stupid. They were both adults. She remembered as if she were reliving it the surprise and desire she saw in his eyes as she took off her clothes and offered herself to him.

Don't forget that you despise him, she told herself. An ache grew in her stomach. An ache that was for more than the supper she'd missed or for the nerves that had passed.

She was so busy pondering her options that she didn't notice the direction in which Drake drove until the car stopped. She moved to open her door. Drake was already at her side. When she saw where they were, she almost fell out of the car.

"Take me home," she demanded.

"I'm tired of sleeping on your damned couch. Last night doesn't count. We didn't sleep much."

Miranda couldn’t think of a snappy retort to that. He had spent the night in her bed. Sleep had taken only a small percentage of the time.

Drake took her arm and propelled her up the three stone steps to his front door. "At least take a look at the arrangements I've made before you say no."

A reasonable request until she remembered, "Pumpkin needs me to walk him. My plants must be watered and talked to every day."

Warmth flowed over them as Drake swung open the carved wooden door. A scratching against the floorboards greeted them, accompanied by the astounding sight of the huge dog skittering towards them along the polished floor. As he draped his paws against Drake's shoulders in a doggy show of affection, Drake managed to say, "I've take care of Pumpkin. Your plants are in the living room. Your clothes are upstairs."

"You had no right," Miranda stormed. She tossed off her wool coat and grabbed Pumpkin's collar with both hands. "Down," she ordered. The dog pushed off from Drake and landed lightly for such a big animal. He followed wherever his new master went.

Drake brushed dog fur and slobber from his coat then shrugged out of it. "It's just not working for me to stay at your place all the time. Besides the inconvenience to me, it sure as hell looks funny to my associates."

"Like who?"

"Batgart for one. The CEO of Batcorp is wondering why I'm not home at night to return calls. We have a major investment in their good will. I have to be available."

"And your cell phone is where? That's just not enough to justify this move without asking me first."

Drake rubbed the back of his neck. When he moved down the hallway Miranda had little choice but to follow. He let them into a large kitchen. She watched him open the refrigerator and pull out a beer.

"Want one?" he asked.

"No." She tapped her foot. "I want to go home."

"You said you'd help me find out who's been fooling around with company stock. You're the one who convinced me to take advantage of our domestic arrangement while it was in force. No one will believe we are happily married if we live apart, and no one in their right mind would believe that you prefer staying in that tiny apartment when you could live here." Exasperation colored his voice. He slouched on a stool that stood adjacent to the large center counter.

Miranda sighed. "I like my little place. I have neighbors who care about me. People I like. What do I have here?"

"Just me," Drake said. His face was a mask.

Nodding, she wandered around the large room. It smelled of garlic and cinnamon in an appealingly comforting mix. If she didn't know better she'd swear this was a kitchen designed for a gourmet chef.

The island counter where Drake sat was on casters that locked or unlocked with clever latches. A large wooden cutting board sat beside an array of knives in all shapes and sizes nestled into the top of a chunk of wood. A variety of pots and pans and kitchen utensils hung from a ceiling rack. Ropes of chili peppers, garlic bulbs, onions in baskets, and other green things she couldn't put a name to hung from the ceiling.

A large stainless metal door hung on one wall. Through the small pane of glass Miranda glimpsed what appeared to be packages of frozen food. The stove had gas burners. Long counters ran along each wall.

She completed her circuit of the kitchen, arriving back to face Drake who had remained motionless during her inspection.

"Who's your chef?" she asked.

"You're looking at him."

"You cook?" The idea struck her as ludicrous.

"Didn't Lucy ever tell you how much she loved coming home and finding me in the kitchen?" Drake crossed his arms.

"Did she?"

"Did she what?"

"Love to come home to find you puttering around in the kitchen?"

"I don't putter. I create."

"I don't believe it. Drake McLain, CEO chef. What next?" She sank onto the stool across from him, unsure of whether to believe him or not.

"Everyone needs a hobby. Yours is taking care of Pumpkin and Alice and your plants and that giant who thinks he's your personal bodyguard. I cook."

"Okay." Bemused and more than a little hungry, she hadn't eaten much at the social hour, she couldn't think of a better retort. At that moment her stomach answered for her.

Drake grinned. "I think that's my cue to prove my culinary worth, Mrs. McLain."

"Don't call me that." Miranda's response was automatic.

"It suits you." Drake went to the refrigerator. "You may as well get used to it. That's what my housekeeper is going to call you when she meets you in the morning."

"I'm not going to be here in the morning."

Drake moved to the center island, selected a large knife, and began to slice, dice, and chop until he had a pile of fresh cut vegetables in front of him.

"Don't count on it."

He moved to the freezer and disappeared into a cloud of frost. When he emerged the square box he held was dusted with snow. After brushing it off he opened it to reveal an exquisite layered cake.

"Ice cream cake for dessert," he explained. "By the time we're ready for it, it will have warmed enough to cut. Right now I'd need a chain saw to cut through it."