My Man Pendleton(18)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

“Mrs. Ivory?” he finally spurred her, still unsure why he would try to prolong such a dialogue.

With some distraction, she answered, “Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to respond to my comment that alcoholism is a serious illness?”

Very quietly, she said, “Alcoholism is a serious illness.”

He nodded. “Well, my goodness. We actually agree on something.” When she still offered no comment to set them off again, he continued, “How about the irresponsible behavior part? Don’t you want to say something about that?”

She shook her head slowly, her mind obviously still elsewhere. “No. Irresponsible behavior definitely contributes to alcoholism. I’ll grant you that, too.”

Well, hell, Holt thought. If she kept this up, she was going to take all the fun out of it. “So your point would be…?”he tried again.

The steam she had been gathering evaporated, and whatever argument Faith Ivory had been about to make evidently disappeared with it, because she simply sat there and said nothing.

“Mrs. Ivory?” he tried again.

“My point, Mr. McClellan, would be…” Abruptly, she stood, slinging the strap of her purse tightly over her shoulder, folding her coat back over her arm. “I have no point, Mr. McClellan. Obviously, it was a mistake for me to come here. I apologize for taking up so much of your time.”

Holt jerked to attention. Suddenly, he was desperate to do something to keep her from going. What had begun as an odious task to deal with as quickly as possible had turned into a strangely enjoyable little interlude with a woman full of mysteries he somehow wanted to solve. It had been a long time since Holt was so drawn to a woman, especially with the immediacy and ferocity for which he’d become ensnared by Faith Ivory. Of all the women he could find himself attracted to, she was the last type he needed. Yet somehow he got the feeling there were layers under her brittleness she didn’t allow others to see. He found himself wanting to flake away that thin shell of her exterior and find out what kind of motor was revving up beneath.

Because Faith Ivory was definitely revving up. Holt wasn’t sure where she intended to go once her motor was at full throttle—he wasn’t even sure she knew where she wanted to go—but there was definitely some destination on her horizon. And just what made him so philosophical on a rainy Friday morning, he couldn’t possibly have said. Unless maybe it was a beautiful woman with hair the color of champagne and eyes as deep as the ocean. A woman of mystery. A woman of intrigue. A woman who was bolting for his office door like the place had just caught fire.

A woman, he had no choice but to remind himself, who called herself Mrs.

Faith didn’t dare stop running until she made it through the Humana Building’s Main Street entrance and stood in front of the fountain outside. Only with the knowledge that fourteen floors and countless feet of pink marble and steel I-beams separated her from Holt McClellan could she even begin to breathe again. And only out in the frigid air, with the cold rain pelting her, surrounded by strangers, could she at last feel safe.

Safe, she thought hollowly. Like she would ever feel that again in this lifetime.

In no way could she have anticipated Holt McClellan. He was just so… Her breath caught in her throat at the memory of him rising from behind his desk. And rising, and rising, and rising. She’d been afraid he would keep rising until his head brushed the ceiling, and he reached across his desk to pluck her off the carpet and consume her whole. She squeezed her eyes shut at the recollection, pressed her hands to her cheeks and tried to steady her breathing. Holt McClellan was, in a word… Well, in a word, he was awesome.

She opened her eyes and spun away from the passing throngs of people to face the fountain, focusing her attention on the gentle stream of water that rippled poetically down the flat black marble.

Best not to think about it, she, told herself. Unfortunately, she knew that wasn’t likely. Because now she was going to have to face the members of the Louisville Temperance League and tell them what a miserable failure she was.

She’d been so sure her contribution to the cause would be her superior debating and argumentative skills. Under other circumstances, she knew she would have made a difference. She’d been an incredible criminal justice attorney once, had brought juries and judges to their knees. Of course, it had been years since she performed in the courtroom, but… Some things never left you, in spite of the tests and obstacles you put them through. Some things were just inbred. Some things…

She cut off her own little pep talk, knowing it was pointless. She failed at her task today—just as she’d failed at so many other things in her life—and now, as always, she was going to have to make reparations. The Temperance League could let someone else take over the Hensley’s maneuvers. Maybe they could give her Maker’s Mark or Brown-Forman or Heaven Hill instead. That way, she wouldn’t have to deal with Holt McClellan again. There was no question in her mind he was the reason she hadn’t been able to continue with her duties that morning. He was just too big, too handsome, too blond, too self-assured. Just like Stephen.

Don’t think about him, Faith commanded herself. Don’t even think about Stephen Ivory.

The admonishment was as ineffective as always. Nothing would ever be able to make her stop thinking about her late, but hardly lamented, husband.

Forcing the thoughts away before they could turn into memories, she shrugged into her coat. Miriam was going to be disappointed that Faith had finally managed to breach the fortress of Hensley’s Distilleries, Inc. only to surrender at the first sign of combat. What a coward she was.

Faith shoved her hand into her coat pocket to retrieve her car keys, only to find herself grasping a fingerful of lint where her keys should have been. She tried the other pocket, but it, too, was empty, save for a stray gum wrapper. Her purse provided her with little more than the basic paraphernalia necessary for feminine upkeep—hairbrush, lipstick, compact, a ball-point pen of questionable effectiveness, a half-full box of Tic-Tacs. But no keys.

When she realized what she’d done, she dropped her hands to her sides and threw back her head in defeat. Considering the way she manhandled her coat in Holt McClellan’s office—not to mention the velocity of her flight—it was a good bet she dropped her keys in there on his lush-pile carpet. Great. Now she was going to have to walk back to the Temperance League offices. There was no way she would go back into Holt McClellan’s lair. Now she’d have to take a bus all the way to her sister’s house in Fern Creek, for the spare set of keys Ellen kept in case of emergency.