My Man Pendleton(24)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

The strangest thing happened to Kit as she was readying herself for dinner. The dull thump of melancholy that normally settled in her belly at the arrival of one of her father’s emissaries wasn’t there. Usually, an encounter with one of the Hensley’s VPs only acted as a reminder to her that her worth to the McClellans, although substantial—ninety-nine-point-four million bucks, to be exact—was strictly financial in nature. Had it not been for her mother’s will, Kit’s father would have gleefully left her to rot in the tropical paradise of her choosing, wasting neither time nor effort to retrieve her. So naturally, whenever she found herself face to face with one of his minions, who had strict orders to bring her back to the fold, Kit felt a bit down.

But not tonight.

Tonight, in place of the cool feelings of dejection and abandonment, there was a warm fizzy sensation bubbling up inside her. It was a sensation so alien, so unfamiliar, that she almost didn’t recognize it. Yet it had been her companion ever since she saw Pendleton that afternoon. For some reason, the sight of him sitting at the bar, looking so unbelievably attractive with the breeze ruffling his dark hair, the sun dappling his gentleman-vacationer duds, and laughter brightening his espresso-colored eyes when he asked her to wear her sarong…

She bit back a wistful sigh. Well, the whole thing just generated a very odd reaction inside her, one that felt strangely like…happiness? She wasn’t quite sure. It had been so long since she experienced such a thing, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

In spite of Pendleton’s request, Kit didn’t wear her sarong that night. However, taking pity on the poor boy—he would, after all, be saddled with her for an entire evening—she donned something only marginally less revealing: a brief, snug little turquoise miniskirt and an even briefer, even snugger, little cropped halter top to go with. And heels. High heels. Really high heels she bought that afternoon for just this meeting—she hesitated to call it a date—with Pendleton. For some reason, she wanted to be as tall as she possibly could be, despite the fact that, all her life, her accelerated height had made her feel like such a great, hulking ogre. Above all else, she wanted to make certain that she was sexy as all get-out tonight.

Why? Well, usually, when she donned such sexy little outfits, it was because she wanted to maintain control over the whole man-woman thing. She knew she couldn’t accomplish such a feat with her beauty alone, simply because she didn’t have any real beauty. She did, however, claim truly phenomenal gams, and not a bad torso, in spite of its being bereft of any real breast action. As long as she could keep a man’s interest lingering below her neck, Kit was fairly confident she could eventually draw him in, lull him into a false sense of security, and then reveal him for what he was—an emissary of her father’s whose sole purpose in life was to corral her into matrimony and collect a fat reward for his trouble.

Pendleton, however, was threatening to be more elusive than usual. For one thing, he spent far more time than other men did gazing at her face. And that, Kit decided, was something she simply could not have him doing. If she had any hope of exposing him, then she was going to have to direct his attentions elsewhere. Hence, the little blue ensemble, tiny enough to bring even the most uncooperative man’s eyes to the place a woman wanted to keep them. Away from the face. Always away from the face. As singular an impression as Pendleton made, she was certain that, deep down, he was no different from any other man. Shallow. Superficial. Greedy.

My goodness, she was looking forward to the evening. She glanced at her watch long enough to ensure she was running the required fifteen minutes late and smiled. By now, Pendleton would be in the lobby, pacing like a caged animal, wondering where she was. She could almost feel his sweaty palms and the anxious wrinkling of his brow from here. Men were so predictable.

She spritzed perfume on her arms and neck and down the front of her top—well, you just never knew—gave her gold bangle bracelets an affectionate jingle, grabbed her tiny purse, and headed for the door. Thanks to the luminous full moon—which she simply had to pause to appreciate for a few moments when she exited her bungalow—she was running twenty minutes late by the time she reached the lobby. But that was okay. Her date—or rather, Pendleton—would, of course, be waiting for her. His financial future depended on her. So she fluffed up her dark blond curls—well, as much as she could fluff the unruly, chin-length mass—threw back her shoulders, and sauntered forward, immediately darting her gaze to the concierge desk. Just as she’d expected, she found Pendleton—

Not there.

Wait a minute. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again, fixing her gaze on the concierge desk. That was the concierge desk, wasn’t it? C-o-n-c-i-e-r-g-e. Yep, that was how you spelled concierge. She could have gotten that one even without four years of high school French. But there was no pacing, sweaty-palmed, furrowed-browed Pendleton in sight.

Maybe she misunderstood. Maybe he said he would meet her at the reservations desk. But there was no Pendleton there, either, sweaty, furrowed, or otherwise. Kit spun around in a full circle, taking in the entire lobby, from its polished pink marble floor to the skylights opening on the star-studded night above, scanning all the lush potted palm trees and tastefully arranged rattan furniture. There were lots of people milling about, but none of them was Pendleton.

The men’s room, she thought then, reluctant to acknowledge the bubble of relief that burst in her belly. She gave her forehead a mental smack. Of course. He was probably in there throwing up because he thought he’d lost the boss’s daughter, and his job was sure to be next on the list. Poor guy. She hadn’t meant for him to become so overwrought as all that. She’d have to find some way to make it up to him.

With a contented sigh, she fluffed up her dark blond curls again, threw back her shoulders again, and sauntered forward again, halting only when she stood outside the men’s room. Then, as discreetly as she could, she leaned forward and cupped an ear to the closed door. Unfortunately, she detected not a murmur of ghastly retching, nor even the rush of a faucet to tell her Pendleton was cleaning up the aftermath. Just as she was taking a step closer, the door flew open, and a man—not Pendleton—emerged, casting her a look of censure.

“Do you mind?” he asked when she didn’t move out of his way.

“Not at all,” she replied. Before he could make a clean break, however, she added, “Was there anyone else in there? A tall, dark-haired man? Wearing some expensive, though understated, vacation wear? And, oh, say….losing his lunch, perhaps?”