My Man Pendleton(13)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

It was the first time she had ever heard her father praise her or her accomplishments in any way. And because of that, she sought out every opportunity to hear him do it again, whenever he and Holt separated themselves to talk.

Unfortunately, that was also the last time she ever heard her father’s praise. Because as hard as she worked to overhear even the smallest tidbit of approval, he never spoke of her again. Instead, his conversations with Holt always centered first around Holt’s work at Hensley’s, then about Holt’s excessive behavior, then about Holt’s failing marriage, then about Holt’s return to the fold.

Holt, Holt, Holt. It was always about Holt.

Until tonight. Tonight, Kit’s father talked about her again. But nothing he said was good. Nothing he said was exactly a surprise, she conceded, but none of it was good, either.

She pushed herself away from the wall outside the library and headed slowly for the stairs. There was one thing her father said, however, that Kit couldn’t deny. Pendleton was definitely different from the other men he’d thrown at her over the last two years. Where the others had blithered and fawned over her in an effort to curry her favor—and her mother’s fortune—Pendleton had had the nerve to be forthright and honest. Kit had been totally unprepared for that. Forthrightness and honesty were unnatural in a man. Despite their presence in Pendleton, however, and for all her father’s conviction to the contrary, he wasn’t the man for her.

Still, she thought as she closed her bedroom door behind her, that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun in the meantime.

Chapter 4

TheThursday morning version of the Novak-Martin Variety Hour went much better than Monday’s had. Best of all, the addition of even more visuals, like the productivity report and the strategy graph, provided Pendleton with something to look at while his brain had the opportunity to wander at will. Unfortunately, the path his brain seemed most intent on wandering down ended with the not quite completed puzzle of Miss Katherine Atherton McClellan. Oddly, it was exactly the same route his brain had taken for nearly every one of the sixty-three hours and change—both conscious and unconscious—that had passed since he first made her acquaintance. And that was terrain no sane man should explore.

Just what the hell was Monday night about anyway? he wondered yet again. For all the McClellans’ dubious civil behavior, there was a tension in the air around them that was thick enough to hack with a meat cleaver. Pendleton had felt like a dead fly in the soup of family politics all evening long.

“Pendleton!”

Damn. Caught again.

“Sir?” he replied halfheartedly.

“I’d like your opinion,” McClellan, Sr. announced. “What do you think of the modifications Novak and Martin made to their presentation?”

Pendleton pretended to study all the visual aids—and, my, how they’d grown in the time he was thinking about the enigmatic Miss McClellan—then leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. Entwining his fingers thoughtfully, he said, “In my opinion, sir, the implementation of such a visionary objective does seem to impact our mission statement, but I wonder if it won’t be more productive in segmenting our quality group.”

McClellan, Sr. studied him through narrowed eyes. “In what way?”

This time Pendleton leaned back in his seat, exuding far more confidence than he felt. “Well, sir, re-engineering uncompetitive criteria can’t possibly achieve a strategic trend. I think we should focus instead on data compilation, the performance track, quality assurance, and a dynamic paradigm. And let’s not forget core competency.”

“Oh, I could never forget that.”

“Then I think we’re in agreement.”

McClellan, Sr. nodded. “I think we are.” He turned to Novak and Martin, who stood amid charts, graphs, what appeared to be a chemical equation of some kind, and a big blowup of something that somehow resembled a map of downtown Trenton. “Men,” he stated, “good work.”

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 final 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.” 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 ass, 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 seemed in no way the kind of man who would put himself in the position of… well, of being bitten on the ass. Not even by Kit McClellan.