My Man Pendleton(30)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there so entwined—perhaps seconds, perhaps centuries—but when the music changed again, slowing down this time, the enchanted moment was lost. He pulled his head back from hers and opened his eyes, only to find her gazing steadily back at him. But she never said a word about what happened. Instead, she dropped her hands to his shoulders, retreated one step, and began to move her body in time to the beat once again.

“Now this is a merengue, Pendleton,” she said, the unsteadiness of her voice belying her composure. “It’s a bit trickier. You might have trouble keeping up, so I’ll go slow. Maybe you should go slow, too, okay?”

Slow. Right. He’d forgotten.

“On second thought,” she said, interrupting both his thoughts and their dancing, “maybe you’re right. Maybe it would be better if you just took me home. I’m really not all that hungry. And I’m staying here at the hotel, so it’s not far to go.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in, because he was too focused on the flush of pink that stained the creamy flesh above her br**sts. When he finally realized what she said, he told her, “No, Kit, when I said that earlier, I meant I should take you home home. Back to Louisville.”

He didn’t realize he’d called her by her first name until her blue eyes turned to midnight, and her lips parted in surprise. But she didn’t protest the familiarity. The wind kicked up again and nudged a single, stray curl down over her forehead. Kit reached up to push it back into place at exactly the same time he did, and as a result, he found himself curling his fingers over hers. For one long moment, neither of them moved. Then she dropped her hand back down to her side, and he deftly tucked the strand of hair back into place.

“That, um, that sounds like a good idea,” she said softly. “Maybe you should take me home-home. I’ll just get my purse, and you can settle up with our server while I give my notice to the bar manager.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked, not certain whether he was talking about her job or something else entirely.

She shook her head. “Nah. Bartenders are a dime a dozen down here.” She turned to go, tossing over her shoulder, “Then again, so are marimbas. I’ll meet you at the maitre d’ stand, okay? And then you can take me home. To Louisville.”

Pendleton watched in silence as she retreated, his mind a flurry of impressions that refused to connect. All he could do was wonder why, suddenly, the last thing he wanted to do was take Kit back to the McClellan home in Glenview. Because in spite of his earlier convictions to the contrary, Cherrywood seemed like the last place for her to be. Somehow, she deserved something more than a multimillion dollar estate with a name.

Though what, exactly, she did deserve, Pendleton couldn’t yet quite say.

Chapter 8

Faith Ivory still hadn’t quite recovered from her previous encounter with Holt McClellan when she ran into him again a few nights later, at a glittering fund-raiser in the glorious Crystal Ballroom of the glamorous Brown Hotel. She was decked out in a teeny-tiny black dress she spent hours working up the nerve to put on, and her discomfort was only compounded now by the fact that she was surrounded by high rollers, captains of industry, society matrons, and Junior Leaguers. All night long, she’d felt as if she were fighting against the undertow in the sea of upward mobility. Now, having spied Holt McClellan dressed in elegant black and white—who, thankfully, hadn’t spied her—she felt as if someone just threw a killer whale into what was already shark-infested waters.

Fortunately, she was on the opposite side of the ballroom, where there was no way he would ever notice her. Not unless he lost interest in what appeared to be a very intense discussion with his father, and not unless he looked up from the drink he clutched brutally in his hand. She was certain there was no way he would ever do—

He glanced up then and spied her immediately.

—that. She might as well have just shouted her thoughts at the top of her lungs, so focused was he on the exact spot where she stood. She was about to look away, to search for the nearest hasty retreat, when something strange happened. Holt McClellan smiled. Not so much at her, but as if he suddenly just felt very happy about something. A warm ripple of excitement shimmied up her spine at his expression, and before she knew it, Faith was smiling, too, the same kind of smile, she was certain. Because suddenly she felt very happy about seeing Holt McClellan.

In spite of the warm fizzy sensations popping inside her, however, her instincts urged her to hurry home and hide under the blankets, lest the big, bad wolf blow her down. But even when Holt excused himself from his father without looking at him, even when he began to make his way slowly across the crowded room, even when he was only a few scant feet away from her, Faith was helpless to do anything but stand fixed in place and stare at him.

She had thought him handsome before, but now she saw how badly mistaken that thought had been. Business attire made him look too officious, too conservative, too conventional. Tonight, dressed in a black tuxedo, the sapphire cufflinks winking from the white shirt sleeve extending from his jacket nearly identical to the color of his eyes, Holt was quite…

Oh, my.

“Hi,” he said, his voice scarcely audible in the din that surrounded them.

“Hello,” she replied automatically.

“So we meet again.”

“So we do.”

“Three times in one week. This could become habit-forming.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so.”

Their conversation stalled there, and she wished she were anyone else. Anyone else would know what to say to a man like him. Anyone else would feel comfortable amid all this beauty and wealth and power. Anyone else would be dazzling and witty and charming. Anyone else would be having a good time.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, jerking a thumb toward the bar, surprising her.

She gaped at him. “You’re joking, right? Have you forgotten who I work for?”

He expelled an exasperated sound, but his smile diminished its effect. “Ginger ale, Mrs. Ivory? Club soda? Water? And no, I haven’t forgotten who you work for. Believe me—I could never forget that.”

She relented some, but couldn’t quite banish the reminder that he wasn’t someone she should be chatting with, however superficially. If anyone from the Temperance League saw them together…

Well, of course they’d think she was lobbying him to shut down his business, she thought. Which wouldn’t be a problem, if that were, in fact, what they were discussing. But the goals of the Temperance League were as far from her mind at the moment as the earth was from the sun.