My Man Pendleton(49)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

But that incident, she interrupted herself before her memories overran her, didn’t last very long at all, where this one lasted a whole day. So this one was infinitely more significant than that one. Even without the kiss.

Dang. She’d almost managed not to think about that. Then again, not a day went by that she didn’t recall that kiss in glowing, vivid detail. As she did every day when the memory came over her, Kit tried to tell herself that the only reason Pendleton’s kiss stood out in her memory was because she just didn’t kiss many men these days. In fact, she hadn’t kissed one since Michael Derringer. Nor had she really kissed one before Michael. Not like that, anyway.

She shook her head as she watched Pendleton hang up his leather jacket. What a sorry excuse for a woman she was. Almost twenty-eight years old, single, healthy, wealthy, reasonably attractive—and she’d only had one lover in her entire life. Only one man who’d ever wanted her. And only for her current market value, too.

Pushing away thoughts of Michael Derringer—she was surprised how easy it was to do that these days—Kit shed her own coat and followed Pendleton into the kitchen, trying not to notice what a great tushie he had under those faded 501s, or what spectacular shoulders lurked beneath his charcoal-colored sweater. But as was usually the case when she tried to ignore those things, Kit failed miserably. Which was just as well, because when she joined him in the kitchen, where she found him opening the back door to let Maury out for his evening uproar, Pendleton seemed to be noticing more than his fair share of her anatomy, too.

Unfortunately, as always, the part of her anatomy that seemed to interest him the most was her face, and not the body parts below her neck that were currently decked out in sung jeans and her favorite scarlet velvet shirt. As always, when she realized where his scrutiny lay, Kit turned her face away. And when she did, her gaze fell on the answering machine that sat on the kitchen counter, and she noticed the little red light was flashing.

“Oh, look, we had a call,” she said, brightening some at the prospect.

“You mean I had a call,” he corrected her as he closed the door behind the puppy. “This is still my house, even if I have allowed you to be a squatter.”

She lifted her nose indignantly into the air. “Excuse me, but I prefer to think of myself as visiting royalty.”

He uttered a derisive sound as he moved to the kitchen counter and pushed the button on the machine. Over the whir of the rewinding tape, he muttered just loudly enough for her to hear, “What a coincidence. Here I’ve been thinking of you as a royal pain.”

Oh, hardy har har har.

She was about to open her mouth to comment aloud when a woman’s voice interrupted her.

“Hi, it’s me, Carny,” the recorded voice chirped. Actually chirped, Kit marveled. How very annoying. “Just wanted to say hi,” the perky little thing continued. “We haven’t talked for a while, and I wondered how you were doing. Give me a call when you get a chance. I love you, and I miss you. Bye.”

I love you? Kit echoed to herself. Something hot and bitter pooled in her belly like a shot of belladonna. I love you? Some woman actually loved Pendleton? And he had neglected to mention this? Worse than that, however, was the fact that he was staring at his answering machine with much affection, as if he might potentially love the chirper, too.

“Who was that?” she demanded before she could stop herself, appalled at the rancor she heard in her own voice.

Pendleton’s head snapped up. “That was my sister,” he told her, his own voice none too sweet-sounding in response.

The word foolish didn’t quite cover the feeling that came over Kit at the knowledge that the woman who loved Pendleton was a woman who was completely entitled to do so. And the word oh didn’t quite cover an apology for her outburst. Nevertheless, her response to his explanation was, “Oh.”

“Is it all right with you, Your Majesty, if I give my sister a call back?”

Strange, Kit thought, how she’d never noticed before that slight accent, redolent of the northeast, that colored Pendleton’s speech whenever his patience was pushed to the limit. At the mention of his sister, he sounded just a tad like Sylvester Stallone.

“Why would I mind?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he picked up the phone and dialed a series of numbers, enough to total long distance. Not that Kit counted, mind you, just to make sure he wasn’t misleading her about keeping some hot little tootsie under wraps here in town, but… He did dial eleven numbers. Then he glared at her as he waited for someone to answer at the other end, and for a moment, Kit couldn’t figure out why he was staring darts at her that way.

Finally, he bit out an exasperated sigh and said, “Do you think I could have a little privacy while I— Hi, Carny?”

He spun around after the greeting, but not before Kit saw his face go warm and wistful all over. No, that wasn’t some hot little tootsie he was talking to, she realized as she turned to make her way out of the kitchen. No man would ever look that affectionate unless he was talking to someone he genuinely loved.

Family. It just now occurred to her that somewhere up in New Jersey, there was an entire Pendleton clan. Funny, how she hadn’t considered the fact that he would have loved ones elsewhere in the world. Then again, when one’s own family wasn’t exactly as loving and close-knit as the Waltons, she supposed it was only normal for one to assume that other families weren’t, either. She wondered if Pendleton fared any better with his folks than she did with hers.

A soft chuckle of delight emanated from behind the closed kitchen door, a sound of happiness, familiarity, and love. Obviously, Pendleton had a much better relationship with his family than she had with hers. He could laugh with his sister. Not sarcastically. Not ironically. But warmly. Lovingly. Genuinely.

Kit wanted to eavesdrop on the conversation in the worst way, but she feared hearing his laughter again, so she moved away from the door and into the living room. The Sunday Courier-Journal lay scattered where they left it that morning, half on the flowered chintz sofa, half on the hooked rug below, and she scooped up a few errant advertisements to skim through. Value City had just received a massive shipment of Cobbies priced half-off, she noted, fleece wear was on sale at Target, and at Macy’s, it was Clinique Bonus Time. But what was once her favorite time of the week—Sunday evening spent hunting and gathering amid the sales circulars—suddenly held no appeal. Instead, she found herself focused on the man’s voice that was barely detectable in the kitchen behind her, and the way he spoke low and laughed often with his sister.