My Man Pendleton (23 page)

"Would that be that you were hanged or you were hung?" she asked. "I never did know the difference between the two."

That, at last, roused him from inside. And when he poked his head through the door, Kit had to catch her breath at the sight of him, because he was really … very … quite, well … breathtaking.

His dark hair was tousled all over his head, though whether blown there by the cold wind or because he hadn't bothered to comb it since rising, she had no idea. Nor did it matter. Because even tousled, Pendleton was way too handsome. Worse, he had on a chocolate-brown sweater almost the same color as his eyes, one that did absolutely nothing to hide what she knew were a phenomenal chest and spectacular shoulders. Worse still, he was wearing a pair of those faded 501s, and she realized that they were worn and snug in all the right places.

His breath left his mouth in a rush of white steam, as if he were breathing very hard in an effort to contain himself. "Go. Away."

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

He dipped his head in defeat. "No, you didn't. You wanted to do something to bother me. Admit it."

She gasped at him. "That's not true."

And much to her surprise, Kit discovered that it really
wasn't
true.

What an interesting development.

She tucked her hands into her armpits. Man, it was cold out here. And not just because of Pendleton's reception, either. "What are you doing in there?" she asked him again.

For a moment, she didn't think he was going to answer. Then, out of nowhere, he smiled, the way a man would smile if he were doing something he really enjoyed. So Kit felt pretty certain the smile wasn't for her, but for whatever he'd been doing before she intruded.

"Building the perfect beast," he told her.

She smiled back. "Oooh, sounds neato. Can I help?"

He glanced over his shoulder, then back at Kit. "There are those who might argue that you're the design for the perfect beast, you know."

Her smile fell. How nice of him to remind her.

"And you, naturally, would be one of them," she said, not quite able to keep the hurt from her voice.

He seemed to give the suggestion weighty consideration before replying, "Mmm
…
not necessarily."

"Look, can I come in or not?"

"Why would you want to?"

She shrugged. "Just to visit. I've missed you, Pendleton. You haven't been home much." She told herself she did
not
sound petulant when she said that.

"I've been home every night," he objected.

"Oh, sure, your body has."

Now his smile turned into something else, something that was decidedly—uh-oh—playful. "Been noticing my body have you?" he asked.

"Only its absence."

"You just said it was here."

"You know what I meant."

"No, I don't. Enlighten me."

Yeah, she'd enlighten him, all right. She'd enlighten him all the way back to New Jersey if he didn't knock off the boyish flirtation bit. Like she was dumb enough to fall for
that.

"Look, can I come in or not?" she repeated. He actually seemed disappointed that she'd put a stop to their repartee. Like he was really the type of man to go for repartee. But he jerked his head back toward the interior in silent invitation, then disappeared inside himself. Before he had a chance to rescind the offer, Kit followed, only to find the dirt-packed floor of the shed-thing covered with lots of car part-things. Or rather, she decided upon closer inspection, what appeared to be
…
bike part-things?

"What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm working on my bike," he replied, verifying her suspicions.

"Like a Schwinn bike?" she asked.

He shook his head and thrust a thumb over his shoulder. "Like a Harley-Davidson bike."

She looked in the direction he'd indicated and, sure enough, saw a big ol' Harley hog—well, most of a big ol' Harley hog, anyway—leaning against the side of the shed-thing. One wheel was off, and the chain was drooping, but all in all, the big black monstrosity looked very scary.

"Oh," she said.

He glanced over at her with a curious gaze. "Oh?"

She scrunched up her shoulders. "Well, it's just that you don't much seem like the Harley-Davidson type."

"But I do seem like the Schwinn type?"

"Well, no…"

"Then why the look of disbelief?"

Good question, she thought. Too bad she didn't have a good answer to go with. "I don't know. It's just unexpected, that's all. Does it run?"

He laughed as he stooped beside the collection of oily, greasy guy things scattered on the dirt floor, and she realized then that his hands were streaked and smudged black in places with the remnants of his labor. For some reason, the sight of his dirty hands skimming so carefully over the odds and ends sent a thrill of heat crashing right through her body. With no small effort, she shook the sensation off.

"Usually it runs," he said as he picked through the assortment of bits and pieces, his mind obviously focused more on those than on the conversation at hand. "But it's a pretty old bike, so I have to keep it in shape. The weather should be turning warm before long, and I want it to be ready to take out on the first good day."

"I bet it's fun," she said.

He smiled as he retrieved a big, round metal thing from the assortment of parts and began to wind it around a long, cylindrical metal thing. "Yeah. It is."

She watched the motion of his grease-spattered hands, the gentle back-and-forth of thumb and forefinger as he slowly, leisurely
…
oh God, so rhythmically
…
spun the round part down lower and lower over the cylindrical part. And for some strange reason, her heart began to pound like mad, sending her blood zinging through her veins with the speed of a locomotive.

She swallowed hard. "So
…
do you usually ride alone?"

"Uh-huh."

"You don't take any passengers?"

"Nuh-uh. Not anymore."

Not anymore? she wondered. "Who did you used to take?"

He glanced up quickly, his eyes cool and distant. Somehow she got the feeling that he wished he hadn't made his last statement, and that he wanted very badly to change the subject. But when he spoke, it was in fact in answer to her question. Unfortunately.

"Sherry," he said as he dropped his gaze back to the floor.

Kit wasn't sure she wanted to know, but asked, "Sherry?"

He sighed heavily and tossed the two pieces he had joined together back down amid the other clutter. Then, restless, he picked up a wrench and moved closer to his motorcycle, where he hunkered down to unscrew a bolt on the wheel that was still attached. For a long time, Kit didn't think he was going to answer her. Then, in one swift motion, he suddenly hurled the wrench hard enough to send it crashing through the window on the other side of the shed.

He must have seen her flinch from the corner of
his eye, because he dipped his head in what resembled an apology. When he looked back up at Kit again, his eyes were turbulent and weary.

"Yeah, Sherry," he finally said, his voice low and gravelly. "Sherry Pendleton."

Something cold settled in Kit's midsection, a sensation she'd felt often enough in her life to recognize as profound disappointment. Even though she knew what he was going to say, she asked halfheartedly, "Sherry Pendleton, your sister?"

He shook his head. "No. Sherry Pendleton, my wife."

Chapter 11

«
^
»

"
Y
our
wife?"
Kit exclaimed. "You're married?"

It took a moment for Pendleton to realize how badly he'd misspoken. "My
ex
-wife," he quickly corrected himself. "Sherry and I have been divorced for almost three years."

Kit looked absolutely stunned by the news. "In
Veranda
Bay
," she said, her voice as quiet as the breeze blowing into the shed, "when you said you were in love once, but that she left you … that's who you were talking about, wasn't it? Your wife?"

"Ex-wife," he corrected her, stalling instead of answering her question.

"But that's who you were talking about, wasn't it?" she persisted.

"Yes." He uttered the single word through teeth clenched so hard, his jaw hurt.

"But you said then that you didn't know if she loved you."

He sighed, amazed that Kit McClellan, of all people, would try to defend Sherry. Of course, she'd never met Sherry. She didn't know her the way Pendleton did. "I'm not sure Sherry loved me so much as she loved what I could do for her," he said.

The look that filled her eyes, so dark, so lonely, so obviously in sync with his own feelings, was simply too much for him to bear. So he dropped his gaze back down to the disassembled parts of his motorcycle and tried to focus on those instead.

Suddenly, however, the last thing he wanted to do was work on his bike. Not surprisingly, his focus was elsewhere, on a time in his life that was as broken up and scattered as the remnants of his motorcycle.

Although he told himself he didn't want to discuss that time with Kit, he heard himself saying softly, "Sherry and I grew up together in the same neighborhood in
New Jersey
. According to our moms, we started talking about getting married when we were six years old."

"Oh, that's so sweet."

When he glanced up, he saw that Kit hadn't moved an inch from the spot where she'd been standing. Yet somehow, suddenly, she seemed much closer. Slowly, unmindful of the dirt, she dropped down to sit on the floor, crossing her legs before her, pretzel-fashion.

"Not really," he said. "By fifth grade, we weren't speaking to each other. In fact, we had kind of an on-again, off-again relationship until I graduated from college. But when I came home from Harvard with my MBA and a half-dozen job offers from some of the best corporations in the country, Sherry dumped Marv Polanski, who owned three
very
successful Chevron stations, and she took up with me again. We married about six months later."

"So what makes you think she didn't love you?" Kit asked, her voice sounding desperate somehow.

Pendleton reached into his back pocket for a rag to wipe the grease from his hands. He took his time to perform the action, but his words were quick when he spoke. "As soon as I graduated from college, I entered the fast lane, way above the speed limit. I was twenty-four and found myself with a high-stakes job, a high-powered position, a high-stress lifestyle, and a wife with high-priced tastes. Are you getting the picture here?"

He braved a quick look at Kit again, only to find her still sitting transfixed. She did, however, nod in response to his question, so he figured she was keeping up with him.

"To be fair to Sherry," he continued, "I knew that about her when we got married. In fact, we both spent a lot of our time as kids making plans on rising above the old neighborhood. We were both equally guilty in wanting the finer things in life, and I spent money as fast as she did."

"So what went wrong?"

"Nothing, for about four years. We were very happy. At least, Sherry was. She was living the life of a corporate wife—lunching, shopping, and partying to her heart's content." He paused long enough to emit a derisive chuckle. "Oh, yeah. Sherry's life was
great.
But after four years, I started to realize that I had no life at all. My job consumed nearly every waking hour. I was pretty much the big-wheeling corporate type you described at dinner that first night at your house," he said. "My life was just a big, fat zero when it came to leisurely enjoyment. I was a complete loser in the game of life."

She had the decency to look chagrined at that. "I'm sorry about that," she said. "I had no right to—"

"You had every right," he said with a shrug. "You were totally on the mark, at least where my old life was concerned." But Pendleton wasn't that man anymore, and he wouldn't make the same mistakes twice.