My Man Pendleton (11 page)

No, Faith's day didn't really get much,
much
worse until after Stephanie had driven her back to her
Highlands
apartment. Until after she was safe and sound at home, had towel-dried her hair and slipped into her favorite flannel pajamas, had brewed a cup of hot chamomile tea, and had settled down to enjoy a rented copy of
My Man Godfrey.
Just as the credits for the film began to roll, there was a soft knock at her front door.

And that was a sound she seldom heard. Although she had plenty of acquaintances, people with whom she could pass the time pleasantly enough, there really wasn't anyone Faith considered a friend. Certainly there was no one who would pop in for an impromptu visit. She'd gradually abandoned all her friends after she'd married Stephen, and she'd been too embarrassed to look up any of them again after his death. She didn't want to have to explain things. It was just easier to be alone.

Carefully, she set her mug of tea on the coffee table and rose from the sofa. Quietly, she padded in her stocking feet to the front door. Cautiously, she peeked through the peephole. And crestfallen, she saw Holt McClellan standing on the other side.

She should have just gone back for her keys when she'd had the chance, she thought. Gee, hindsight really was twenty-twenty.

"Yes?" she called through the door, keeping her eye pressed to the peephole.

"Mrs. Ivory?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"It's Holt McClellan. Of Hensley's Distilleries?"

"What do you want?"

Belatedly, she realized how rude the question must have sounded. But really, what difference did it make? She had no reason to be polite to the man. Their exchange earlier in the day had made clear their feelings for each other's outlooks on life—and for each other—and they were scarcely on the same side when it came to their personal and professional philosophies. What did Faith care if she offended the man? Strangely, however, she found that she
did
care.

"You, uh, you left something in my office this morning," he told her. "But I imagine you've already discovered that."

"My keys," she said unnecessarily.

"Your keys," he concurred.

As was always the case when Faith was home, the chain was in place on the door. So she braved twisting the key in the lock, braved loosing the deadbolt, and even braved edging the door open a scant few inches to look beyond it.

The peephole had distorted him more than she'd realized. Only when she saw Holt McClellan standing there in the flesh did she recall how handsome he was, how blond, how large. How much like Stephen. Faith swallowed hard and tried not to panic. But when he began to lift his hand, her fear—her irrational, irrepressible fear—betrayed her. Automatically, she closed her eyes and waited in arrested silence for him to—

"Mrs. Ivory?"

She snapped her eyes open again. Holt McClellan stood exactly as he had before, except that now, he was extending a ring of keys toward her and he was looking at her as if she had lost her mind. Of course, who could blame him? There were times when she looked at herself in the mirror in exactly that same way.

Pushing the sensation away, she reached beyond the door for her keys, only to watch them be withdrawn again. When she glanced up at Holt McClellan's face, he was smiling. Softly, sweetly, seductively.

Oh, my.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no,
she thought.
Absolutely not.
But her voice betrayed her conviction when she stammered, "Wh-what for?"

"Because our conversation today was interrupted before we could finish it," he said easily.

"I know," she replied. "I was the one who interrupted it."

"So you were. I can only wonder why you did."

"I-I just didn't see any reason to continue our discussion."

"Why not? Things were just starting to heat up."

That was the problem.

Faith bit her lip to keep the rash words from spilling out of her mouth. "I just
…
That is, we didn't seem to be
…
I mean, the whole conversation was just…"

"What?"

She licked her lips against the dryness that had overtaken her mouth and forced herself to look away from his eyes. His beautiful midnight-blue eyes. The eyes that had created no small amount of turbulence in her midsection the moment she had entered his office. The eyes that continued to dazzle her now.

"We both, um…"
she tried again. "We both seem to be pretty strong in our convictions, that's all."

"Is that surprising?"

"Well, no, but
…
but…"

"But what?" he asked.

She raked a hand restlessly through her unbound, still-damp hair and pretended she knew where she was going with her thoughts. "Look, if we're going to start this thing up again, can I at least change out of my pajamas?"

He arched his eyebrows in surprise. "You're already in your pajamas? But it's barely seven-thirty."

"Yeah, well
…
somewhere in the world, it's bedtime."

He quirked a smile at that. "Somewhere in the world it's mambo time, too, but you don't see me putting on my ruffled shirt, do you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you."

He chuckled, a sound that was more nervous than humorous, and she was amazed to witness the blush that crept over his features. "I'm sorry. I guess that didn't make much sense, did it? You make me say dumb things, that's all."

"I
make
you
say dumb things?" Oh, now
that
was an interesting development, seeing as how she'd been thinking the same thing about herself. "But I hardly know you."

"That's the problem," he responded. "Beautiful women always make me nervous until I get to know them better." He paused a brief, but telling, moment before adding, "And even then, I always seem to make a mess of things."

A little burst of heat exploded in Faith's belly and quickly spread outward to warm the rest of her. "M-Mr. McClellan," she stammered. "I-I'm not sure it's appropriate for us to—"

"You're absolutely right," he interjected, taking a step backward, clearly knowing he'd overstepped the bounds of
…
of whatever it was that had them bound. "I apologize," he continued hastily. "Like I said, beautiful women make me say dumb things. And you're just very—" He halted abruptly, then cleared his throat with some difficulty. "Here—" He extended the keys out to her again. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll go."

Faith reached for her keys, but no sooner had she closed her fingers over them than she discovered that she didn't really want Holt McClellan to leave. Yet she had no idea what to say to make him stay, now that she'd made him feel uncomfortable. So she only retrieved her keys and thanked him quietly and began to close her front door. But almost as if they had a mind of their own, her fingers, instead of turning the deadbolt and key in the lock, unhooked the chain and opened the door wider.

"You didn't have to come all this way to bring them back," she said. "You could have just mailed them to me."

He had turned around to make his way toward the stairs, but at her quietly uttered statement, he spun around again. His wool, charcoal-colored overcoat swung open with the action, to reveal an obviously expensive suit of the same hue beneath. He was very, very handsome. And he was clearly surprised that she was continuing their interaction. Perhaps as surprised as Faith was herself.

"No, I couldn't," he told her.

"Why not?"

"You're not in the phone book. I couldn't find your address."

Oh, yeah. She'd forgotten about that. So if that was the case, then— "Then how did you find out where I live?" she asked him.

He smiled apologetically. "I, uh, I have a friend who's highly placed at the phone company. He owed me a favor. Actually, it was more like I blackmailed him," he confided. "He gave me your address."

She wasn't sure if she should be angry about that or not. Strangely, she found that she wasn't. "Then, once you got my address, you could have mailed my keys to me," she pointed out.

He met her gaze levelly. "No, I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because then I wouldn't have been able to see you."

"Oh."

The soft, single syllable was all she could manage, because the fire in her midsection began to burn hotter. It nearly exploded when she glanced down and remembered that she was standing there in her pajamas. She felt heat seep into her face as she fingered the collar of her shirt ineffectually. "I, um…"
she said eloquently. "Uh…"

He laughed when he understood her train of thought. "I guess I should have phoned you before I came over. But your apartment was on my way home, so it just seemed easier to
…
But now that I'm here, it's not easy at all to
…
What I mean is…"
He laughed again. "We both seem to be having a little trouble with the English language tonight, don't we? Funny. It wasn't a problem this morning."

Faith gripped the door harder and forced herself not to invite him inside. Their encounter this morning had been entirely different from the one they were having now. For one thing, they'd both had their guards up. Now, however…

"Yeah, about that," she said. "I'm sorry I left so abruptly."

"So am I," he murmured. "Why did you?"

"You … you weren't what I was expecting."

"That makes two of us," he concurred. "You weren't what I was expecting, either."

She told herself not to ask, but heard herself say anyway, "Is that good?"

The smile he gave her this time was cryptic. "I haven't decided yet."

"Oh."

"What were you expecting?" he asked, deftly turning the tables.

"I'm not sure. Just not … you."

"Is that good?" he echoed her earlier question. Faith bit her lip, wondering just how honest she should be. Then she decided that there was no harm in speaking the truth. Not anymore. "Not really," she said softly.

Her response seemed to surprise him. "Why not?"

"You remind me of someone. Someone I'd rather not be reminded of. Seeing you this morning
…
It sort of knocked me off-kilter, that's all."

"I'd apologize, but there's not much I can do about the way I look."

And Faith wouldn't ask him to change his appearance if he could. Even if he did evoke way too many memories of Stephen, there was no reason in the world to alter Holt McClellan's looks. Why mess with perfection, after all?

"No, there's no need for you to apologize," she said softly. "No harm done."
Not yet anyway.
"Well, thank you for bringing my keys," she hurried on. "It was nice of you to come all this way."

"Like I said. It was on my way home." Everyone in
Louisville
knew the McClellan family lived in
Glenview
. As Faith knew, Holt worked downtown on

Her apartment wasn't anywhere near his way home. Holt had gone to a lot of trouble to bring her keys to her. Why? She had no idea. Although he'd told her he thought she was a beautiful
woman, she had little reason to believe he meant anything by the comment. Men said things. Women knew that. It was all part of the game, the one rule with which Faith was definitely familiar. But Holt McClellan seemed to be using a playbook she'd never glimpsed before.

Rich, handsome, successful distiller, versus woman of meager means whose professional and personal goal is to put him out of business. The odds on that one were simply too weird for her to fathom, the outcome too shadowy to ponder.

"Well, thanks again, Mr. McClellan," she said, forcing her hand to start pushing the door closed, as much as she hated to do it. "Good night."

He lifted a hand in silent farewell, but didn't turn away. She watched the space between her front door and the doorjamb grow smaller and smaller, watched as Holt McClellan disappeared bit by handsome bit. She had just about matched bolt to latch when he called out her name again from the other side.

"Mrs. Ivory?"

Slowly, she opened the door again.

"I, um, I couldn't help but notice that
Mr.
Ivory doesn't seem to be home."

She supposed she should have expected his observation. It never worked for long when she identified herself as a married woman. Not having a husband around rather ruined the image.