My Man Pendleton (4 page)

He hadn't bothered with the Kevlar that Chang had suggested, but he had opted for his Hugo Boss. Now he ran a hand quickly over the finely woven, charcoal-colored wool, nudged a little tighter the Valentino necktie knotted expertly at his throat, and made his way toward the room Mrs. Mason had indicated. The sweet aroma of old books and cigars met him first. Then he entered a room furnished in Early Rich Guy, occupied by four of the more contemporary versions.

The library was small when compared to the brief sample he'd seen of the rest of the house, but it was still bigger than the studio apartment Pendleton had occupied while he was in college. Nevertheless, intimacy prevailed here. The ceiling was low and decorated with ornate molding, and the walls on three sides were covered with shelves—most of them crammed full of books in every color and texture available. Interspersed with the books were more knickknacks, more family photographs, more antiques. Another massive Oriental rug, this one spattered with rich jewel tones of emerald, ruby, sapphire, and topaz, spanned much of the floor, while illumination came from twin torchieres of brass and milk glass that stood sentry on opposite sides of the room.

"Pendleton!" McClellan, Sr. greeted him the moment he rounded the entry. "There you are, at last."

"Am I late, sir?"

McClellan, Sr. waved a cigar gregariously through the air. "Not at all. You're right on time. Cigar?"

Pendleton had actually always preferred Marlboros, but he'd quit smoking almost five years ago. So naturally, he now nodded enthusiastically at his employer's offer. "Thank you, sir."

"They're Cohibas," his host stated, as if Pendleton should know what that meant. "Would you prefer a Churchill or a robusto?"

"Uh…
"

Now this was going to be tricky. The Cult of the Cigar was something that had flourished in the years that Pendleton had been away from high-powered corporate life. Although he recalled that Churchill was a rather prominent figure from twentieth-century British history, he couldn't imagine smoking the man. And, of course, he had absolutely no idea what a robusto was.

Finally, he replied, "Why don't you choose for me, sir?"

McClellan, Sr. nodded his approval as he headed for a small wooden box that sat alone on a table near an oxblood leather chair. "All right. You seem like the robusto type to me. And these are very mild. You'll love them," he added as he deftly snipped the end off the cigar with a tiny pair of strangely shaped scissors.

"Thank you, sir," Pendleton said as he took the proffered cigar.

He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger as McClellan, Sr. had done upon removing it from the box, then, because he'd seen James Bond perform the gesture in movies, he lifted it to his nose for an idle sniff. What exactly he was sniffing for, he couldn't have possibly said. But the cigar did have a rather pleasing, bittersweet aroma.

Holt McClellan, Jr. stepped in with a flick of what appeared to be—and doubtless was—a solid gold lighter, and Pendleton puffed robustly on his robusto with what he hoped was acceptable relish.

McClellan, Jr. was the oldest of four sons, Pendleton knew, and, judging by the little scene with his father earlier in the day, the younger McClellan seemed to be agreeable enough. Probably in his mid-thirties, the junior was clearly planning to take over the reins of Hensley's upon the senior's retirement. Likewise, it was clear that the senior McClellan was grooming his namesake for just such a scenario.

"What do you think?" McClellan, Jr. asked after Pendleton had enjoyed a good half-dozen puffs.

As fluent as Pendleton was in corporate speak, he'd received absolutely no education at all in cigarese, so he had no idea how to answer. So he casually expelled a stream of fragrant white smoke and replied, "That, McClellan, is one fine cigar."

"Pendleton, I'd like you to meet my other sons," McClellan, Sr. interrupted. "Holt, as you probably know, is the oldest. Mick, my second, is currently unavailable."

"Unavailable sir?"

"Last we heard, he was hugging the side of some mountain in
Tibet
. That was a good month ago. God only knows where he is now.
Transylvania
, maybe."

"
Transylvania
, sir?"

"He's working his way around the world in alphabetical order," McClellan, Sr. said.

Pendleton arched his brows in surprise. "Wouldn't it be more prudent to go around the world in a more, shall we say, geographical manner? East to west? North to south? That kind of thing?"

"Well, Mick never did like doing things the easy way," his employer stated negligently. "Says it's not manly."

"Ah."

McClellan, Sr. moved toward a sandy-haired son who appeared to be about Pendleton's age. But instead of the corporate uniform of suit and tie, this younger McClellan was dressed in a pair of baggy, cognac-colored corduroys and an even baggier, burgundy-colored sweater. Chic tortoiseshell glasses were perched on his nose, and his dark blond hair was bound fashionably—or perhaps rebelliously, if one was a McClellan—in a shoulder-length ponytail. Like his father and brothers, he was armed with a cigar, and he was clearly not afraid to use it.

"Dirk, here," McClellan, Sr. continued as he clapped a hand over his son's shoulder, "is a professor of men's studies at U of L."

"Men's studies, sir?" Belatedly, Pendleton realized he had asked the question of his host, and not of the man who could more accurately answer it, thereby dismissing young Dirk in a manner that showed Very Bad Form. After voicing the question, Pendleton sensed instinctively that he had committed a grave faux pas.

He also sensed it by the way Dirk stiffened and clutched his drink with enough force to whiten his knuckles. And also by the snippy little tone in the other man's voice when he assured Pendleton, "Men's studies is an
extremely
important part of the liberal arts curriculum at U of L. It's an area of scholarship that's been sadly neglected for far too long, on campuses across the country."

In comment, all Pendleton could manage was, "Ah." In no way did he mean for the remark to be encouraging. Unfortunately, Dirk took it in exactly that way.

"Proponents of men's studies," he continued, still rather snippily, "delve far more deeply into the realm of manhood than the unfortunate stereotype that lingers from the genesis of the men's movement."

"Ah," Pendleton murmured again.

And again, Dirk misunderstood. "The fur-wearing, drum-beating, poetry-spouting stereotype, I mean," he continued. "The one that people have come to associate with anyone who has the temerity to suggest that a man's experience in the world is every bit as important as a woman's. God forbid we should let men have their say in this the late twentieth century. Oh, no."

Pendleton nodded, hopefully sympathetically, and reiterated, "Ah."

"The father-son relationship alone," Dirk went on, evidently anxious to don his own metaphorical fur and beat his own proverbial drum, "is an area rife for scholarly study. Do you realize how many perfectly good men have been ruined by a total lack of fathering?" he demanded, arcing his cigar through the air for emphasis.

"Ah … no."

"Or worse still, by shoddy fathering? Do you realize how many men have fathers who were never even present in their lives? Fathers who spent their weekends working instead of tending to their sons' needs? Who left the entire shaping of the male experience to their sons' mothers, for God's sake? Who selfishly thought it more important to carve a niche for
themselves
in the world, instead of helping their sons form some kind of cohesive—"

"Dirk."

McClellan, Sr.'s single-syllable interruption put an effective—and immediate—stop to Dirk's meandering, though, Pendleton had to admit, compelling, thesis.

"Anyway," the younger McClellan concluded, glancing down at his Hush Puppies. "My work is very,
very
important."

"Ah," Pendleton said again. Then he expanded his response by adding, "I see."

"And this," McClellan, Sr. said as he moved on to the fourth son, "is my youngest boy, Bart. We're fortunate that he could be with us tonight. Normally, he makes his home in
Camp
Lejeune
, but he's visiting on leave. Marines."

Actually, Pendleton probably could have guessed that part, seeing as how young Bart was
wearing his dress blues, complete with sword, in spite of the fact that the occasion was dinner with his family. Then again, he thought, recalling his colleagues' warnings of that morning, maybe keeping a sharp object within reach at all times wasn't such a bad idea.

By way of a greeting, Bart snapped to attention and saluted Pendleton. Actually saluted him. How very off-putting.

"Captain Bartholomew McClellan,
sir,"
he corrected his father's introduction and avoided Pendleton's gaze.

"Uh," Pendleton replied eloquently, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. So he only clutched his cigar more tightly.
"Semper paratus?"

Bart's hands sprang to the small of his back, then he spread his legs and assumed a new position Pendleton supposed was meant to look more relaxed, but not really. Still avoiding his gaze, Bart replied formally,
"Semper fidelis. Semper paratus
is the Coast Guard."

"Ah. Well.
Semper fidelis
to you, too."

Bart nodded once, then turned to his father. "Request permission to speak with you about a private matter, sir?"

"Of course, Bart." McClellan, Sr. puffed his cigar a few times, then eyed his youngest son warily. "This isn't about that Donna person again, is it?"

Bart's face suddenly flamed fuchsia, a color that did nothing to complement his uniform. His gaze flickered once to Pendleton, then back to his father. "Da-a-ad. I told you it's
private,"
he whined softly.

As McClellan, Sr. and Captain McClellan moved to the other side of the room in quiet conversation, Pendleton considered McClellan, Jr. and Professor McClellan again. For a moment, he wondered where the three sons' wives were. Then he decided quickly that the McClellan testosterone level being what it was, the little women were probably all at home skinning fresh kill, and wondering what to do about the waxy yellow buildup on their husbands' pedestals.

The McClellans were, to say the least, a colorful family. For some reason, Pendleton felt as if he had suddenly stumbled into a Preston Sturges movie circa l930ish, replete with a cast of the usual suspects. The only thing missing was the madcap heiress, a perky little redhead in a gold lamé gown, who had an equally perky little name. Like Pepper or Dody or Annabelle or—

"Kit!"

Yeah, that'd do.

At McClellan, Sr.'s outburst, Pendleton turned to greet what he assumed could only be the mysterious, toothsome Miss McClellan. But instead of a redhead, he found himself staring at what his mother referred to as a dishwater blond. And in place of the gold lamé gown was a little black dress that fairly shrieked,
Va-va-va-voooooom.
Miss McClellan herself, however, wasn't particularly little. Nor, he noted with some trepidation, did she appear to be in any way perky.

What she was in her black high heels was close to Pendleton's own six-feet-plus, and every inch of her seemed to crackle with energy. She wasn't by any means beautiful—her features were too angular, too strong, too striking, to be labeled
beautiful.
Nevertheless, there was something very compelling about her. The smile she wore held a hint of mischief, and her blue eyes fairly sparkled with anticipation. What she might possibly have been anticipating, however, Pendleton was hesitant to ponder.

"You must be Pendleton," she greeted him easily as she drew near.

He tipped his head forward. "If I must be, then I suppose I am."

She threw her head back, giving her dark blond, chin-length curls a dramatic shake. Then she sighed with all the melodrama of a madcap heiress, and announced, "I'm Katherine Atherton McClellan. My friends call me Kit. You, however, may call me Miss McClellan."

"Kit," her father called from the other side of the room, his voice edged with warning. "Play nice."

She chuckled, her smile dazzling, and her gaze never left Pendleton's as she asked, "Who says I'm not playing nice?"

Oh, yeah. He could see her taking a bite out of
Washington
. Easy. Probably from his butt.

McClellan, Sr. cut a quick swath across the library and stepped between him and Kit, though whether to make introductions or read them the rules of the fight, Pendleton couldn't have said.

"Pendleton," he began, his voice level and smooth, offering absolutely no clue as to what he might be thinking, "This is my daughter, Katherine. Call her whatever you want to. In my opinion, the list of possibilities is endless."

Something strangely melancholy shot through her expression at her father's words, but she recovered herself admirably. "Can I fix you a drink, Pendleton?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you." Automatically, he began to request his usual Scotch and water, completely forgetting for a moment who his new employer was. "Sco—uh, Bourbon and water," he hastily corrected himself when every eye in the room snapped toward him. "Or just, um
…
Bourbon straight over ice?"