My Man Pendleton (8 page)

The two VPs twitched a bit, clear indications of their relief. "Thank you, sir," they chorused as one.

"Now then," McClellan, Sr. continued as Novak and Martin returned to their seats. "There's one fi
nal, little matter on our agenda that we need to address this morning. Kit's run off again."

Well, that certainly caught Pendleton's attention. Not just because it wasn't often that a CEO's daughter's activities made it onto the corporate agenda, but also because every single one of the executives present began to squirm and avert his or her gaze steadfastly away from their fearless leader.

"Who went after her last time?" McClellan, Sr. asked, considering each of his executives one by one as they began to fidget even more restlessly.

"Come on, come on," he cajoled. "Be a man about it." Then, when still no one came forward, he added, "I can check the files, you know."

Across the table and to the left of Pendleton, Ramirez, with clear reluctance, raised a hand—a hand, he noted further, that was encased in a plaster cast that disappeared into the sleeve of his pin-striped blazer. McClellan, Sr. seemed to notice, too, because he squinted more closely at his VP.

"Did Kit do that to you?" he asked, indicating the cast.

Ramirez glanced at his hand, then back at his boss. "Oh, no, sir. This happened while I was playing squash. Miss McClellan only sprained my wrist. Novak was the one who got a broken arm."

"Actually, it was just a hairline fracture," Novak said. "It was Bahadoori who got something broken, wasn't it, Bahadoori?"

The other executive nodded. "Ankle," he replied, as if that explained everything.

"That's right," McClellan, Sr. recalled with a faint nod. "And, of course, we all know about
Washington
's, um, posterior."

Washington
shifted a bit awkwardly in his chair, but remained noncommittal otherwise. Oh, wow, so she
did
bite him on the butt, Pendleton thought with some small measure of triumph
…
right before he realized just how bizarre the conversation had become.

"
Carmichael
was the one who escaped without incident," Bahadoori added.

Carmichael
lifted a hand to her close-cropped hair. "Well, except for the hair," she said. Hastily, she qualified, "But I'd been thinking about going short with it anyway."

As Pendleton catalogued each of the other executives' experiences with the boss's daughter, he once again received the sensation of having entered an alternate plane of existence. What on earth was going on? Surely Kit hadn't been responsible for all those injuries.
Washington
, after all, topped six feet, and in no way seemed like the kind of man who would put himself in the position of … of … well, of being bitten on the butt. Not even by Kit McClellan.

"Pendleton, you're up."

As always, his boss's announcement snapped him right out of what had promised to be a very good preoccupation. And, as always, all he could say in response was, "Sir?"

His employer eyed him impatiently. "Go get Kit," he reiterated. "Bring her home."

"But—"

"Beaches," McClellan, Sr. elaborated. "She likes beaches, Pendleton. Try the beaches."

Well, gee, that certainly narrowed it down. That is, Pendleton thought further, it would have narrowed it down. If he'd had any intention of going after the boss's daughter. Which, of course, he didn't. Hey, it wasn't in his job description.

But all he could manage by way of an objection was, "Beaches, sir?"

Instead of answering him. McClellan, Sr. turned to Rutledge. "Where did you find her, Rutledge?"

"
St. Lucia
," the other man replied.

McClellan, Sr. nodded, then eyed the next executive in the group. "Hayes, where was she when you went after her?"

"
Antigua
, sir."

"
Washington
?"

"I found her in
Jamaica
."

"Redhawk?"

"
St. Croix
, sir."

"Bahadoori?"

"
Montserrat
."

And so it went, all around the table, until McClellan, Sr. had quizzed each of his VPs as to his runaway daughter's various destinations. Clearly, running away from home was a habit of Kit's. And clearly, sending his executives after her was the way McClellan, Sr. handled it. What wasn't clear was why the Hensley's executives would go along with such a thing.

"It would appear, Pendleton," his boss said, "that she rather likes the
Caribbean
. You might want to begin your search there."

"My
search, sir?"

McClellan, Sr.'s expression probably would have been the same if Pendleton had just hopped up onto the table, whipped open his pants, and introduced everyone in the room to Mr. Happy. "Of course, Pendleton," he said evenly. "I thought I made that clear. It's
your
turn to go after Kit."

"But, sir," he continued, already feeling defeated, "is that really necessary? After all, your daughter is an adult who's free to do as she—"

"You
can have a week off," his boss interrupted him before he could finish. "I'll look forward to Kit's return to the house by Thursday night, next week. Put all your expenses on the company credit card. Oh, and, Pendleton."

"Sir?"

"Don't forget to pack your sunscreen. That sun down there in the
Caribbean
…
it's merciless."

For one long moment, Pendleton only sat in his chair, pinching his nose harder, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, willing himself to please, in the name of God, wake up from whatever bizarre dream he had tumbled into. Unfortunately, with the passage of every second, it became crystal clear that what he had been hoping was nothing more than the surreal, was, in reality
…
well, reality.

"Um, sir?" he finally managed to say.

"Yes
,
Pendleton."

He forced his eyes open, willed his hand back down to the table, and somehow managed to meet his employer's gaze. "This, um…
That is, sir
…
What I mean to say is…"

"Spit it out, Pendleton."

He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth for a moment, searching for the right words. "It's just that
…
well, going after your daughter isn't exactly in my job description, sir."

"Yes, it is."

"Sir?"

"Have you read your job description all the way through yet, Pendleton?"

He hedged. "Well, it is a bit longer than the average job description, and getting settled in my office has taken a lot more time than I thought it would, and—"

"Read it," McClellan, Sr. interrupted him.

"Yes, sir."

"And pay special attention to page four, paragraph six, subheading
…
subheading…"

"Subheading A, sir," each of the executives offered as one.

"Subheading A," McClellan, Sr. continued without missing a beat. "It's perfectly self-explanatory. Anything else?"

Actually, there were quite a few anything elses on Pendleton's mind, but for the life of him, he couldn't find it in himself to utter even one.

So McClellan, Sr. gave his executives the final once-over, rose from his chair, and announced, "I think that's everything. Now get out."

Then, as was his habit, he disappeared through the door to his office, his son following in his wake. And no sooner had the door clicked shut behind them did the rest of the executives leap up from their chairs, descend upon Pendleton like a plague of pinstripes, and begin to speak in a single, solitary roar.

"Forget about packing sunscreen," Martin began. "You go after that girl, you better be packing a piece. The sun down there in the
Caribbean
isn't the only thing that's merciless."

"And forget about watching the beaches," Ramirez told him. "You watch your back, man."

* * *

Not more than an hour later, someone thrust a legal pad toward him with what appeared to be the names of several travel agencies.

"These are the agencies Miss McClellan has used in the past," he heard Novak say. "Though you probably won't have any luck there. She never uses the same one twice."

"And she always travels under an assumed
name,"
Washington
added, "but it'll be one you can probably identify if you try hard enough. Like Gertrude Stein, for instance."

"Or Betty Crocker,"
Carmichael
said.

"Ida Lupino," Rutledge added.

"Dr. Denton," Ramirez continued.

"Che Guevera," Bahadoori offered.

Pendleton studied each of his colleagues in turn. "I'm sorry, but I don't see a pattern here."

"Exactly," Novak said, as the others nodded sagely.

He waited for a more complete explanation, but wasn't quite surprised when none was forthcoming. So, with a sigh of resignation, he asked, "Then you think I should contact one of these travel agencies?"

"No!"
the entire group chorused.

"You should absolutely
not
contact
any
of them," Rutledge stated adamantly. "Miss McClellan's reputation definitely precedes her.
"

Hadn't Pendleton heard that already from someone? Oh, right, he immediately recalled. He'd heard about Kit's reputation from Kit herself. Hmmm
…
"So I should try a new one then?" he wondered aloud.

"Preferably in another city," Bahadoori told him.

"Another state,"
Carmichael
added.

"Another country,"
Washington
threw in. "They might not of heard about her in
Abu Dhabi
."

This was ridiculous, Pendleton thought. No human being could possibly wreak the single-handed havoc that everyone ascribed to Kit McClellan. Certainly she came across as a handful, sharp-edged, sharp-witted, sharp-tongued.

Sharp-shooter?

Stop it,
he ordered himself. No way would he believe she was anywhere near as destructive as these people made her out to be. "She can't be as bad as all that," he voiced his thoughts aloud.

A ripple of anxious chuckles was his only reply.

"Okay, then can I just ask one last question?"

The others nodded.

"If Miss McClellan is so awful, then why doesn't McClellan, Sr. just let her stay wherever she runs off to? And why do you guys keep going after her, job description or no job description?"

"That's two questions, Pendleton," Novak pointed out.

"Okay, two last questions then."

For a long moment, none of the other VPs responded. Then
Carmichael
, evidently the least fearful of the repercussions, smiled a little grimly. "McClellan, Sr. needs her back, Pendleton, because Kit McClellan, for all her questionable tendencies, is far too valuable a possession for the McClellans to let her stray far."

"And why do you all keep going after her?"

Novak answered this time. "Same reason."

As answers went, Pendleton thought, those left a lot to be desired. "Valuable in what way?" he asked further.

"Sorry, Pendleton,"
Carmichael
told him. "But any more questions you have, you'll need to run by one of the McClellans." Her grim smile returned as she added, "And I think you know which one would be most likely to give you the most accurate answer."

Pendleton nodded silently. That, he thought, was exactly what he'd been afraid of.

* * *

"Well, I'll be damned."

Pendleton shook his head in disbelief as he
slumped back in his chair. He tossed his job description back down onto his desk, his gaze pinned to the bottom of page four. Page four, paragraph six, to be specific. Right underneath subheading A.

Good God, it really was in his job description. Right there, in black and white, Times New Roman on Fine Linen Southworth, it stated quite clearly that should Miss Katherine Atherton McClellan ever take off for parts unknown, at any time during the period of his employment, he might indeed be called upon to travel to those parts and fetch her back to the bosom of her loving family.

Well, my, my, my. They certainly did things differently in this part of the country.

He expelled an exasperated sigh and spun around in his chair, focusing on the inky sky outside his window. Below him,