My Man Pendleton (16 page)

"He married your mother for her money, even though it would never be his."

"Not while Granddaddy and my mother were alive. Granddaddy made sure of that."

The wheels of thought seemed to be turning in Pendleton's brain, so Kit waited before continuing. "But since your mother passed away," he finally began again, "your father must have ultimately come into her fortune, right?"

She shook her head. "Mama changed her will a while back without telling any of us. We didn't find out the details until after she died."

"Why would she change it?"

Kit would have thought by now that voicing the next part wouldn't be quite so painful these days as it used to be. Funny, though, how the prospect of revealing it to Pendleton now hurt even more than usual. "Because Mama knew it was the only way I would ever snag a husband."

"I'm sorry, but I'm still not following you."

A band kicked up in another room then, a lively, lovely number rich with horns and piano that roused her from what was fast becoming a sullen mood. So, seeking to put an end to their conversation as quickly as possible, Kit concluded her story in a rush of words.

"In order for my father to get his hands on the Hensley millions, he has to make sure I'm married within two months. That's what it says in my mother's will. At this point, Daddy figures any available guy has son-in-law potential, and you're unfortunate enough to be his latest acquisition. For that, as much as anything else, I apologize. But don't worry. You're not my type, so there's absolutely no reason why we can't just be friends. Now, with all that said, dance with me."

He gazed at her, nonplussed. "Excuse me?"

"Dance with me, Pendleton. The band is playing a marimba. It's my favorite. Don't they marimba in
New Jersey
?"

He laughed low. "Not in the neighborhood where I grew up. Do they do a lot of marimba-ing in
Louisville
?"

She wiggled her eyebrows playfully. "They do at Arthur Murray. Come on. Dance with me."

She laughed, too, as she stood, the ripple of sound bubbling up unbidden, effervescing in her chest with an explosion of warmth. It was a nice feeling, she thought. One she hadn't experienced for some time. Funny, it coming out of nowhere like that.

When Pendleton made no move to accompany her, she extended her hand across the table. "Please?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Miss McClellan, but my job description is quite specific. And nowhere on page four, paragraph six, subheading A does it say that I am required to marimba with the boss's daughter."

She settled her hands on her hips and smiled the most winning smile she could rouse. "I'll give you a dollar."

He twirled his wineglass by the stem and avoided her gaze. "I think I've had enough excitement for one evening. I think that, as soon as we finish with our dinner, I should take you home."

"One dance, Pendleton. That's all I ask. Pretty please?"

He glanced up with a look of put-upon patience. "Oh, all right. But don't forget—you owe me a dollar."

He stood and buttoned his suit jacket, then closed his hand over hers. And when he did, that explosion of warmth in Kit's chest suddenly fireballed, shooting heat throughout her entire system. His dark eyes glittered with something she didn't dare ponder, and his mouth was set in a smile that she found simply irresistible. So she wove her fingers with his and tugged gently, then guided him in the direction of the festive music.

But by the time they reached the room where the band was playing—which actually wasn't a room at all, but an open-air patio—the marimba had segued into something softer and slower and more suited to the sultry night. When she felt Pendleton hesitating behind her, she spun around to look at him.

"Marimba's over," he pointed out unnecessarily. "Guess you don't owe me that dollar after all."

Instead of answering, Kit tugged playfully on his arm, pulling him forward until his body brushed up and down hers. "Not so fast," she said.
"You
promised you'd dance with me. Marimba, mambo, rumba, samba
…
it's all the same to me."

"It's all the same to me, too," he told her. "I don't know what any of those are."

"Then I'll teach you."

Pendleton gazed down at Kit and tried to pinpoint the exact moment when the balance of power had shifted. Until just a few seconds ago—right around the same time her body had come moseying on up to his—he'd been thinking he had things under control. Now, suddenly, he found himself looping his arms loosely around Kit McClellan's waist—and quite a nice waist it was, too—as she danced him backward onto the dance floor.

Dammit, she would want to lead.

Then again, seeing as how he suddenly had no
idea what he was doing, maybe he should just surrender to her. The thought of surrendering to Kit took on a way too erotic connotation then, so he set the thought aside and tried to concentrate on something else.

Unfortunately, his concentration seemed to be intent on erotic thoughts this evening, and they kept zeroing in on things they had no business targeting. Like how warm and silky was the bare flesh above Kit's skirt that his fingertips encountered when he settled his hands on her hips. Like how good she smelled all up close this way, sweet and decadent and tempting. Like how fluid and natural her movements were when she propelled her body forward into his again. Like how unspeakably lovely her eyes were when she glanced up to see how he was doing.

Like how he wondered what she would do if he kissed her.

"Getting the hang of things, Pendleton?" she asked as she executed a stunning pirouette that offered him quite a nice view of her bare back.

"Oh, yeah," he replied, the words coming out a bit rougher than he had intended. "I'm getting the hang of things really well."

"It's all in the hips," she told him.

"It certainly is."

"And the legs."

"I noticed that, too."

She laughed with genuine delight, oblivious to the fact that the two of them were talking about entirely different things. "I knew you'd be a good dancer," she said, spinning closer still.

"How did you know that?"

She smiled.
"You
got good moves."

"Why, Miss McClellan, I didn't think you'd noticed."

"I notice more than you think, Pendleton."

"I don't doubt that for a moment. Something tells me you miss very little."

"And something tells me
you
don't miss a thing." The music changed again, and he found that he couldn't comment to her statement, because he was too busy trying to figure out where the hell she was going. The pace had quickened riotously, the piano player's fingers tripping up and down the keys, stopping and starting without warning. Kit kept up effortlessly, reeling and darting around Pendleton with the grace of a summer breeze, chuckling good-naturedly at his obvious and total confusion. Before he realized his own intentions, he snaked an arm out to halt her, pulling her to him until her body was flush against his.

And then the strangest thing happened. Although the music kept playing, faster and faster, and the dancers surrounding them still pranced and staggered merrily about, the world enclosing them gradually slowed down to a halt. So Pendleton slowed down with it, spinning Kit in a gradually more languid circle, pulling her closer with every turn, until the two of them stood utterly still at the center of the dance floor.

And then, although he never planned to do it, he kissed her.

As he dipped his head forward, Kit tipped hers back, and oh, so slowly, he covered her mouth with his. Her lips opened easily beneath his, and the taste of her filled him, nourished him, intoxicated him. But it didn't quite satisfy him. Instead, the kiss only inflamed his appetite, making him hunger for more of her than he could ever hope to have. Despite that, he deepened the kiss, cupping her face in his hands, tilting her head back further, plundering her mouth at will.

And Kit acquiesced through all of it, curling one hand around his nape, knifing the fingers of her other through his hair with much affection. She returned his kisses with equal fervor, equal finesse, equal fire. And for the life of him, he simply could not let her go.

He wasn't sure how long they stood there so entwined—perhaps seconds, perhaps centuries—but when the music changed again, slowing down this time, the enchanted moment was lost. He pulled his head back from hers and opened his eyes, only to find her gazing steadily back at him. But she never said a word about what had happened. Instead, she dropped her hands to his shoulders, retreated one step, and began to move her body in time to the beat once again.

"Now this is a merengue, Pendleton," she said, the unsteadiness of her voice belying her composure. "It's a bit trickier. You might have trouble keeping up, so I'll go slow. Maybe you should go slow, too, okay?"

Slow. Right. He'd forgotten.

"On second thought," she said, interrupting both his thoughts and their dancing, "maybe you're right. Maybe it would be better if you just took me home. I'm really not all that hungry. And I'm staying here at the hotel, so it's not far to go."

It took a moment for her words to sink in, because he was too focused on the flush of pink that stained the creamy flesh above her breasts. When he finally realized what she had said, he told her, "No, Kit, when I said that earlier, I meant I should take you home home. Back to
Louisville
."

He didn't realize he'd called her by her first name until her blue eyes turned almost
midnight
, and her lips parted in surprise. But she didn't protest the familiarity. The wind kicked up again and nudged a single, stray curl down over her forehead. Kit reached up to push it back into place at exactly the same time he did, and as a result, he found himself curling his fingers over hers. For one long moment, neither of them moved. Then she dropped her hand back down to her side, and he deftly tucked the strand of hair back into place.

"That, um, that sounds like a good idea," she said softly. "Maybe you should take me home. I'll just get my purse, and you can settle up with our server while I give my notice to the bar manager."

"Is that going to be a problem?" he asked, not certain whether he was talking about her job or something else entirely.

She shook her head. "Nah. Bartenders are a dime a dozen down here." She turned to go, tossing over her shoulder, "Then again, so are marimbas. I'll meet you at the maitre d's stand, okay? And then you can take me home. To
Louisville
."

Pendleton watched in silence as she retreated, his mind a flurry of impressions that refused to connect. All he could do was wonder why, suddenly, the last thing he wanted to do was take Kit back to the McClellan home in
Glenview
. Because in spite of his earlier convictions to the contrary, Cherrywood seemed like the last place for her to be. Somehow, she deserved something more than a multimillion dollar estate with a name.

Though what, exactly, she did deserve, Pendleton couldn't yet quite say.

Chapter 8

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F
aith Ivory still hadn't quite recovered from her previous encounter with Holt McClellan when she ran into him again a few nights later, at a glittering fund-raiser in the glorious Crystal Ballroom of the glamorous Brown Hotel. She was decked out in a teeny-tiny black dress that she'd spent hours working up the nerve to put on, and her discomfort was only compounded now by the fact that she was surrounded by high rollers, captains of industry, society matrons, and Junior Leaguers.

All night long, she'd felt as if she were fighting against the undertow in the sea of upward mobility. And now, having spied Holt McClellan dressed in elegant black and white—who, thankfully, hadn't spied her—she felt as if someone had thrown a killer whale into what was already shark-infested waters.

Fortunately, she was on the opposite side of the ballroom, where there was no way he would ever notice her. Not unless he lost interest in what appeared to be a
very
intense discussion with his father, and not unless he looked up from the drink that he clutched brutally in his hand. And she was certain that there was no way he would ever do—