My Man Pendleton(22)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

“And that,” the man continued, “will be followed immediately by the lingerie fashion show.”

Pendleton’s voice nearly lifted in song as his libido jumped up to do the macarena. What next? He wondered. Swimwear/lingerie mud wrestling? Would his most excellent fortune never end?

“Hi, Pendleton! I didn’t know you already had some vacation time coming. I’m going to have to ask Daddy about his new policy.”

Jinx.

He sighed as a murky fog that was becoming way too familiar began to roll into his brain. He halted just shy of his lips the progress of the beautiful drink that the beautiful woman gave him only a few beautiful moments ago.

“Miss McClellan,” he greeted Kit as he slowly spun around on his stool. Reluctantly, he set his drink down on the bar and said, “What a surprise to find you here.”

She stood on the opposite side of the bar, wearing the same kind of tiny sarong the other bartender had been wearing. But where the other woman’s was bright pink and burgeoning in all the nice, soft places men liked to see a sarong burgeon, Kit McClellan’s was pale yellow, sleek, and— He sighed again. And hardly burgeoning at all.

“What’re you drinking?” she asked further, her smile dazzling. Before he had a chance to answer, she rushed on, “No, wait—let me guess. Not Bourbon.”

“No,” he agreed mildly. “Not Bourbon.”

“I had a feeling.”

“I bet you did.” When she only smiled in response, he added, “Thank you for the postcard.”

She rocked back on her heels and gazed at him through laughing eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, of course I should mention it. It would have broken your heart if I hadn’t.”

“Would it?”

“Sure, it would. It’s all part of the game, after all, isn’t it?”

She studied him in what was clearly feigned bewilderment. “Game? What game?”

He chuckled as he wrapped his fingers more tightly around his drink, thumbing the condensation that trickled down its sides. When he looked up at Kit, he noted she was watching the subtle movement of his hands quite closely.

“See, now that’s the two-dollar-and-sixty-eight-cent question, isn’t it?” he asked her.

For a moment, she didn’t answer him, only continued to watch with much fascination the leisure motion of his thumb stroking up and down…up and down…up and down… the side of the glass. Then, quietly, slowly, as if her mind was a million miles a way, she asked, “Is it?”

Just to see how closely she was paying attention, Pendleton suddenly altered the movement of his fingers, and began rotating his thumb in a slow spiral, around…and around…and around in the moisture streaking the side of the glass. A flush of pale pink stained Kit’s cheeks, and her mouth opened slightly, as if she suddenly needed more air. For some reason, that made a very wicked, thoroughly unwanted heat go meandering through his own body.

“You know,” he continued, his voice suddenly sounding a little ragged, “I’m going to have to ask you to go over the specific rules of the game before long. I’m having a hell of a time keeping up.”

He halted the movement of his hand and gripped his drink tightly, and only then was the mysterious spell broken. Kit glanced up at him again, but her wide blue eyes revealed nothing of what she might be thinking, in spite of the tell-tale blush that still stained her cheeks.

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” she said, her voice sounding almost as rough as his own. “It was just a postcard.”

“Overnighted to me,” he pointed out.

She lifted one—naked—shoulder in a shrug, and somehow made the gesture seem very erotic. “I just wanted to make sure you got it. You never know with the mail down here.”

“Yeah, well, you really shouldn’t have.”

She waved her hand negligently through the air. “Are you kidding? It took Novak almost a month to find me. And Daddy’s getting more impatient all the time. How long did he give you to bring me back? Two weeks?”

“One.”

“He really is getting impatient. He still has more than two months. I wouldn’t think he’d become quite so desperate just yet.”

As always happened when Pendleton came within hailing distance of any member of the McClellan family, his head began to spin. “Two months?” he echoed. “Before what? You succumb to melanoma from overexposure to the Caribbean sun?”

“Nah,” she replied readily. “No chance of that. I’m always careful. I never go out without an SPF of at least forty-five, which is basically the equivalent of lying under a Mack truck. I’d spontaneously combust, if I did.” She settled an elbow on the bar, cupped her jaw negligently in her palm, and leaned forward. Then she whispered conspiratorially, “I’m cursed with the fair Hensley complexion, you know.”

No, Pendleton didn’t known. And somehow, gaining the knowledge at this point clarified the situation not at all.

“I suppose, however,” she continued, not altering her pose, “that we’ve put you through enough. Since you’ve come all the way down here to find me, the least I can do is let you know what you’re doing here.”

“That,” he said, “would endear you to me forever.”

She pushed herself away from the bar and muttered, “Well, gee, Pendleton. Don’t go getting all mushy on me.” Her fair Hensley complexion suddenly turned a bit pink again. “I just hate to see a guy like you with a look like that on his face, that’s all.”

“A look like what?”

“Like someone just gave you a good, solid blow to the back of the head.”

“Ah.”

He began to lift his pink, frilly drink to his lips again, but before he could complete the action, Kit snatched the glass away from him.

“I knew you wouldn’t be drinking Bourbon, but good God, Pendleton, don’t drink this,” she commanded. “Drinks like this will mess with a man’s testosterone level bigtime. Even a guy like you, who clearly has buckets to spare, could potentially turn into a flaming parfait eater.”

Without further comment—and before he had a chance to ask her to elaborate on the buckets-full state of his testosterone—she set a shorter glass on the bar and spun around to a veritable pyramid of liquor behind her. Pendleton’s heart sank a bit as he watched her fingers hover over a bottle of Hensley’s Bourbon that was situated on the top row. But after a moment of consideration—not to mention a sly little smile she tossed over her shoulder—she opted instead for a single malt Scotch for which he had always embraced a very fond affection. In one single, fluid maneuver, she uncorked it, spun around, and waved it over his glass, until it was half-full of the dark amber liquid.