My Man Pendleton (12 page)

"No, he's not home. He's…"
She took a deep breath and concluded quickly, "He's dead."

Something darkened in Holt McClellan's eyes as he took a step forward, then stopped. "Oh. I
…
I'm sorry. I
…
I didn't know."

"It happened about six months ago."

"I see. I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Thank you." It was all she could manage. She never knew what to say when people spoke of Stephen. So she simply said nothing at all. "Good night, Mr. McClellan. And thanks again."

He dipped his head in farewell. "Good night. Mrs. Ivory. And you're welcome."

Once more, as she closed the front door, Holt McClellan only stood there and watched her do it, something that made it nearly impossible for Faith to complete the action. When she heard the click of the latch catching, she quickly spun the deadbolt to a locked position and hooked the chain into place. Then she pressed her eye against the peephole to watch him leave.

But he didn't leave. Not right away. He stared at her front door, as if he were lost in thought. At one point, she thought he was about to lift his hand to knock again, but he only shoved it deep into his coat pocket. Then, slowly, he spun around and began to make his way up the hall, toward the stairway at the end. Twice he halted and turned around, and twice she thought he would come back. But he didn't come back. At the end of the hall, he turned left, and exited into the stairwell.

Even after he was gone, Faith continued to gaze through the peephole, staring at her empty hallway. For fifteen full minutes, she watched. For fifteen full minutes, she waited. For fifteen full minutes, she wished.

And for fifteen full minutes, she somehow managed to keep her tears from falling.

Chapter 6

«
^
»

T
he
weather in
Veranda
Bay
,
St. John
,
U.S.
Virgin Islands
, was quite extraordinary, Pendleton had to admit. Beneath a perfect, pale blue sky, the seventy-six degrees surrounding him were made even more enjoyable by a warm, restive breeze redolent of the salty sea, the rich jungle soil, Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion, and a wide variety of red and yellow rum drinks that dotted the bar around him.

Kit had chosen well, he thought grudgingly. The Veranda Bay Resort was a primo bit of real estate. It was also the solitary structure on
Veranda
Bay
, something that had narrowed considerably his search for her exact whereabouts. Of course, the massive resort did lay claim to roughly two hundred rooms, fourteen luxury suites, twenty private bungalows, five restaurants, two cafés, a bistro, and nearly a dozen bars, but that was beside the point. Kit was here. Somewhere. And he would find her.

His current position seated at the bar by the pool afforded him panoramic views of both the lush hotel grounds and the ribbon of white beach beyond—not to mention the incredible turquoise expanse of the
Caribbean
. It was undoubtedly the best seat in the house for spying runaway madcap heiresses. Unless, of course, the runaway madcap heiress in question happened to be Kit McClellan, in which case, Pendleton was fairly certain she'd have to
want
to be spotted before he would be able to spot her.

But she obviously did want to be found, he told himself confidently. Of that, he was absolutely certain. Pretty certain, anyway. In a way.

The unruly breeze pushed a lock of his dark hair down over his forehead, and when he carefully nudged it back into place, the wind returned to fondle the open collar of his white linen shirt. Baggy khaki trousers and buff-colored loafers—sans socks, natch—completed his attire, suggesting to a casual passerby that he was simply a vacationing corporate executive of generous means, instead of a boss's spineless lackey sent to recover a rebellious daughter.

Thankfully, his thoughts were interrupted then by the arrival of a very large, very pink drink on the bar beside him. When he glanced up, it was to find a gorgeous, curvaceous bartender with elegant
Latina
looks, wearing a skin-tight sarong, smiling at him. "Compliments of the house," she said. "Welcome to
Veranda
Bay
."

He returned her salacious smile with one of his own, automatically curling his fingers around the cool, slender glass. The drink was really far too pretty for anyone of the masculine persuasion to be caught dead possessing, but it had been a nice gesture. "Thank you," he said. "Do you do this for all the guests?"

She shook her head, her smile broadening. "No. Only the attractive ones I'd like to get to know better."

Well, well, well. Maybe this trip wouldn't be a total washout after all. "Oh, yeah?"

She touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth. "Oh, yeah."

And then she was gone, glancing over her naked shoulder as she went, the warm sun gilding the dark, bare skin of her back that was revealed by the brief sarong uniform. And as he watched her go, Pendleton found himself wondering why he'd never visited the
Caribbean
before. Balmy weather, picture-perfect beach, beautiful women, free drinks
…
What could be better?

His question was answered almost immediately by a brief slash of feedback from a microphone, followed by an overloud, nervous chuckle, and the arrival of a large man poolside. He was dressed in the biggest pair of shorts and the most obnoxious Hawaiian shirt Pendleton had ever seen, and he brought with him tidings of great joy.

"Sorry about that, folks," he said with another anxious chuckle. "But if you'd all like to turn your attention poolside, we're about to begin the swim-wear fashion show."

Pendleton nearly dropped the drink he had begun to lift to his mouth. Good God, the day
could
honestly get better.

"And that," the man continued, "will be followed immediately by the lingerie fashion show."

Pendleton's voice nearly lifted in song as his libido jumped up to do the macarena. What next? he wondered. Swimwear/lingerie mud wrestling? Would his most excellent fortune never end?

"Hi, Pendleton! I didn't know you already had some vacation time coming. I'm going to have to ask Daddy about his new policy."

Jinx.

He sighed as a murky fog that was becoming way too familiar began to roll into his brain. He halted just shy of his lips the progress of the beautiful drink that the beautiful woman had given him only a few beautiful moments ago.

"Miss McClellan," he greeted her as he slowly spun around on his stool. Reluctantly, he set his drink down on the bar and said, "Well, my, my, my. What a surprise to find you here."

She stood on the opposite side of the bar, wearing the same kind of tiny sarong that the other bartender had been wearing. But where the other woman's had been bright pink and burgeoning in all the nice, soft places that men liked to see a sarong burgeon, Kit McClellan's was pale yellow, sleek, and
…
He sighed again. And hardly burgeoning at all.

"What're you drinking?" she asked further, her smile dazzling. Before he had a chance to answer, she rushed on, "No, wait—let me guess. Not Bourbon."

"No," he agreed mildly. "Not Bourbon."

"I had a feeling."

"I bet you did." When she only smiled in response, he added, "Thank you for the lovely postcard."

She rocked back on her heels and gazed at him through laughing eyes. "Don't mention it."

"Oh, of course I should mention it. It would have broken your heart if I hadn't."

"Would it?"

"Sure, it would. It's all part of the game, after all, isn't it?"

She studied him in what was clearly feigned bewilderment. "Game? What game?"

He chuckled as he wrapped his fingers more tightly around his drink, thumbing the condensation that trickled down its sides. When he looked up at Kit, he noted that she was watching the subtle movement of his hands quite closely.

"See, now that's the two-dollar-and-sixty-eight-cent question, isn't it?" he asked her.

For a moment, she didn't answer him, but only continued to watch with much fascination the leisure motion of his thumb stroking up
…
and
…
down, up
…
and
…
down the side of the glass. Then, quietly, slowly, as if her mind was a million miles a way, she asked, "Is it?"

Just to see how closely she was paying attention, Pendleton suddenly altered the movement of his fingers, and began rotating his thumb in a slow spiral, around and around and around in the moisture streaking the side of the glass. A flush of pale pink stained Kit's cheeks, and her mouth opened slightly, as if she suddenly needed more air.

And for some reason, he felt a very wicked, thoroughly unwanted heat wind through his own body. "You know," he continued, his voice suddenly sounding a bit ragged, "I'm going to have to ask you to go over the specific rules of the game before long. Frankly, I'm having a hell of a time keeping up."

He halted the movement of his hand and gripped his drink tightly, and only then was the mysterious spell broken. Kit glanced up at him again, but her wide blue eyes revealed nothing of what she might be thinking, in spite of the tell-tale blush that still stained her cheeks.

"I don't know why you're making such a big
deal out of this," she said, her voice sounding almost as rough as his own had. "It was just a postcard."

"Overnighted to me," he pointed out.

She lifted one—naked—shoulder in a shrug, and somehow made the gesture seem very erotic. "I just wanted to make sure you got it. You never know with the mail down here."

"Yeah, well, you really shouldn't have."

She waved her hand negligently through the air. "Are you kidding? It took Novak almost a month to find me. And Daddy's getting more impatient all the time. How long did he give you to bring me back? Two weeks?"

"One."

"He really is getting impatient. He still has more than two months. I wouldn't think he'd become quite so desperate just yet."

As always happened when Pendleton came within hailing distance of any member of the McClellan family, his head began to spin. "Two months?" he echoed. "Before what? You succumb to melanoma from overexposure to the
Caribbean
sun?"

"Nah," she replied readily. "No chance of that. I'm always careful. I never go out without an SPF of at least forty-five, which is basically the equivalent of lying under a Mack truck. I'd spontaneously combust, if I did." She settled an elbow on the bar, cupped her jaw negligently in her palm, and leaned forward. Then she whispered conspiratorially, "I'm cursed with the fair Hensley complexion, you know."

No, Pendleton hadn't known. And somehow, gaining the knowledge at this point clarified the situation not at all.

"I suppose, however," she continued, not altering her pose, "that we've put you through enough. Since you've come all the way down here to find me, the least I can do is let you know what you're doing here."

"That," he said, "would endear you to me forever."

She pushed herself away from the bar and muttered, "Well, gee, Pendleton. Don't go getting all mushy on me." Her fair Hensley complexion suddenly turned a bit pink again. "I just hate to see a guy like you with a look like that on his face, that's all."

"A look like what?" he asked.

"Like someone just gave you a good, solid blow to the back of the head."

"Ah."

He began to lift his pink, frilly drink to his lips again, but before he could complete the action, Kit snatched the glass away from him.

"I knew you wouldn't be drinking Bourbon, but good God, Pendleton, don't drink this," she commanded. "Drinks like this will mess with a man's testosterone level bigtime. Even a guy like you, who clearly has buckets to spare, could potentially turn into a flaming parfait eater."