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BOOK: The Commitment
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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.

She breathed deep, enjoying the bite of frigid air. "Come on, Pumpkin. Guess it's time to face the music." The part Greyhound, part Saint Bernard responded to her gentle tug with his curiously graceful gait.

"Thanks, Ted, Alice, for getting rid of that weirdo for me." Miranda unlocked her apartment door and motioned her neighbors to precede her inside.

"That ‘weirdo’ claims to be your husband," Ted growled, not at all his usual calm self.

Alice settled into a flowered chintz armchair as if she belonged there. "Yes, dear. I realize your personal life is, well, personal, but maybe you could tell us something so we won't worry if he shows up again."

Miranda busied herself in the tiny kitchen on the opposite side of the counter. She filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove to heat for tea before venturing an answer. What could she say? The truth was embarrassing, humiliating even. Lying was out of the question.

Ted paced the length of her tiny living room. Alice waited with her usual patience, hands folded in her lap. These people were more than neighbors--they were her friends. With the exception of Lucy, they were the only family she had.

"It's kind of complicated," she said. She brought the tray to the coffee table and convinced Ted to sit down.

"Got nothing but time," Ted said. The porcelain teacup looked tiny in his massive hand.

Alice picked up her usual mug. It sported "Take No Prisoners" inscribed across it. She sniffed at the rising steam. "Earl Grey, my favorite."

Miranda hesitated. May as well just get it over with. "Jack called off our engagement yesterday. I drank too much and went to Las Vegas with Drake McLain and married him."

She desperately wished she'd spiked the tea.

Ted snapped his cup into the saucer so hard the delicate handle came off in his hand. It circled his index finger like a mutant ring. "I'll kill him," he rumbled.

"Which one? The ex-fiancé or the new husband?" Alice asked. "Honestly, Miranda, I never knew what you saw in that Jack person anyway. Weak chin."

Ted cracked his knuckles, a habit that set Miranda's teeth on edge. "Have a cookie, Ted." She shoved the plate into his hands.

He looked at her, the pain in his big eyes startling and hot. "If he ever hurts you in any way I'll take care of him." Without another word, Ted left. Awkward silence filled the turbulence of his wake.

Miranda dropped to the floor next to Pumpkin. The beast put his head in her lap and rubbed against her hand. He always knew when Miranda was hurting. She scratched behind his silky ears, comforting herself with the familiar.

The intensity of Ted's emotion made her feel small. "How long has Ted felt this way about me?" she asked Alice after a long stretch.

"Oh, quite a while now. He'll get over it. Every time you broke an engagement, he thought he'd have a chance. Now that you're married, well, he needs time to get used to the idea."

"Married." Miranda snorted. "I'm not used to the idea myself. The fact of the matter is," she felt heat creeping up her neck, "we never consummated the marriage. At least, I don't think we did."

"Seems to me that's something a woman would know," Alice remarked.

"I was a little out of it," Miranda muttered.

"Do you mean to tell me you don't want to be married to Drake?"

"I despise him. He made my sister’s life a misery when he was married to her. Why should I expect different treatment?"

"The plot thickens," Alice said, eyes twinkling in the cool winter light coming through the window. "So, it's Drake the Devil you find yourself married to. Something tells me you haven't told the whole story yet."

The urge to confide in someone she trusted fought with her need for privacy. She fiddled with Pumpkin's ears. "There's this." She stood and went to her desk. "Look." She handed Alice the video camera.

Alice turned it over in her hands. "Looks like an improved version of Mitiko's latest surveillance camera." Her voice was now crisp, authoritative. She'd spent her working years with Air Force intelligence. Since retirement, she'd hid her sharp wit and keen intellect behind the "little old lady" facade. She enjoyed the surprise on people's faces when they found out about her earlier James Bond lifestyle. At least, those she chose to tell.

"Where did you find it?" Alice asked. She pushed a tiny switch. An inch sized laser disc popped out.

"Hidden in our honeymoon suite. And yes, you're right. It's the prototype camera Drake's been installing in our classified technology facility."

Alice cackled. "He videotaped your wedding night?"

"I don't think it's very funny."

"No, I'm sorry." Alice picked up her mug again. "Why?"

Miranda finished the question. "Video our wedding night? Beats me. I've been trying to figure that out since I left him in Las Vegas."

Alice tapped her chin. "I wonder if it could be --"

Rapid pounding on the door interrupted her.

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