My Man Pendleton by Elizabeth Bevarly Read Free Book Online Page A

thought. "It's this way," she said halfheartedly, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder.
    She watched with veiled interest as he swallowed the last of his Bourbon and stubbed out his cigar. And she tried not to notice how easily he completed the gestures. For some reason, it bothered her that the good life seemed to suit him so well, and that he wore the mantle of wealth and luxury so comfortably. Why couldn't he be just an ordinary guy?
    And why, suddenly, did she wish that he was?
    She knew he didn't deserve the reception he'd gotten from her all night. Really, none of her father's executives did. Well, except maybe Novak. But Pendleton, like those other men, was a symbol of something she would just as soon forget. And even though she tried to keep a rein on her feelings, there were times when she just couldn't quite keep herself from striking out, in spite of the fact that nothing she did would ever completely erase the wrong. Or the memories. Or the hurt.
    Restlessly, Kit shifted her weight from one foot to the other, watching as Pendleton rebuttoned his suit jacket. Then she hastily straightened when he swept his hand forward in a silent indication that she should precede him. When they came to the front door, she opened the foyer closet to retrieve his coat. She started to hold it up for him, but he deftly claimed it himself and shrugged into it, unfolding the collar around his neck before reaching for the buttons.
    He really was very handsome, she had to admit. And there was something about him that was different from most men. If the situation were different, she might possibly be able to like him. But he was working for her father, and that meant money mattered to him more than anything else in the world. It was a shame. But then, she supposed, nobody was perfect.
    "Good night, Pendleton," she said as she opened the door. "It's been real."
    "Thank you for dinner," he said as he took a step forward.
    She shook her head slightly. "You don't have to thank me. "
    "Thank your father then. For dinner, at least."
    She crossed her bare arms over her midsection as the wintry wind whipped into the house, and she wondered at the merriment that danced in his dark eyes. "What does that mean?"
    "Just that there was more to like tonight than the ratatouille, that's all."
    Oh, right, she thought. Like she was supposed to believe that. "Good night, Pendleton," she said again, more vigorously this time.
    He smiled at her, what appeared to be an honest-to-goodness smile of pleasure. But all he said was, "Good night, Miss McClellan." Then he passed through the door and out into the chilly night.
    And as Kit watched him go, all she could do was stand there with the cold wind swirling around her, and puzzle over why she suddenly felt so warm inside.
    * * *
    In the library, Holt McClellan, Jr. sipped his third cup of post-dinner coffee and resigned himself to working through the night at the home computer.
    Again. Because he knew there was no way his system was going to be shutting down anytime soon.
    Not because of the caffeine that was currently rampaging through his bloodstream—that was a nice, however inaccurate, excuse—but because sleep had been eluding him for a while now. To be exact, for twenty-one months, fourteen days, six hours and… He glanced at his watch. And forty-two minutes.
    Ah, well. He was finally starting to get used to it. He'd been learning all kinds of things about the nighttime hours that he'd never known before. Problem was, he was learning all kinds of things about himself, too. And that could only lead to trouble.
    As could his father's latest assignment for him, he thought, recalling the elder McClellan's insistence that morning that Holt be the one to handle the temperance people. "What the hell were you thinking to pass off the Louisville Temperance League to me?" he demanded, voicing his apprehension out loud.
    His father glanced up from his seat opposite Holt and frowned. "What do you mean, what was I