My Man Pendleton(21)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Rich, handsome, successful distiller, versus woman of meager means whose professional and personal goal is to put him out of business. The odds on that one were simply too weird for her to fathom, the outcome too shadowy to ponder.

“Well, thanks again, Mr. McClellan,” she said, forcing her hand to start pushing the door closed, as much as she hated to do it. “Good night.”

He lifted a hand in silent farewell, but didn’t turn away. She watched the space between her front door and the doorjamb grow smaller and smaller, watched as Holt McClellan disappeared bit by handsome bit. She had just about matched bolt to latch when he called out her name again from the other side. “Mrs. Ivory?”

Slowly, she opened the door again.

“I, um, I couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Ivory doesn’t seem to be home.”

She supposed she should have expected his observation. It never worked for long when she identified herself as a married woman. Not having a husband around rather ruined the image.

“No, he’s not home. He’s…” She took a deep breath and concluded quickly, “He’s dead.”

Something darkened in Holt McClellan’s eyes as he took a step forward, then stopped. “Oh. I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know.”

“It happened about six months ago.”

“I see. I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Thank you.” It was all she could manage. She never knew what to say when people spoke of Stephen. So she simply said nothing at all. “Good night, Mr. McClellan. And thanks again.”

He dipped his head in farewell. “Good night, Mrs. Ivory. And you’re welcome.”

Once more, as she closed the front door, Holt McClellan only stood there and watched her do it, something that made it nearly impossible for Faith to complete the action. When she heard the click of the latch catching, she quickly spun the deadbolt to a locked position and hooked the chain into place. Then she pressed her eye against the peephole to watch him leave.

But he didn’t leave. Not right away. He stared at her front door, as if he were lost in thought. At one point, she thought he was about to lift his hand to knock again, but he only shoved it deep into his coat pocket. Then, slowly, he spun around and began to make his way up the hall, toward the stairway at the end. Twice he halted and turned around, and twice she thought he would come back. But he didn’t come back. At the end of the hall, he turned left, and exited into the stairwell.

Even after he was gone, Faith continued to gaze through the peephole, staring at her empty hallway. For fifteen full minutes, she watched. For fifteen full minutes, she waited. For fifteen full minutes, she wished.

And for fifteen full minutes, she somehow managed to keep her tears from falling.

Chapter 6

The weather in Veranda Bay, St. John,U.S.Virgin Islands, was quite extraordinary, Pendleton had to admit. Beneath a perfect, pale blue sky, the seventy-six degrees surrounding him were made even more enjoyable by a warm, restive breeze redolent of the salty sea, the rich jungle soil, Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion, and a wide variety of red and yellow rum drinks that dotted the bar around him.

Kit had chosen well, he thought grudgingly. The Veranda Bay Resort was a primo bit of real estate. It was also the solitary structure on Veranda Bay, something that had narrowed considerably his search for her exact whereabouts. Of course, the massive resort did lay claim to roughly two hundred rooms, fourteen luxury suites, twenty private bungalows, five restaurants, two cafés, a bistro, and nearly a dozen bars, but that was beside the point. Kit was here. Somewhere. And he would find her.

His current position seated at the bar by the pool afforded him panoramic views of both the lush hotel grounds and the ribbon of white beach beyond—not to mention the incredible turquoise expanse of the Caribbean. It was undoubtedly the best seat in the house for spying runaway madcap heiresses. Unless, of course, the runaway madcap heiress in question happened to be Kit McClellan, in which case, Pendleton was fairly certain she’d have to want to be spotted before he would be able to spot her. But she obviously did want to be found, he told himself confidently. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Pretty certain, anyway. In a way.

The unruly breeze pushed a lock of his dark hair down over his forehead, and when he carefully nudged it back into place, the wind returned to fondle the open collar of his white linen shirt. Baggy khaki trousers and buff-colored Topsiders—sans socks, natch—completed his attire, suggesting to a casual passerby that he was simply a vacationing corporate executive of generous means, instead of a boss’s spineless lackey sent to recover a rebellious daughter.

Thankfully, his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a very large, very pink drink on the bar beside him. When he glanced up, it was to find a gorgeous, curvaceous bartender with elegant Latina looks, wearing a skin-tight sarong, smiling at him. “Compliments of the house,” she said. “Welcome to Veranda Bay.”

He returned her salacious smile with one of his own, automatically curling his fingers around the cool, slender glass. The drink was really far too pretty for anyone of the masculine persuasion to be caught dead possessing, but it had been a nice gesture.

“Thank you,” he said. “Do you do this for all the guests?”

She shook her head, her smile broadening. “No. Only the attractive ones I’d like to get to know better.”

Well, okay then. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be a total washout after all. “Oh, yeah?” he asked.

She touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth. “Oh, yeah.”

Then she was gone, glancing back at Pendleton over her na**d shoulder as she went, the warm sun gilding the dark, bare skin of her back that was revealed by the brief sarong uniform. And as he watched her go, he found himself wondering why he’d never visited the Caribbean before. Balmy weather, picture-perfect beach, beautiful women, free drinks… Was there anything that could possibly make this better?

His question was answered almost immediately by a brief slash of feedback from a microphone, followed by an overloud, nervous chuckle, and the arrival of a large man poolside. He was dressed in the biggest pair of shorts and the most obnoxious Hawaiian shirt Pendleton had ever seen, and he brought with him tidings of great joy.

“Sorry about that, folks,” he said with another anxious chuckle. “But if you’d all like to turn your attention poolside, we’re about to begin the swim-wear fashion show.”

Pendleton nearly dropped the drink he had been lifting to his mouth. Good God. There was something that could honestly make this better.