The Commitment

THE COMMITMENT

by

Karin Huxman

© copyright February 2004, Karin Huxman
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright February 2004
New Concepts Publishing
5202 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter One

A foot kicked her. Miranda Symons jerked awake. She had no clue where she was, or who the heck snored next to her.

Frantically, she tried to focus. First things first--Where was she? Obviously in a bed--not her own.

The top of a blond head emerged with a snort from beneath the deep blue satin sheets beside her.

Oh no. She gasped and looked down, hoping for the visual clarification. Thank goodness, she was clothed. Not fully, but as her Granny would say, the fancy long johns "covered the law." Except she couldn't remember where the red satin outfit came from.

Another snort from the person beside her. A male head appeared as the sheets slid down. She watched in a kind of horror as his bare shoulders followed his head. Firm, tanned biceps and finely muscled forearms came next. Holding her breath, she watched his left hand flail about. A gold wedding band winked at her.

Her nightmare had come true. She found herself in bed with a married man. Not any married man, her sister's ex-husband and her own current boss.

Her throat constricted. A quick physical assessment assured her that they hadn't made love, had sex, done the horizontal polka. At least she was reasonably sure she'd know that. Wouldn't her body remember even if her headache-wracked mind refused to answer her frantic pleas for reassurance?

Drake McLain stirred again and flung a hand until it rested against Miranda's breast. Gingerly, she reached to remove it. She stopped in mid-reach. A golden twinkle teased her from the fourth finger of her left hand. She groaned and flopped back on the pillow.

It was worse. She was married to the Devil.

A shaft of sunlight arced through the separation of the heavy drapes. It hit Drake square in the eyes. He bolted upright. The sheets pooled around his waist. Miranda stared at his tanned torso. Her gaze ran from light golden hairs on his chest to the hint of the same where the sheets met his lower body.

Unless he wore some pretty skimpy underwear, Drake McLain was nude--in bed--with her.

She fervently wished she were the kind of prissy girl who could faint. She held her breath as Drake blinked and rubbed his head until the silky waves of hair stuck out in all directions. Slowly, he turned his head until his eyes met hers.

Miranda didn't give him any time to think. She jumped out of bed nearly revealing the rest of him. "What on Earth are you doing here?" she demanded. "Get out, now."

His gray eyes closed for a brief instant. When they opened again, Miranda saw a calculating gleam in them. A gleam similar to the one she always saw right before he demanded, and got, his way from his mother, her sister, and his employees.

"I'm pretty comfortable right here," he drawled. "Seems to me you were content enough to have me around last night. As a matter of fact, I'm sure I remember you clinging to me, begging me not to leave you."

"You are an evil man." Miranda managed to bite the words out. "From where I stand, you took advantage of me last night when I was feeling about as depressed as I've ever been. I trusted you and look where it got me."

"Actually, I'd rather you told me where we are." He looked around the room and frowned. "And why am I naked? Unless you undressed me and I woke up before you could take advantage of me?"

"Drat. Fine. If you won't leave, I will." She spun on one heel and lost her balance. The room swayed around her as she landed on the plush pink rug with a muffled yelp. The yelp turned into a screech as she saw her own reflection in the huge mirror that hung above the bed. More details of the room became clear as the room lightened with morning.

The bed, which she'd only registered as being covered in slippery satin sheets, appeared to be round. A small, glass-topped table accompanied by two chairs looked okay, until she saw that the chair backs were heart shaped and upholstered in red fabric. The same red fabric lay in a puddle on the floor, obviously the bedspread somehow tossed aside in the night.

On one of the twin nightstands, Miranda spied a discrete sign next to a coin slot. A timed vibrator for the bed.

An empty champagne bottle lay on the carpet under the table. A second, half empty bottle stood in a room service ice bucket. Two cheap, plastic champagne flutes rolled off the bed as Drake moved.

She looked at him, at the evidence surrounding them, at the rings they both wore. Her brain stumbled to a conclusion. It hurt. "I think we're in Las Vegas."

"Yup. The Little Love Hotel, if memory serves me."

Temper flared in Miranda. "Just how many women have you brought here?"

"Jealous so soon? Tsk, tsk. Not a good way to start a marriage."

"A marriage. It can't be true. I mean, I don't remember ..." A flash of memory assailed her. It showed a neon lit building front flashing the words "Instant Weddings." Drake was holding her hand as they stood side by side in front of a strange little lady dressed in a muumuu or caftan or something. Tufts of purple frizz stuck out of the woman's wildly colored turban.

"A little hair of the dog?"

She opened her eyes to see Drake, draped in blue satin, hold a plastic glass to her. Without thinking, she gulped back the now flat champagne and grimaced.

"Yuck, it's going to take more than that to make this all disappear."

"Disappear? Sweetheart, you ain't seen nothing yet," Drake drawled.

He sauntered towards the bathroom door, trailing the satin sheets like some kind of ceremonial robe. Just before he shut the door behind him, the sheet dropped to the floor giving Miranda a glimpse of tight male buttocks and muscled legs.

Heat flashed through her. She drained the final drop from the glass and searched for anything else to clear her throat. Well, almost anything. The greenish water in the flower vase grossed her out, and the melted water in the ice bucket held a lone fly that was performing a feeble backstroke. Double yuck.

Fine, she'd order room service. Married or not, at the very least Drake owed her breakfast after what they'd gone through last night.

Mortification induced heat flamed her face as more bits and pieces of the past twenty-four hours floated out of memory and marched lewdly in front of her mind's eye. It hadn't been a nightmare after all. She vaguely remembered getting slightly drunk, more than slightly, and propositioning Drake. Hell, she'd have to be raving to do something like that.

Somehow they'd decided to take the Millennium Tech company jet and fly to Las Vegas. The flight was fuzzy, though she did remember giggling a lot and sitting on Drake's lap after take off. She squirmed as her body reminded her of the exhilarating combination of comfort and erotic excitement.

Her head throbbed once more, the pounding reverberating through her. It was as if ….

The knocking on the door ceased. "Room service," a voice called out.

Miranda glanced toward the bathroom door. She heard the shower running. The knocking resumed. She staggered to her feet to open the door before the noise incurred permanent damage to her brain cells.

"Yes?" She opened the door to a toga clad young man with an incredible tan who stood beside a wheeled cart.

He flashed an Osmond-white smile at her. "Good morning. Here's the breakfast you ordered last night."

Miranda stepped out of the way as Toga Boy wheeled the cart inside. He whistled tunelessly. The cart squeaked. A carafe of what she hoped was hot coffee stood beside a pitcher of orange juice. Three silver domed serving dishes covered the rest of the top surface. Plates, cups and flatware were stored below.

Wordlessly, Miranda trailed after Toga Boy and watched him set utensils and food dishes onto the glass topped table. Every now and then the bottom of his "clothing" swished. She stared as he leaned over. Cartoon character boxer shorts--the man was wearing boxer shorts adorned with fat cartoon cats under his uniform. She snorted.

"Ma'am?" He turned, a quizzical smile on his lips.

Miranda collapsed onto the bed howling with laughter. What else could happen?

Toga Boy stared at her and backed away. His sandaled feet caught in the thick nap of the carpet. He fell backwards into Drake who was coming out of the bathroom. Tears fell down Miranda's face. She held her stomach as she watched the tangle of arms, legs, togas and boxers enmeshed with the virulent violet shade of Drake's robe.

The writhing, cursing mass finally disengaged and became two individuals. Toga Boy scampered from the room without waiting for a tip. His outfit twisted this way and that. The last Miranda saw of him was the back of the boxers running out the door.

Her stomach hurt with laughing. Her final giggle turned into a hiccup as her gaze collided with Drake's. She couldn't decipher the emotions that roiled in his eyes, but the silver gleam that caught her brought her hand to her throat.

Drake glanced at the table, now set with food and drink. "Are you hungry?" His voice throbbed low.

Miranda scrambled across the bed, trying to put more distance between them. Somehow, this man seemed much more dangerous than the Drake she woke up with. His hair was damp and tousled. The robe molded to his body, proving in detail that he was naked underneath. His hands were clenched into fists, which he suddenly jammed into the small pockets of the robe, only serving to tighten the material around his body.

Miranda was desperate. She despised Drake McLain for any number of reasons, but right now she was at a definite disadvantage. Better to play whatever game they were playing. She needed to know the ground rules before she could figure out how to break them.

First she needed to improve her position. Food might help. Her stomach was queasy; she never had learned how to drink champagne without getting a headache. She wanted real clothes. Something thicker than the slick little outfit that both covered and revealed.

"You know, I could eat something." She gestured toward the table. "Smells good, doesn't it?"

Drake stopped his advance and swiveled towards the food. "Join me," he ordered.

"Sure, why not?" Miranda took the long way around the bed so she wouldn't have to brush past him. She shouldn't have bothered. He came around to hold her chair for her.

She stared at the thick, white china plate in front of her in a vain attempt to ignore the way Drake's closeness affected her senses. She hated him, right? Then why was her stomach clenching at the brush of his robe against her arm? Why did the scent of him, clean from the shower, call to her even more than the fragrance of the coffee?

Damn, she must be sick. That was the only reason she was thinking of him as a sexy man, instead of the power hungry brute she knew him to be.

Food--She shrugged off the lingering effects of sleepy confusion mixed with a spine tingling emotion she was not even going to try to decipher. The first domed dish held croissants. They steamed as if fresh from the oven. Her mouth watered and stomach growled. Good, that meant it was hunger causing her strange reactions to Drake. Here was something she could handle.

The first pastry went down with fresh butter and hot coffee. Amazing how refreshing calories could be to a stomach, which had recently been shriveled with hunger, caused by ... heartache.

No, she didn't want to think about that. Miranda forced herself to pour juice with a steady hand. Forced herself not to think about the reasons she had pretended to seduce Drake last night. Flushing with the memory of that damning phone call from her now former fiancé, Jack the Jerk, she knocked the lid from the second plate. The rich aroma of hot scrambled eggs and honey cured bacon wafted to her nostrils.

For a half an instant, she enjoyed it. Then, her shaky stomach rebelled.

"Excuse me," she blurted. She had a brief glimpse of Drake's face, mouth open in surprise, before she slammed the bathroom door shut and gave in to misery.

Her humiliation was now complete.

* * * *

Miranda's face was an unpleasant green as she raced from the table. Shouldn't have given her that last glass of champagne, Drake thought. He heard the fan come on and turned back to his breakfast and the complimentary newspaper, thankful to have something to focus on other than Miranda's distress.

The newspaper didn’t help. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate her face kept swimming in front of his eyes. Those deep dark eyes of hers trying to be at once pleasing while failing to hide the pain that was all too evident. Something truly awful must have happened for her to come to him, of all people, for comfort. It was just her rotten luck that he had been vulnerable himself last night. Too vulnerable to hold back what had been festering inside for years.

He gave up any pretense of reading. Against the backdrop of the fan, he heard faint sounds of rushing water. Hoping the shower would help her feel better he looked around for his clothes.

His conscience was getting the better of him. He darned well needed to have all his wits about him when she came out again. Pretending to have married her was low. Getting her drunk enough so she couldn't see through the sham was lower. Even with the enormity of those two events looming along the horizon he planned about to stoop even lower.