My Man Pendleton(25)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

The man’s expression would have been the same if he had just found something really disgusting on the bottom of one of his huaraches. “No,” he said. “There was no one. Only the attendant.”

Bewilderment—surely it wasn’t disappointment—welled up inside her at the news. “Oh. Thank you.”

All right, so if Pendleton wasn’t in the lobby waiting for her, or in the men’s room getting sick all over himself on her account, then where was he? Slowly, oh, so slowly, a strange suspicion flickered to life at the back of her brain, a suspicion that was really quite unthinkable. Yet no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that such a development was impossible, Kit found herself striding back across the lobby in the direction of La Belle Mer, the restaurant that was to have been her ultimate destination with Pendleton.

But surely he wouldn’t have…? Not without…? He wouldn’t dare think …of? Would he…? Before she even realized her intention, she found herself standing in front of the maitre d’s stand, waiting patiently until he glanced up with an obsequious smile.

“Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”

She smiled as becomingly as she could and said, “Although I know you must be frightfully busy, could you be so kind as to tell me if you have a reservation under the name Pendleton?”

The maitre d’ scanned the list of names before him and, without glancing up, told her, “Yes. Mr. Pendleton arrived right on time—at six-fifteen.”

He’d only waited fifteen minutes? Kit thought. How incredibly gauche. “Could you take me to him, please?”

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said as if he were addressing a small child or cocker spaniel. “But our policy is to leave our guests to their meals unless they request otherwise. Mr. Pendleton made no mention of a guest. It would be against hotel policy—not to mention grossly impolite—for me to interrupt his dinner.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to be impolite or go against hotel policy,” Kit assured him. Fortunately, she had no such problem with doing so herself and moved easily past him.

When he realized her intention, however, he called out and abandoned his post in hot pursuit. But she had the element of surprise on her side—not to mention a much longer stride—and continued confidently on her way.

He still hadn’t caught up with her when she cleared the bar and caught sight of Pendleton. He was seated alone in the corner of the restaurant at an intimate little table for two, chatting amiably with his waitress, an auburn-haired woman whose sarong-clad—or rather, sarong-bare—back was turned to Kit.

Kit fluffed up her hair again, threw back her shoulders again, and sauntered forward again. She would make an entrance, just as she had planned. Katherine Atherton McClellan always made an entrance. And she wasn’t about to let Pendleton ruin her record.

Unfortunately, as entrances went, it wasn’t one of her better efforts. Because Pendleton glanced up as she made her approach, smiled benignly, and waved a fork-impaled shrimp at her, as if she were a passing sous chef and he was showing his approval for the fare.

“Miss McClellan,” he greeted her warmly as she drew nearer. “How fortunate that you made it after all.” As she came to a halt by the table, he replaced his fork on his plate, settled his linen napkin beside it, and rose formally from his chair, hand extended.

She forced a smile, ignored his gesture, and was about to speak when the maitre d’—who was, by now, understandably agitated—clamped a hand over her upper arm.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, a little breathlessly. “But you’ll have to come with me.”

“It’s all right Orlando,” Pendleton assured the man. “I was expecting Miss McClellan. Quite some time ago, as a matter of fact.”

Clearly reluctant to do so, Pendleton’s new best buddy, Orlando, released her arm, and, with an awkward dip of his chin, he scurried off. Kit watched him go, her irritation at the maitre d’ evaporating as her annoyance with her father’s emissary compounded.

“Pendleton,” she greeted him stiffly. “I thought we were supposed to meet in the lobby.”

Without missing a beat, he said, “I thought so, too.”

“Then why aren’t you there waiting for me?”

His smile never wavered, but something darkened his eyes. “Because when you didn’t show up on time, I assumed you changed your mind. Fortunately, Stacie here has been keeping me company in your absence.”

Kit glanced at the other woman and clenched her jaw tight. Oh, fine. Stacie, of the huge green eyes and fiery mane and an orange sarong that was only about six sizes too small, had made the supreme sacrifice of keeping Pendleton company in Kit’s absence. Well, wasn’t that just dandy?

“Go away,” she said eloquently to Pendleton’s server.

Frankly, the terse edict was all Kit could manage. Because for the first time in two years, she had no idea what to say or how to act. She could scarcely believe what was happening. Pendleton had blown her off. And no one, absolutely no one—no one unrelated by blood anyway—dared do something like that these days. Just who did Pendleton think he was? She was Katherine Atherton McClellan, heiress to a fortune. Well, potential heiress to a fortune, anyway. Depending on her mood.

Stacie opened her mouth to offer a commentary on Kit’s command, but one look at Kit, and she must have decided it would be more prudent to keep her response to herself. Instead, she only leaned waaaaay in toward Pendleton and purred something to him about dessert. Then, with a throaty chuckle and a toss of enough hair to suit two voluptuous, squishy women, she departed.

Kit stifled a growl as she sat down, focusing her attention on the man who occupied the chair opposite. “Pendleton,” she began, surprised at how steady she managed to keep her voice. “I don’t think you quite grasp the…the…oh, shall we say… the sine qua non of this situation.”

He arched his eyebrows in mild surprise as he replaced his napkin in his lap. “Why, Miss McClellan, I didn’t know you spoke Latin.”

She expelled an exasperated sound and cut right to the meat of it. “You’re supposed to be having dinner with me.”

“It would appear that I am having dinner with you. Or will be, once you order something. However, seeing as you chased away our server, it could be lean cuisine for you tonight.” He reached toward the little crustaceans hung like pink pearls around the lip of the glass sitting before him. “Here,” he added generously, “you can have one of my shrimps.”