My Man Pendleton(34)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

He studied her intently, inhaled a deep breath, and counted to ten. Then, when he realized he was still furious, he went on to twenty. Then thirty. Then fifty. Ultimately, he decided he would pass out from oxygen deprivation before he would ever be able to feel anything but outrage at Kit. Right now, he only wanted to be rid of her. Whatever it took to achieve that, Pendleton would do.

“I’ll take you in,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I’m not hauling you over my shoulder.

“Party pooper.”

He unbuckled his seat belt with a vicious snap, then opened his door and unfolded himself from inside the tiny car. Cautiously, he strode around the front, his eyes never straying from Kit McClellan. Still playing the role of entitled heiress—as if she were entitled to anything more than a swift kick in the pants—she waited patiently for him to complete his circuit and halt by the passenger-side door. Then she gazed through the window with a smile befitting the most despotic royalty, clearly expecting him to do her the honor of opening the door.

Rolling his eyes, Pendleton reached for the handle, only to find the door locked. In response to his inability to open the door, Kit’s smile only grew broader. Then she leaned over his seat and pushed down the lock on the driver’s side door, as well.

Okay. That did it. No more.

Pendleton didn’t know how he was going to explain it to the insurance company—and frankly, at the moment, he didn’t care—but he curled his fingers closed tight above the canvas roof of the convertible, and, with one clean effort, drove his fist right through the fabric. The expression on Kit’s face when he did was more than worth whatever rate hike he would have to endure in his premiums as a result. Then he gripped the canvas with rigid fingers and rent a Kit-sized hole right through it.

“N-now h-how are you going to f-fix that?” she asked, masking her fear very nicely. Well, except for that nasty stammer and the terror gleaming in her eyes.

He inhaled deeply, feeling his chest swell with manly ability. “I’ll do what any other man in my situation would do.”

“Which is?”

“Duct tape.”

“Oh.”

“Now then,” he continued, proud of his ability to maintain a thin veneer of civility. “Either you can get out of my car the traditional way…” He gazed down at her through the gaping tear. “Or I can reach in and drag you out. Your choice, Miss McClellan. Which will it be?”

She lifted a hand to her neck, then reluctantly unlocked the door. Pendleton jerked it open before she could change her mind, and stood aside for her to exit. The moment she cleared the door, however, he roped his arm around her waist, lifted her from the cobbled driveway, and tossed her, kicking and screaming, over his shoulder. Fine. They’d do it her way. For some reason, he suddenly liked the idea.

He carried her up the walkway and lifted the door knocker for three quick raps, then waited with one arm looped around her legs and the other hand cupped over her fanny, until Mrs. Mason answered the door. To her credit, the housekeeper only arched one snowy eyebrow in response to the scene that greeted her. Then she stepped aside to allow them entry, with the quietly offered announcement that Mr. McClellan, Sr. wasn’t home, but that Mr. McClellan, Jr. was entertaining a guest in the dining room.

With Kit still howling and pounding on his back with both fists, Pendleton made his way to the dining room. He found McClellan, Jr. seated at the head of the big table, a delicate-looking blonde to his right. Without ceremony, he proceeded forward, dumped Kit into the chair she occupied that ill-fated night at dinner, and turned to his host.

“McClellan,” he greeted the other man with a brief nod.

His host stood, buttoned his jacket, and nodded back. “Pendleton.”

“You’ll forgive me if I tell you that I can’t stay.”

“No problem. Thanks for bringing Kit home.”

“My pleasure.”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that.”

Since the observation required no further comment, Pendleton turned to Kit and bowed with all the chivalry of an evil overlord. “Miss McClellan,” he said. “It was a memorable occasion.”

Kit was slumped into her chair, but now turned her attention to the table, obviously looking for something in particular. “What? No wine?” she finally asked her brother. “What kind of host are you, Holt? Sheesh.”

“Good night, Miss McClellan,” Pendleton concluded before turning his back on the lot of them.

A quick reminder spun him back around again, however, this time to focus on Kit’s brother. “McClellan,” he said, “do you have any duct tape?”

The other man shrugged. “Of course.”

“Mind if borrow a couple of feet?”

“Not at all.”

McClellan, Jr. summoned Mrs. Mason to retrieve a roll of duct tape from the kitchen, then, when she returned, he tossed it to Pendleton. Pendleton muttered his thanks and, still ignoring Kit, began to make his exit once again.

“’Night, Pendleton!” she called after him cheerfully. “Thanks for saving the last dance for me!”

He stiffened at the reminder, but didn’t acknowledge her farewell. This time, he remembered quite well how to leave the McClellan house. He only wished he could rid himself of the household as easily.

He dreamed that night about Kit. About riotous music, squawking birds, palm trees, oceans, and marimbas. And hurricanes. Lots and lots of hurricanes. Amid the swirling scenes of turmoil pounding at his unconscious brain, there erupted a single oasis of serenity: He dreamed about lying na**d on the beach with Kit McClellan, limbs entwined, mouths joined, bodies slick with salt water.

Pendleton rolled over in bed with a groan. He was still half-asleep, and caught up in the strangeness of the dream, when something halted his progress. Something warm. Something soft. Something that, when he reached over to drape an arm around it for further investigation, murmured a quiet, satisfied sound. His eyes still closed, he moved his hand leisurely down the length of it, only to have it stretch languidly and twine its bare legs with his.

Curves. That was what registered first. The revelation was quickly followed by another, however, the realization that those curves were moving closer. Slowly, it dawned on him that he wasn’t alone in his bed. So he opened one eye experimentally, and, in the scarce morning light that filtered through the curtains, he saw a rather pronounced lump beneath the covers beside him. A lump with dark blond curls that peeked out from beneath the blanket. A lump that mumbled something incoherently before turning its back to him again.