My Man Pendleton (2 page)

Holt, Jr. was probably wondering how prudent he'd been to let his wife divorce him last year. Mick, on the other hand, had always made it clear that he preferred adventure to matrimony anyway. And Dirk was far too morose for dating. Bart was going to be upset, though—he'd gotten pretty tight with Donna lately.

All of them, however, doubtless had one thought circling in their heads over all the others. There was no question that they were all wishing they hadn't chased off Kit's date for prom night. Or for the Spring Fling. Or homecoming. Or Dorian Asquith's twenty-first birthday party. Or on any of the other aborted attempts she'd made to have a social life.

Her father's thoughts, however, were the ones that Kit found most interesting. Mainly because she pretty much knew what was going through his head.

"Gee, Daddy," she said, her voice emerging as little more than a croak. "Guess you're feeling pretty silly now about paying off Michael Derringer the night before my wedding, aren't you?"

Her father said nothing, just turned that odd shade of purple once again.

"But you know what's
really
ironic in all this?" she ventured further, amazed at her nerve. "Michael's happily married now with a baby on the way, and the business he started with the money you gave him is absolutely
booming.
I'm not sure I could
ever
find another man like him. Even if I had two whole years to look."

Chapter 1

«
^
»

Almost two years later…

H
is life fit very nicely into seven boxes. Three of those boxes contained books. Two held his music collection. One housed the sort of small appliances that made a single man's life complete—digital alarm clock, coffee maker, wet/dry razor, portable CD player. And one box—the biggest one—held all the designer suits and pointy-toed Italian shoes a man could ever use in one lifetime. All in all, he had everything he needed to start a new life.
New city
. New house. New job. New wardrobe.

He was a new man.

Restlessly, he scrubbed a hand over his nape, still not quite comfortable feeling the brush of frigid February air on a part of his body that hadn't been exposed for almost half a decade. The heat and electricity were working fine in the house in Old Louisville on which he had closed three days before. But thanks to the ice and wind of his first Kentucky winter that currently pelted his new home, the radiators in the old brick Victorian were taking their time warming up the roomy three-story structure. And because he hadn't yet bought any new furniture to furnish his new life, save a mattress and box springs to sleep on, there were no lamps for him to light to keep the darkness at bay.

A chill wound through him in spite of the leather jacket hugging his shoulders, so he puffed briefly on his bare hands and shoved them deep into the pockets of his blue jeans. Then, unable to tolerate the darkness any longer, he crossed the empty living room, continued without slowing through the dining room, and entered the kitchen, where he flipped on the overhead light. The sputter of the bare fluorescent bulb spilled a perfect bluish-white rectangle of illumination into the dining room, creating at least the illusion
of
warmth. And in spite of all the misgivings eating him up inside, he sighed with much satisfaction.

Tomorrow he would start his new job as executive vice president in charge of finances at Hensley's Distilleries, Inc.,
Kentucky
's premiere producer of fine Bourbon whiskey. Frankly, he'd never much planned on becoming a high-powered corporate suit again. But, at thirty-two, he needed a change. And he had something to prove. Hey, it wasn't like his new position was something he couldn't handle, right? He'd been in a far more demanding position before. Granted, it had been one that had nearly destroyed him as a human being, but still…

Things would be different this time. Holt McClellan, Sr., the CEO of Hensley's, and the head of the family that had run the distillery for more than a century, was crazy about him. Although he had been a bit surprised to find himself seated across from the Big Guy himself when he'd interviewed for the position, he was fully confident he'd won the old man's approval. And although he didn't kid himself that someday he'd take over as CEO himself—Hensley's was, after all, a family-run business, and McClellan had five kids, one of whom was a VP himself—he knew he could be happy there for some time. Or, at least, until he had proved his point.

His new home was the
land
of
Bourbon
, tobacco, and thoroughbred horses, the greatest trio to come along since wine, women, and song. What wasn't there to like here?

Pushing away from the kitchen doorjamb, he sauntered slowly back toward his living room. His boot heels scuffed softly over the hardwood floors, and his nose filled with the combined fragrances of old dust and neglected fireplace. He absorbed the quiet, the solitude, the darkness. And he felt very, very good inside.

A new life in a new place for a new man. Nothing but blue skies and smooth sailing ahead, he promised himself. He decided to overlook the fact that the sky had been gray since his arrival and that he'd never sailed anywhere in his life. Because hey, what could possibly go wrong?

* * *

Something was very, very wrong.

As he folded himself into one of thirteen chairs that surrounded the long, mahogany table bisecting the boardroom of Hensley's Distilleries, Inc., the hair on his nape leaped to attention. And it had nothing to do with the haircut on which he'd spent more than he normally paid for a good lube job. There was definitely something strange about the entire collection of Hensley's executives, something that bothered him significantly. He just couldn't quite say what it was.

He watched as Holt McClellan, Sr., CEO, seated himself at the head of the table beside his son, Holt McClellan, Jr. "Gentlemen," he said, clearly unconcerned that his greeting excluded the solitary female who sat at the other end. "Good morning."

"Good morning, sir," the executives replied with all the precision of a Broadway chorus line.

McClellan, Sr. sifted through a small stack of papers before him as he announced, "I assume you've all heard by now that we've filled Riordan's position. Pendleton is our new VP in charge of finances. I hope you'll all make him feel welcome."

Pendleton,
he repeated to himself. Corporate
America
, he recalled now, had an Ellis Island-like habit of changing the names of its citizens. Simply put, no one had a first name in this particular country. Only a last name, a career label, a personnel number, and a tee time. Pendleton, he supposed, he would be from now on.

"Thank you, sir," he said to his new employer. McClellan, Sr., who most closely resembled a white-haired Burt Lancaster playing his most eccentric role to the hilt, bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of Pendleton's gratitude. Pendleton tried not to throw up.

The other executives nodded and welcomed him quietly, but somehow their greetings seemed a bit strained. Pendleton shrugged off his odd feeling to new-kid nerves, greeted them quietly as a group, then turned his attention back to his employer.

"We have a lot to cover today," McClellan, Sr. continued. "We're launching our new ad campaign next month, and with this new FCC ruling, we may very well be returning to television.
Carmichael
is handling that and will give us her report shortly."

He nodded toward his sole female executive, who nodded back in silence, each of their expressions somber and intent. Suddenly, Pendleton wondered if there was some kind of secret handshake or something that he should have learned in training.

"Also," the CEO went on, "as much as I hate to give in to the annoying little buggers, I honestly don't think we can ignore the Louisville Temperance League any longer. Though what those people think they're going to accomplish in this day and age, I can't begin to imagine."

Beside him, McClellan, Jr. grunted something that Pendleton assumed was an agreement. And he had to confess himself that he couldn't recall hearing the word
temperance
uttered by anyone anywhere in oh, say … his entire lifetime.

"For now, though, I've decided to let Holt, Jr. here handle them," McClellan, Sr. continued.

Much, evidently, to his son's surprise. Because McClellan, Jr. turned to face his father as the other man was making the announcement, his face etched in obvious surprise and consternation.

In profile, Pendleton noted, the two men looked almost exactly alike, save the evidence of the twenty-five or thirty years separating them that McClellan, Sr. clearly wore with honor. McClellan, Jr., even sitting, was as tall as his father, as good-looking, as blond as the senior had probably been in his youth. He also appeared to be every bit as capable, as self-assured, and as intimidating as his old man was now.

"Hold on," he said to his father without a trace of deference, something that went a long way toward putting him on Pendleton's list of people to be admired, a list that was none too lengthy. "Just when were you planning on telling me about this?"

The elder McClellan eyed his son with much impatience. "I'm telling you now."

"Oh, well, thank you so much for the warning," the younger man said sarcastically.

"I had to tell you sooner or later, Holt," his father retorted with equal sarcasm. "Otherwise, you wouldn't know what the hell you were doing."

McClellan, Jr. ignored the jab. "And do you think it's wise to put me in charge of something like that?"

McClellan, Sr. shot his gaze abruptly—anxiously—around the table before pinning it back on his son. "And why the hell
wouldn't
it be wise, son?"

McClellan, Jr. narrowed his eyes at his father, and a single muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Hard. My, my, my, Pendleton thought, but this was getting rather interesting. He'd never worked in a family-run corporation before, though he'd heard tales from colleagues in like positions. He'd always wondered how true to life TV shows like
Dynasty
and
Dallas
had been. Not very, evidently, he thought now. Because the weighted responses of the two McClellans were proving to be
far
more entertaining than either of those TV shows had been.

McClellan, Jr. was the one to break the standoff, though when he did, his words were in no way successful in cooling the antipathy burning up the air between the two men. "In light of the, uh…
"
He suddenly seemed to remember that the room was full of people—people who were focused
very
carefully on the byplay—because he quickly arced his gaze around the table, much in the same way his father had, before glancing back at the elder McClellan and lowering his voice a bit. "In light of the
…
situation…"
he said meaningfully. At least, Pendleton assumed it was meaningful to
some
body.
"Don't you think it might be more
…
appropriate
…
for someone else to handle this?"

His father shook his head slowly. "I think the
situation
being what it is, you're without question the perfect candidate for the job."

"But—"

"But nothing," his father interrupted him. "You handle the temperance people. Now let's move on."

McClellan, Jr. obviously wanted to say more, but must have decided to do it elsewhere, because he only ground his teeth together and turned back toward the others without a further word.

So McClellan, Sr. continued. "We also need to address the asinine new law the boys in
Frankfort
have enacted against the tobacco companies," he said, "because I think we can safely assume that those joyless little bastards will be coming after the distillers next. We need to start planning our counterattack now. I've asked Novak and Martin to prepare a presentation, and I understand they're ready to proceed. Novak? Martin?"

Two men rose from the middle of the massive table, one bearing a big cardboard tube, the other with a collapsible easel tucked under one arm.

Oh, yeah, Pendleton recalled from some dusty, cobwebbed corner of his mind. The corporate presentation. He'd almost forgotten what those were like. Looked like his first day on the job was going to be a nice, long, boring one indeed. But then, was that really surprising?