The Commitment Page 8

  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 mu
st 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."

  Miranda rotated on her stool every now and then as she followed his progress through the kitchen. What he ended up doing was a more than fair display of Tappan cooking, like she'd seen at her favorite Japanese restaurant. He tossed knives around as if it were second nature. The moment of truth, when he lit the fiery sake with a wooden match causing a whoosh of flame, had her on the edge of her seat.

  At last he piled two plates with the deliciously scented stir-fry and led her through a swinging door into a small dining area. The circular table was set for two as if he'd thought this through ahead of time. The table was in an alcove encased by windows that overlooked the Front Range. During the day the view would be stunning. At sunset she wagered the view would take her breath away.

  He held her seat then sat in the facing chair. All she could do was stare at him. His face glowed as if he'd just had the time of his life.

  "Well?" He frowned. "I should have asked what you wanted. You hate stir fry, don't you?"

  She answered by putting a forkful into her mouth. Delicious. She shut her eyes to savor the explosion of flavors on her tongue as she chewed. When she opened her eyes she found Drake staring at her. "It's great," she said.

  "I'm sure you're embarrassed that your big, tough, wealthy husband cooked it for you." His statement came out flat--a challenge.

  "The only thing that embarrasses me is that I can't cook this well. From now on you have kitchen duty." She gulped from her water glass; what she'd just said implied that she'd be staying.

  "I'll hold you to that. Wait until you see what I can do with eggs at breakfast." His dimple deepened.

  "Just for tonight," Miranda stated. "One night. I'm too tired to argue anymore."

  Drake nodded and drank a tiny cup of sake. She wasn't sure, but Miranda thought he looked pretty pleased with himself.

  He was more than pleased. One night would lead to two, then a weekend, then the next week, and then she'd be so comfortably entrenched that she wouldn't want to leave.

  Watching her enjoy the meal he'd prepared, sitting across from him in his house, filled him with more content than he'd felt in a long time. He'd had damned little contentment with Lucy.

  Lucy. Time to stop comparing the sisters. How could two such different individuals share the same gene pool and upbringing? They were as different as fire and ice. He much preferred Miranda's honest to Lucy's glamour. Miranda's deep-seated intellect to Lucy's charm.

  Miranda looked delicious in red.

  Which reminded him of his other hunger. The one she'd satisfied so unexpectedly last night. He wondered how much was the alcohol. He knew for damned sure she wouldn't have been a willing partner in her own seduction if she'd been sober.

  Shifting in his chair, he poured another tiny cup of warm Japanese wine. "Would you like some sake?" he offered her.

  She lifted on eyebrow, and then surprised him by crossing her eyes. "No thanks. I'm swearing off alcohol for a while."

  "The morning after's a real bear, isn't it?"

  Her blush started at the low neckline of her dress. Fascinated, Drake wondered how far in the opposite direction it went.

  "I don't like to be out of control." Miranda sat straighter.

  "Does
n't bother me a bit." He raised his cup in mock salute. He enjoyed watching as the embarrassment in her eyes shifted to annoyance. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  "Don't think it will work again, Drake."

  "I won't even try. I much prefer knowing a woman wants me for who I am, not for the whiskey she's drunk." He meant it to be sarcastic but the caustic tone of his voice made him flinch. Miranda threw down her napkin.

  So much for a congenial dinner together.

  "Drunk or sober it will take more than a miracle to find me in bed with you again," she shouted. She stalked out of the room.

  He leaned back and waited.

  Two seconds later she returned, flames in her eyes, mouth tight and tense. "Where the hell is my bedroom?"

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda's first night at Drake's house was a bust as far as he was concerned. Instead of a rerun of the wild passion of the previous night, icicles shot from her eyes as she slammed the bedroom door in his face.

  He had four weeks to melt icicles.

  Instead of Miranda sharing his king-sized bed, Pumpkin snored on the rug on the floor beside him.

  In the morning he found a piece of white notepaper at her place at the table instead of her. The note said, "Had some things to do before work. Will see you there." Polite, bland, passionless except for the thickness of the dark lines of her script.

  Her absence disgruntled him. Until that moment he'd been unaware of how much he'd been looking forward to seeing her across the table from him again.

  "She didn't even wait to see you this morning," he said to Pumpkin, who followed him everywhere. The dog even stood outside the shower door while Drake showered. At first the big brown eyes staring at him through the frosted glass disconcerted him. He became glad of the company soon enough.

  He cut his morning routine short. He wanted his wife. More troubling, he wanted her to want him.

  Rose and gold mist reflected the last of dawn's radiance on Pikes Peak. Fresh snow glazed the road making the morning sparkle. He was on the way to her. For the first time in years he enjoyed a frigid winter morning.

  Her parking space at Millennium Tech yawned empty. It was early yet. The executive suite echoed with his footsteps as he strode across the hardwood floor.