by Unknown
A fine seashell pink color replaced Miranda's pallor. "A month, six weeks tops. No one, absolutely nobody, must know."
"Too late," Drake murmured as the sounds of running feet and muffled voices carried through the door.
"What on earth do you mean?"
The door burst open. Miranda's sister pushed her way past a harassed looking man in a rumpled shirt and ugly green and pink tie. Drake allowed himself a small smile.
"I took the liberty of spreading the happy news of our nuptials while you slept."
Miranda groaned and grabbed her head with both hands.
Drake eyed his ex-wife. "Good morning, Lucy. Coffee?"
Chapter Two
Lucy glared at Drake, and then her gaze pierced Miranda. One elegant foot tapped rapidly against the carpet. Her sculpted lips curled into a snarl. Miranda's otherwise calm, cool sister reminded her of nothing less dangerous than a rattlesnake poised to spring.
"I'm … I'm sorry, Mr. McLain," the sweating manager stammered. He wrung his hands. "She insisted, I mean, she said …"
"Be quiet, idiot. Leave." Lucy dismissed him with a flick of her wrist.
He turned and barreled into Jack Langfeld, a.k.a. Jack the Jerk, Miranda's most recent intended. The two collided in the narrow doorway, looking like they were auditioning for a Broadway vaudeville show. Miranda chanced a look at Drake. A dimple danced on his cheek. He was enjoying this, she realized. She was biting her lower lip, trying to figure out what to do, when Lucy reached into the thrashing bodies in the doorway and extricated Jack.
Miranda covered her mouth and tried in vain to hold in a snicker. Drake waggled his eyebrows at her. That did it. She exploded into laughter. Drake joined her. Through the tears streaming down her face she saw the trio in the doorway stiffen and turn towards her. Finally free, the manager fled; the door slammed shut.
Jack and Lucy stood with arms crossed identically, inciting more howls of laughter from Miranda. Twin frowns graced their faces, making her think of the phrase "monkey see, monkey do."
I'm hysterical, she thought as more giggles poured out. She gave in to them. They were better than the crying jag she'd fought off earlier.
At last her mirth wore out. Twice in one morning was too much.
Drake's laughter subsided into a final chuckle. He pulled two additional cups from the lower shelf of the service unit. "Coffee?" he offered Lucy and Jack again.
Somehow his cultured voice incited another short burst of laughter from Miranda. He winked at her. The intimate act checked her giggles. Pulling herself together, she sipped the tepid coffee left in her own cup.
Electric silence filled the room.
Jack cleared his throat. Miranda lifted her head and stared at him. He had a weak chin, she realized. What had she seen in him? The blue eyes she'd found compelling just yesterday now appeared watery and vapid. A thin line marked where his lips should be.
"Miranda," Jack said. "I demand an explanation."
Anger stirred in her. "Tough luck. I don't owe you anything."
He took a step back. "But just yesterday you told me you'd always love me. Now I find you here with … McLain." His voice deepened on the last word making it sound as if the name itself conjured doom.
Miranda raised an eyebrow and allowed herself a cold grin. "Yesterday you broke off our engagement. I don't know why you think you have any say in how I conduct my affairs."
She chanced a glance at Drake. His face was smooth and non-committal. On the other hand Jack’s face was beaded with sweat. Lucy wore her "about to explode" look.
Jack crept forward. "Maybe I made a mistake."
Miranda threw up her hands. "What do you expect me to do?"
Jack strode to Miranda. He knelt beside her. She held herself under strict control as he grasped her hand in his pale, moist one.
"Come back to Colorado with me," he cooed. "We'll get married as soon as you want. I promise."
Miranda stood and pushed her index finger into Jack's chest. "Forget it. I'm tired of being told what to do. I’m tired of being manipulated. From now on I'm making my own decisions."
"But, Miranda." Jack lurched to his feet.
"Besides," she wiggled her left ring finger in front of his nose. "I'm already married."
Lucy pushed forward. She spoke to Miranda, but her gaze was glued on Drake. "A ring on your finger doesn't make you married, whatever you may think. I'm more than a little surprised. I never took you for the romantic type."
"Maybe it's time everyone stopped putting me into a little box marked 'Miranda's type' and started realizing that I have wants and needs of my own that go far beyond the board room."
Drake's soft, deep voice cut through the tension. "What do you want, Miranda?"
She turned to him and caught her breath. For an instant as she stared into his silvery eyes, she thought he might even be sincere.
Lucy stepped behind Miranda and spoke rapidly into her ear. "Don't you remember anything? This man was a tyrant during our marriage. You don't have to do this to prove anything to me."
"I'm not you," Miranda said, gentling her voice. She took Lucy's hands in her own. The fact that her sister was trembling shook Miranda for an instant. Did Lucy still have feelings for Drake?
"I just want you to be happy," Lucy whispered.
"Thank you. Now, go home." She softened the words with a hug. "Take Jack with you."
"This has got to be the most stupid, irresponsible thing you've ever done," Jack sputtered at Miranda. Lucy took his arm and hauled him toward the door.
Drake stood. Miranda was sure he was the only man on earth with the ability to loom threateningly while wearing a purple satin bathrobe. Her heart clenched as she watched Drake stride to where Jack stood trapped between the door and the approaching groom. Or was it doom?
"Apologize," Drake drawled when he was nose to nose with Jack. Miranda held her breath.
With the door at his back, Jack had nowhere to run. "I'm sorry, Miranda. I was mistaken." His voice shook.
"Miranda McLain is my wife." The menace in Drake's voice was apparently sufficient. Jack nodded, reached for the doorknob and made his escape.
Lucy remained a moment longer. In that heartbeat of time, Miranda understood a truth she hadn't realized before, Lucy feared her ex-husband. Her elegant, sophisticated, beautiful, younger sister had left her marriage with Drake for reasons Miranda now questioned.
"Call me when you get home," was all Lucy said as she departed.
"You bet I will," Miranda muttered to the blank door.
A hand closed on her shoulder. She whirled around and stumbled, falling into Drake's arms.
His face was a breath from hers when he said, "Tell me, Miranda. What do you want?"
His arms tightened around her, bringing her barely clad body into intimate contact with his. The slippery material of their robes transferred heat from his chest to hers. She was aware of her heart beating a rapid staccato.
Desire flamed in his eyes. Unwanted echoes surged through Miranda.
When he dipped his mouth to take her lips, all she could do was whimper in confused delight.
The wonder of it was that Drake's kiss did not repulse her. She expected revulsion; instead liquid warmth streamed through her with the stroking of his tongue against her own. Pleasure warred with will.
She felt his hand trace fire along her back. They sank together to the floor. Something warm and firm pressed against her thigh as the robe she wore fluttered open. Drake left her mouth to nibble her earlobes, first one side then the other. His hands cupped and stroked her breasts until she moaned with the delight of it.
The sound was her undoing. Miranda Symons moaning? She froze. Drake murmured something at once gentling and titillating against her stomach.
Her stomach? How had she allowed him to get that far? A rush of panic replaced lust.
"Stop. We can't. I can't." She pushed with both hands at his shoulders. "Drake," she wailed.
Abruptly, he rol
led off her and faced away. For an instant he sat very still, then he stood and strode into the bathroom without glancing at her. Miranda heard the shower start.
Tears pricked her eyelids. She didn't know whether she was madder at him for kissing her, at herself for enjoying it, at herself for stopping him, or at him for stopping. What a mess. She rubbed her face briskly and climbed to her feet. Her body tingled. The robe gaped open. She shivered and scanned the room for her clothing.
Sunlight glanced at a sharper angle through the draperies. It blinked off something shiny tucked into a small shelf in the bed's headboard. Miranda pulled the drapes open and took a closer look. The sight of her clothing stuck behind the headboard distracted her from her investigation. She grabbed the wrinkled clothes and pulled them on. With a bit of physical armor, she'd be better able to face Drake and whatever else he had up his sleeve.
Relief filled her as she felt the small bi-fold wallet in the back pocket of her jeans. It hadn't fallen out. With the contents, her driver’s license and a credit card, she was a free woman--if she wanted to be.
Her loafers stuck out from the lavender and red horror of a bed ruffle. With a small bounce, she sat on the edge of the bed to slide them on. Something fell from the headboard, hit the mattress beside her, and landed on the floor.
Black, compact, a tiny red light glowed on it. A hollow ache began in the pit of Miranda's stomach as she picked up the miniature video camera. She recognized it as a component of a prototype security system Drake had recently installed in specific high technology sections of the office building where they worked. Small and non-intrusive, no one would know they were being recorded, unless they knew what to look for. Of course, the employees knew. The point was to discourage stealing of technology. Drake didn't trust anyone.
Evidently, Drake had been taping them during the night. Her hands shook. The damning piece of machinery fell to the floor again.
Why? Why videotape their wedding night? She grimaced. Not much to record for posterity if her memory served. She still didn't know how she came to be wearing red satin. Okay, forget the red satin for now.
Blackmail? For some twisted reason of his own, was Drake planning to use this against her? Why? How?
Sudden silence from the bathroom propelled Miranda into action. She grabbed the camera, took one last look around her honeymoon suite, and quietly left. If Drake was interested enough to follow, then he would. Damn the man.
Tears threatened once again as she hailed a cab from the heat of the Vegas sidewalk.
"The airport, and hurry," she told the driver.
With the camera in her hands, she willed away tears. This was her time to take action. Right now she wanted nothing more than to be home in her cozy apartment and think. She had a lot to consider before she saw Drake again.
* * * *
Drake gritted his teeth and spun the steering wheel of his forest green SUV. Snow treads gripped the slushy goo covering the street. The vehicle spurted mushy cold stuff into the air as he sped into the parking lot of Miranda's apartment complex.
He hated snow. For the tenth time that day, he cursed the weather, the season, and the reason he was out in it in the first place.
Miranda.
The change from the comparative warmth of Las Vegas to the bright frigid air here in Colorado Springs added to his irritation. If she hadn't run out on him, they'd be on their way to Bermuda or Jamaica by now.
The cheerful voice of the radio announcer said, "Highs today in the mid-twenties, with a wind chill of minus five."
Drake stabbed at the off button and came within inches of crashing into Miranda's car. The happy fire engine red color perversely irritated Drake even more. His foot slid into a pile of unmelted snow as he stepped from his car. To add insult to injury, Miranda stepped out of her apartment in time to witness his discomfort.
A huge, four-legged form followed her. It stopped and sniffed at the air, and then fixed it's gaze directly onto Drake. Drake imagined it came right out of the Sherlock Holmes tale, "The Hound of the Baskervilles." With a straight-from-Hell growling bark combination, the beast hurled itself at Drake.
"Pumpkin," Miranda called out. The animal dragged her a couple of steps before the leash sprang from her hands.
Snow flew as Pumpkin ignored the shoveled walks and made straight for Drake.
Drake had a fraction of a second to wonder why this gray spotted beast was named "Pumpkin." Six inches of icy slush encased his foot. The weight of his own body held the car door shut. There was nowhere to run.
Don't wimp out in front of Miranda. He was sure this would be his last conscious thought.
At the final second, he straightened his back and shut his eyes. Braced for death, or at the very least, dismemberment.
Instead of teeth and claws, Drake shuddered as a heavy weight hit his chest. The car did an admirable job of holding him up.
He opened one eye. Loud, raspy panting accompanied the grinning canine that stared into Drake's face. Panic subsided, or at least the fear of tragic death. Suffocation was a more definite possibility now. The combination of dog food breath and constant pressure on his chest made breathing a challenge.
Abruptly, Pumpkin's face and body retreated. Drake allowed his knees to bend a fraction, and then Miranda's face replaced the dog's. The dog had looked friendlier. A frown creased his "wife's" forehead.
"You," she sputtered.
Clearly she was overcome with emotion. Drake tried a smile. He'd been told he had a charming smile.
"Hi, Honey. I'm home."
His foot was beginning to petrify with cold.
Miranda's eyebrows turned into jet-black wings as they rose into the empty space where the frown had been. Surprise looked good on her, Drake thought, along with the pink pursed lips and cheeks rosy from cold and temper.
"Go away," she sputtered some more. "I have nothing to say to you." She turned and jerked Pumpkin from his interested sniffing of the tires of Drake's car. Then, with casual indifference, the dog lifted his leg, as dogs will do, before moving off.
"Miranda, wait a minute." Drake tugged at his numb foot. The shoe remained stuck while his gray argyle sock, limp and wet, emerged. Miranda kept walking, fast. The dog strode regally beside her. The matching sway of their respective bottoms caught Drake's interest, and then he realized she was getting away before he had a chance to say his piece.
He reached down, tugged his slush-filled Italian leather loafer from the gushy stuff and winced as he jammed his foot back in. Limping down the slick sidewalk, he struggled to catch up with Miranda and the wing-footed creature.
A ground-level door opened as Drake hobbled by. A large, bald man, with the biceps of an ex-prize fighter bulging from a sleeveless tee shirt stepped through. His head turned from Miranda to Drake back to Miranda.
"Hey, Miranda," the mountain called. "Is this guy bothering you?"
Miranda turned and began walking backwards. Drake was impressed at the speed she maintained. She opened her mouth, but was pre-empted by a warbling voice.
"Miranda, honey, is everything okay?"
Drake jerked his head for the source of the tinny sound. An older woman, a handful of mail in one hand, a wooden cane in the other, crossed the parking lot towards Drake.
Making speed backwards, Miranda called out, "Yes, he is bothering me, Ted. I'm okay, Mrs. Whitman." With a small wave and an evil grin she turned and moved up to jogging speed.
Puffing with exertion, Drake slowed, then stopped. He had to. Mrs. Whitman had crossed his path and remained in the center of it. The man, this Ted guy, was closing in from behind. One turkey-sized hand slapped a rolled up newspaper against a thigh that would rival the thickness of a California redwood.
Mrs. Whitman shook her cane at Drake. "Who are you? Some kind of pervert or something?"
"No, ma'am." Drake tried out his charming smile on her. Her frowning face relaxed fractionally. He smiled wider. "We had a disagreement. You know, a lover's spat." He winked at her.
"You don't say." Mrs. Whitman tapped one combat booted foot against the cement.
"Yeah, you don't say." Ted's deep voice reverberated through the back of Drake's skull.
Drake's smile faded as he turned to face the barrel chest of Miranda's gladiator. Charm--this guy probably didn't understand the meaning of the word. He stood as straight as he could, trying to reach chin level of this giant.
"Actually, Miranda and I were married over the weekend." He tried backing away, but a snow bank stopped his progress. "We argued about where we would live. You know, I wanted to live at my place, she wanted to stay here." He spread his hands wide and gave them both what he hoped was sincere chagrin.
Ted stopped swatting his leg with the paper. Drake noticed it was "The Wall Street Journal." So much for his illiterate tree theory.
"Miranda didn't say anything about getting married." Ted turned to Mrs. Whitman. "She mention it to you, Alice?"
Mrs. Whitman raised an eyebrow and tapped her cane. After frozen seconds, she said, "Well, no, Ted. I don't believe she did."
"Didn't think so." Ted loomed closer to Drake. "Mister, we have laws about harassing people around here. You better leave. Now."
Mrs. Whitman tapped close enough to jab Drake in the chest with her cane. "Might be a good idea for you to listen to him." She leaned over and whispered, "Ted has a thing for Miranda. You wouldn't want to make him mad, now would you?"
Stuck between a rock and frozen snow, Drake conceded defeat. Temporary, but defeat all the same. It grated. He pulled together what little dignity remained and bid his farewell committee good-bye.
It didn't help one bit that Miranda and her beast turned the corner to re-enter the parking area as Drake spun out. Nor did the grin on her face or spring in her step go unnoticed. It merely added fuel to the fire that burned within him. The flame that told him he'd misjudged the woman. She was more than the corporate sum of parts he was used to.
And he wanted her.
Chapter Three
One small, sweet victory. Miranda savored the furious expression on Drake's face as he careened from the parking lot. Then her gaze found Ted and Alice Whitman standing together at her own apartment door, arms folded identically across anything but identical chests. It was clear they were awaiting her--and an explanation.