My Man Pendleton (18 page)

"Not far," she replied, her words emerging from her mouth amid a wisp of white fog. "I found a place on the street near Ninth and Broadway."

"That's five blocks away."

She nodded, but didn't look at him. "Like I said. Not far."

"Maybe not during the day, but at night—"

"I made it to the hotel just fine, didn't I?" she snapped. "And it was dark when I arrived."

"You were lucky," he told her.

"I'm fully equipped to take care of myself, Mr. McClellan." Her tentative tone of voice, however, belied her certainty, as did the tremor that shook her when she slid her fingers from his arm and shoved both hands into her coat pockets.

"Gee, keep saying it like that and you might believe it yourself someday."

She glared at him. "What makes you think I don't believe it?"

"Could be the way you glanced down at the ground when you said it," he told her as they continued walking. "Or it could be the way you didn't sound anywhere at all convinced. Or maybe it's the simple fact that I just don't believe you."

She hastened her step as they approached

"No," he responded, matching her stride effortlessly. "But I'm a pretty good judge of people."

"I find that hard to believe.
"

"Why?"

In direct contrast to her haste to be rid of him, she stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk and spun around to face him. "Because you're completely removed from the masses, that's why. You don't even know any normal people, so how could you begin to be a judge of them?"

She strode quickly forward once more, so Holt
hurried alongside to keep up. "Who says I don't know any normal people?"

"How could you? You come from one of the state's most prominent families," she reminded him. "You've had nothing but privilege, nothing but advantage, since day one. And you've worked for none of it. You've earned none of it."

This time Holt was the one who stopped dead in his tracks. Faith kept walking for a half-dozen paces before she realized she had proceeded alone, then she, too, stopped and turned, her expression a silent question mark.

"I haven't earned it?" he asked. "Says who?"

She blinked at him, but said nothing in response. So slowly, Holt began to walk again, covering the distance between them with measured, deliberate strides.

"There are a lot of different ways to earn things, Mrs. Ivory," he said as he approached her. "There's starting at the bottom and working your way to the top. There's paying your dues in less tangible ways, through life experience. And there's simple day-to-day survival."

When he stood face to face with her again, he halted, gazing down into her eyes, nearly drowning in the eddy of emotions he saw there.

"Yes well I'm familiar with all of those," she said, her tone colder than the wintry air that surrounded them. "But I find it hard to believe that
you've
experienced any of them."

"You might be surprised what I've experienced," he told her.

In response, she turned and began to walk away, this time with a less hurried pace. Holt followed, staying even with her. Yet neither said another word until they slowed to a halt at the corner of Ninth and Broadway.

When Faith spoke again, it was after pointing to an older model sedan parked alone across the street. "There's where I'm parked."

The traffic on Broadway was surprisingly heavy for a Monday night, so they waited at the corner for the light to change before crossing. And as they did, Holt realized his last chance with Faith was quickly slipping away. He didn't know why it was so essential that he see her again. He only knew that it was. So while he had her captive on the corner, he turned to her again.

"Have dinner with me this week," he said softly. "Tomorrow night. Please."

He could see that she wanted to decline, but she said nothing right away. Instead, she only watched the signal opposite them, a red flashing hand that seemed to be urging her,
Don't do it
…
don't do it … don't do it…

For several moments, she remained silent. And then the signal changed. "Okay," she said softly. "I'll have dinner with you tomorrow night. Call me at work in the morning."

Chapter 9

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A
bsolutely nothing in life brought Pendleton greater joy than rolling his car to a stop on the cobbled court in front of Cherrywood with Kit McClellan at his side. Not even that interlude on the dance floor that the two of them had shared in
Veranda
Bay
, which, at the time, he'd found more enjoyable than he liked to admit. But it had taken them four days to get from there to here, and the sparkle of that moment had tarnished a
looooong
time ago.

Kit McClellan, he had learned the hard way, was not a trustworthy woman.

For some reason, after dropping her back at her bungalow at the Veranda Bay Resort, he'd felt compelled to hang around, just to be sure she didn't try anything funny. Like, oh, say … escaping, for instance. And imagine his lack of surprise when, less than thirty minutes later, she had slipped out the door with suitcase in hand.

What had ensued was a bout of island-hopping unlike anything Pendleton had ever experienced, culminating in a rather unforgettable—as much as he wished he could forget it—incident at the airport in San Juan, where Kit had almost managed to give him the slip. Looking back, he supposed it really hadn't been anything
too
major. She'd just kind of, oh
…
shoved him from behind, yelled to a gaggle of security guards that he had a bomb, and then taken
off
running at breakneck speed in the opposite direction.

At the time, however, Pendleton had been a bit miffed. But once he'd explained the situation to the guards—no easy feat, considering the fact that he barely knew what was going on himself—and once he'd been strip-searched and interrogated for more than an hour by the Puerto Rican authorities; everything had been fine. Well, sort of fine. There had been that compulsive need for a shower, however, that he still hadn't quite shaken.

Luckily for him, he'd noted the terminal toward which Kit had been running before they'd slapped the handcuffs on him. Unluckily for him, however, it had emptied out into a half-dozen gates, any of which could have been her final destination. He'd had to resort to his dubious masculine wiles and his questionable good looks to cajole a terminal operator to search the manifests for a name. And, thanks to the warning he'd received from the other Hensley's VPs, not for the name Katherine Atherton McClellan, either.

Ultimately, Pendleton and the employee performing the search—a charming young woman named Rafaela, to whom he owed a night of dinner and dancing the next time he found himself in San Juan—had decided that the person traveling first class under the moniker Anne O'Cleves was, more than likely, the object of his pursuit. And how fortuitous that the plane had had a three-hour layover before flying off to St. Maarten, so it was still on the ground.

It hadn't been pretty removing Kit from that plane. And now here he sat with the queen herself, in front of her palace, wanting to chop off Her Majesty's head.

"We're home, Your Highness," he stated unnecessarily. "Now get out of my car."

She uttered a soft sigh. "Gee, Pendleton. Keep being so nice to me, and you're going to turn my head."

"Get out of my car," he repeated, surprised at how even he managed to keep his voice.

She eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. "You're still steamed about the
San Juan
thing, aren't you?"

Somehow, he refrained from comment.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm really sorry. It was just a joke. I had no idea they'd actually strip-search you."

"Get out. Now."

"Aren't you going to walk me to the door?"

"No."

"Daddy's going to be disappointed if you don't carry me in thrown over your shoulder, kicking and screaming."

"No."

"Oh, come on, Pendleton. It'll be fun."

"No."

"Novak carried me in that way."

"No."

She sighed heavily again and settled back into her seat, clearly not going anywhere.

"Miss McClellan, I have better things to do with my time than be a plaything for you and your fa
ther. You'll excuse me if I reiterate: Get
…
out
…
of … my … car."

She folded her arms over her midsection. "Daddy won't be pleased. And you won't have a car for me to get out of if you lose your job. The repo guys will come and take it back to Status Symbols-R-Us. Then where will you be?"

He studied her intently, inhaled a deep breath, and counted to ten. Then, when he realized he was still furious, he went on to twenty. Then thirty. Then fifty. Ultimately, he decided he would pass out from oxygen deprivation before he would ever be able to feel anything but outrage at Kit. Right now, he only wanted to be rid of her. Whatever it took to achieve that, Pendleton would do.

"I'll take you in," he said through gritted teeth. "But I'm not hauling you over my shoulder."

"Party pooper."

He unbuckled his seat belt with a vicious snap, then opened his door and unfolded himself from inside the tiny roadster. Cautiously, he strode around the front of the car, his eyes never straying from Kit McClellan. Still playing the role of entitled heiress—as if she were entitled to anything more than a swift kick in the pants—she waited patiently for him to complete his circuit and halt by the passenger-side door. Then she gazed through the window with a smile befitting the most despotic royalty, clearly expecting him to do her the honor of opening the door.

Rolling his eyes, Pendleton reached for the handle, only to find the door locked. In response to his inability to open the door, Kit's smile only grew broader. Then she leaned over his seat and pushed down the lock on the driver's side door, as well.

Okay. That did it. No more.

Pendleton didn't know how he was going to explain it to the insurance company—and frankly, at the moment, he didn't care—but he curled his fingers closed tight above the canvas roof of the convertible, and, with one clean effort, drove his fist right through the fabric. The expression on Kit's face when he did was more than worth whatever rate hike he would have to endure in his premiums as a result. Then he gripped the canvas with rigid fingers and rent a Kit-sized hole right through it.

"N-now h-how are you going to f-fix that?" she asked, masking her fear very nicely. Well, except for that nasty stammer and the terror gleaming in her eyes.

He inhaled deeply, feeling his chest swell with manly ability. "I'll do what any other man in my situation would do."

"Which is?"

"Duct it."

"Oh."

"Now then," he continued, proud of his ability to maintain a thin veneer of civility. "Either you can get out of my car the traditional way…"
He gazed down at her through the gaping tear. "Or I can reach in and drag you out. Your choice, Miss McClellan. Which will it be?"

She lifted a hand to her neck, then reluctantly unlocked the door. Pendleton jerked it open before she could change her mind, and stood aside for her to exit. The moment she had cleared the door, however, he roped his arm around her waist, lifted her from the cobbled driveway, and tossed her, kicking and screaming, over his shoulder. Fine. They'd do it her way. For some reason, he suddenly liked the idea.

He carried her up the walkway and lifted the door knocker for three quick raps, then waited with one arm looped around her legs and the other hand cupped over her fanny, until Mrs. Mason answered the door. To her credit, the housekeeper only arched one snowy eyebrow in response to the scene that greeted her. Then she stepped aside to allow them entry, with the quietly offered announcement that Mr. McClellan, Sr. wasn't home, but that Mr. McClellan, Jr. was entertaining a guest in the dining room.