My Man Pendleton (14 page)

With a contented sigh, she fluffed up her dark blond curls again, threw back her shoulders again, and sauntered forward again, halting only when she stood outside the men's room. Then, as discreetly as she could, she leaned forward and cupped an ear to the closed door. Unfortunately, she detected not a murmur of ghastly retching, nor even the rush of a faucet to tell her Pendleton was cleaning up the aftermath.

Just as she was taking a step closer, the door flew open, and a man—not Pendleton—emerged, casting her a look of censure.

"Do you mind?" he asked when she didn't move out of his way.

"Not at all," she replied. Before he could make a clean break, however, she added, "Was there anyone else in there? A tall, dark-haired man? Wearing some expensive, though understated, vacation wear? And, oh, say
…
losing his lunch, perhaps?"

The man's expression would have been the same if he had just found something really disgusting on the bottom of one of his huaraches. "No," he said. "There was no one. Only the attendant."

Bewilderment—surely it wasn't disappointment—welled up inside her at the news. "Oh. Thank you."

All right, so if Pendleton wasn't in the lobby waiting for her, or in the men's room getting sick all over himself on her account, then where was he? Slowly, oh, so slowly, a strange suspicion flickered to life at the back of her brain, a suspicion that was really quite unthinkable. Yet no matter how
hard she tried to tell herself that such a development was impossible, Kit found herself striding back across the lobby in the direction of La Belle Mer, the restaurant that was to have been her ultimate destination with Pendleton.

But surely he wouldn't have
…
? Not without
…?
He wouldn't dare think of
…?
Would he
…?

Before she even realized her intention, she found herself standing in front of the maitre d's stand, waiting patiently until he glanced up with an obsequious smile. "Yes?" he asked. "May I help you?"

She smiled as becomingly as she could and said, "Although I know you must be frightfully busy, could you be so kind as to tell me if you have a reservation under the name Pendleton?"

The maitre d' scanned the list of names before him and, without glancing up, told her, "Yes. Mr. Pendleton arrived right on time—at six-fifteen."

He'd only waited fifteen minutes? Kit thought. How incredibly gauche. "Could you take me to him, please?"

"I'm sorry, miss," he said as if he were addressing a small child or cocker spaniel. "But our policy is to leave our guests to their meals unless they request otherwise. And Mr. Pendleton made no mention of a guest. It would be against hotel policy—not to mention grossly impolite—for me to interrupt Mr. Pendleton's dinner."

"Oh, I wouldn't want you to be impolite or go against hotel policy," Kit assured him.

Fortunately, she had no such problem with doing so herself and moved easily past him.

When he realized her intention, however, he called out and abandoned his post in hot pursuit. But she had the element of surprise on her side—not to mention a much longer stride—and continued confidently on her way.

He still hadn't caught up with her when she cleared the bar and caught sight of Pendleton. He was seated alone in the corner of the restaurant at an intimate little table for two, chatting amiably with his waitress, an auburn-haired woman whose sarong-clad—or rather, sarong-bare-back was turned to Kit.

Kit fluffed up her hair
again,
threw back her shoulders
again,
and sauntered forward
again.
She
would
make an entrance, just as she had planned. Katherine Atherton McClellan
always
made an entrance. And she wasn't about to let Pendleton ruin her record.

Unfortunately, as entrances went, it wasn't one of her better efforts. Because Pendleton glanced up as she made her approach, smiled benignly, and waved a fork-impaled shrimp at her, as if she were a passing sous chef and he was showing his approval for the fare.

"Miss McClellan," he greeted her warmly as she drew nearer. "How fortunate that you made it after all."

As she came to a halt by the table, he replaced his fork on his plate, settled his linen napkin beside it, and rose formally from his chair, hand extended.

She forced a smile, ignored his gesture, and was about to speak when the maitre d'—who was, by now, understandably agitated—clamped a hand over her upper arm.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, a little breathlessly. "But you'll have to come with me."

"It's all right,
Orlando
," Pendleton assured the man. "I was expecting Miss McClellan. Quite some time ago, as a matter of fact."

Clearly reluctant to do so, Pendleton's new best buddy, Orlando, released her arm, and, with an awkward dip of his chin, he scurried off. Kit watched him go, her irritation at the maitre d' evaporating as her annoyance with her father's emissary compounded.

"Pendleton," she greeted him stiffly. "I thought we were supposed to meet in the lobby."

Without missing a beat, he said, "I thought so, too."

"Then why aren't you there waiting for me?"

His smile never wavered, but something darkened his eyes. "Because when you didn't show up on time, I assumed you had changed your mind. Fortunately, Stacie here has been keeping me company in your absence."

Kit glanced at the other woman and clenched her jaw tight. Oh, fine. Stacie, of the huge green eyes and fiery mane and an orange sarong that was only about six sizes too small, had made the supreme sacrifice of keeping Pendleton company in Kit's absence. Well, wasn't that just dandy?

"Go away," she said eloquently to Pendleton's server.

Frankly, the terse edict was all Kit could manage. Because for the first time in two years, she had no idea what to say or how to act. She could scarcely believe what was happening. Pendleton had blown her off. And no one, absolutely no one—no one unrelated by blood anyway—had dared do something like that. Just who did Pendleton think he was? She was Katherine Atherton McClellan, heiress to a fortune. Well, potential heiress to a fortune, anyway. Depending on her mood.

Stacie opened her mouth to offer a commentary on Kit's command, but one look at Kit, and she must have decided it would be more prudent to keep her response to herself. Instead, she only leaned
waaaaay
in toward Pendleton and purred something to him about dessert. Then, with a throaty chuckle and a toss of enough hair to suit two voluptuous, squishy women, she departed.

Kit stifled a growl as she sat down, focusing her attention on the man who occupied the chair opposite. "Pendleton," she began, surprised at how steady she managed to keep her voice. "I don't think you quite grasp the
…
the
…
oh, shall we say
…
the
sine qua non
of this situation."

He arched his eyebrows in mild surprise as he replaced his napkin in his lap. "Why, Miss McClellan, I didn't know you spoke Latin."

She expelled an exasperated sound and cut right to the meat of it. "You're supposed to be having dinner with
me."

"It would appear that I
am
having dinner with you, Miss McClellan. Or will be, once you order something. However, seeing as how you chased away our server, it could be lean cuisine for you tonight." He reached toward the little crustaceans hung like pink pearls around the lip of the glass sitting before him. "Here," he added generously, "you can have one of my shrimps."

"No thank you," she muttered. She'd rather have his head. On a platter.

He shrugged as he reached for his wine. "I'm so glad you were able to make it," he said.

She managed a chuckle for that. "Oh, I bet you are."

He halted his glass just shy of his lips. "You don't sound convinced of my sincerity."

She placed an elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. "Gee, I wonder why."

"I can't imagine. Oh, there's Stacie," he added, hailing the waitress. Upon her return, he took the liberty of ordering for Kit, a repeat of what he was having himself—lobster Newberry, arugula and goat cheese salad and, hey, what the heck, a bottle of 1989 Haut-Brion blanc to go with.

Before Kit could ask, he snapped the menu shut and explained, "They're the most expensive items on the menu. I knew that would be what you'd want. It is, after all, going on the company credit card."

Stacie jiggled off again, returning moments later with an additional wineglass, a bottle of wine, and another place setting. And all Kit could do was watch in silence as Pendleton poured her a generous helping of wine.

Well, that, and ponder the fact that the evening wasn't starting off at all the way she had planned.

Chapter 7

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A
ll things said and done, Pendleton had enjoyed one or two better dinner dates in his life. Thinking back, he supposed it had been foolish for him to be so surprised when Kit hadn't shown up on time. Just because she'd slipped up a little when he'd asked her to wear her sarong, and just because she'd looked so warm and rosy that afternoon, and just because, dammit, he had started actually to like her for some reason—

He sighed and watched her face as he filled her glass with wine. Just because of all that, there was no reason for him to think she might treat him a little differently than she did anyone else, was there? Nevertheless, he had thought she would treat him differently. And for all her coolness during the episode that had just transpired, she still seemed strangely fragile somehow. And that made no sense at all.

It was just that he'd expected better of Kit. Yeah, she was a spoiled, pampered brat. Hey, he'd noticed that about her almost immediately. But all this time, he had suspected her rich bitch act was just that—an act. An attitude she adopted as a weapon of self-defense, a wall she erected whenever someone threatened to tear her down—which, thinking back on his dinner at the McClellan home, probably happened to her pretty frequently.

Now, however, he was beginning to wonder if it was an act at all. Maybe she really was as bad as the other Hensley's VPs made her out to be. Maybe she really was a man-eater. Maybe she really did intend to do him grave damage. Maybe, in addition to his sunscreen, he really should have packed a piece.

"Did you really break Novak's arm?"

The question erupted from his mouth before he could stop it, and when he looked at Kit, she was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Oh please. It was just a hairline fracture."

"But did you do it?" he persisted, still unwilling to believe the worst of her.

She shook her head. "A cab driver in the Caymans did. When Novak tried to stuff me into the backseat of the cab. He thought Novak was attacking me."

Something hot and heavy tightened in Pendleton's midsection. "And
was
Novak attacking you?"

"Oh, God, no," she was quick to assure him. "Novak is a pussycat. He was only trying to take me home. I was just putting up a more, um, energetic fight than usual."

"And Bahadoori's ankle?" he asked further.

She twirled her wineglass by the stem, watching the pale yellow liquid sheet up one side and down the other. "Um, he sort of fell down."

"Sort of
fell down?"

"Yeah.
Well, actually, it was more like he fell off the side of a volcano."

"A … volcano?"

This time she nodded. "See, there was this virgin sacrifice going on for Carnival—all mock, I assure you—and
…
well, it's kind of a long story. But it wasn't my fault," she hastened to add.

Pendleton decided he didn't want to know the details of that one. So he only asked, "And Ramirez's wrist?"

"He fell, too. Over the side of El Morro."

"El Morro?"

"It's a popular tourist attraction in
Puerto Rico
. A big fort. Looks more like a castle. Ramirez went right over one of the battlements. It was only a drop of about twenty feet, though. Nothing major."