My Man Pendleton (22 page)

"Now, now," she said after she swallowed. "Anyone will tell you that when you have as much money as my family has, my condition is what's known as 'eccentric.'"

He shook his head. "'Eccentric' suggests a certain, oh … disorganization. And you don't strike me as being particularly disorganized."

She held his gaze for a long time, and he detected something in her eyes that was almost … yearning. "Then think of me as someone who has nowhere else to go," she said softly. "Because in a lot of ways, Pendleton, that's exactly what I am."

He inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly as he pondered his choices. Either he could toss Kit out on her keester and risk losing his job and any potential chance he had to show a certain someone exactly what kind of stuff he was made of, or he could let her stay and allow his employer to think that the two of them were shacking up. For some reason, he discovered he rather liked that latter option. It would serve the bastard right.

And he heard himself ask, "What's your real reason for doing this?"

She sipped casually from the martini again, her gaze never leaving his. "If my father thinks the two of us are romantically involved, he'll leave me alone and stop flinging undesirable men at me."

Sidestepping the matter of his being undesirable—for now, at least—Pendleton asked, "And?"

"And I'll have bought myself a little time to decide what I want to do."

He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. "I thought you said you had to be married within two months or your family would forfeit everything."

"That's true."

"Then it sounds to me like you don't have a lot of time left to buy."

"Two months is more than enough time," she assured him, though he detected something in her voice that told him she was in no way sure.

"So if you, wise as Solomon as you are," he said, "conclude that your family should go broke for paying your fiancé to dump you, then you'll just string them along for a couple of months, letting them think the two of us will be married before the deadline. And then you'll back out at the last minute, thereby causing them to lose their inheritance."

She dropped her gaze to the floor, nodding slowly. Her voice was a quiet monotone that revealed nothing of her thoughts when she replied, "Yes, that's right."

"And if, at the end of this two months, you decide they—and you—should keep the money?" he asked. "What will you do then?"

She snapped her head back up, her eyes clouded with confusion when she looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you want to keep the money, then you'll need to be married," he pointed out. "And what will you do then?"

Her eyebrows arrowed downward in consideration, as if she hadn't quite thought that far ahead. "Well," she began slowly, "I suppose … I mean if I do decide to do get married—which I'm not saying I will," she hastened to qualify, "I guess…" She sighed fitfully. "Well, I guess Novak would do in a pinch."

"Novak?" Pendleton exclaimed. She had to be kidding.

She shrugged. "Well, he's made it clear more
than once that he'd do anything for me," she said.

This time Pendleton was the one whose eyebrows arrowed downward in consideration. Then, immediately, he stopped himself. The last thing he wanted to do was consider Novak doing anything for—or with—Kit.

"Besides," she continued, crossing her arms anxiously over her midsection, injecting a bit more vigor into her voice than he suspected she felt, "I might still decide to stay single. It would serve my family right."

"And you?" he asked. "You'll gladly surrender your share of the millions?"

Her shoulders rose and fell so quickly, Pendleton wasn't sure the gesture qualified for a shrug. "Of course I would," she said hastily. "It would be going to a good cause."

She'd responded too quickly, he thought. She really hadn't given much consideration to the prospect of being broke herself. And he wondered for a moment if he should try to nudge her toward thinking along those lines.

Ultimately, he decided it was none of his business. The McClellans had dug this pit for themselves a
loooong
time before he'd entered the picture, and there was absolutely no reason for him to involve himself in the mess any more than he'd already been pulled into it. Still, that didn't answer his question about what to do with Kit, did it? Should he let her stay or make her go?

"You know," he said, "I don't think I'd be talking out of turn here if I said that I really don't think much of your father."

She smiled sadly. "Yeah, well, you wouldn't be talking alone, either. Not many people do think much of my father."

Pendleton studied her for a long time, noting the slump of her shoulders, the downward tilt of her head, and the way she seemed to be holding herself up—as if no one else would do it for her. And little by little, the cool feelings he'd harbored for her began to warm some.

"Kit, what you do about your family fortune is between you and your family," he said. "I really wish you wouldn't involve me."

She met his gaze levelly, beseechingly, for a long time without speaking. Then finally, timidly, she said, "Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. It's something special. I know you're going to like it."

Kit held her breath as she waited to see what Pendleton would say about her continued presence in his home. Any other man would have been dialing the police—or Our Lady of Peace Hospital—by now. But Pendleton was looking at her as if he might honestly allow her to stay. She moved a hand behind her back and crossed her fingers hopefully. Please, she thought, oh, pretty please…

For a long moment, he said nothing, and with every passing moment of his prolonged silence, her heart began to sink, her limbs grew heavy, and she resolved herself to being dumped. Oh, well, she thought. It's not like such a thing came as any surprise. What man in his right mind would allow his house, his very life, to be overrun by some crazy—or rather, eccentric—woman, just because she'd asked pretty please?

She was about to open her mouth and concede defeat, to return Pendleton's house—and his life—to his own capable hands, when he opened his own mouth and cut her off.

"All right, you can stay," he said, hurrying on
before she could comment, "and I'm probably going to be sorry I asked, but
…
define 'special.'"

Kit smiled as a bubble of relief burst in her belly, even allowed herself to surrender to a ripple of laughter as she crossed the room to link her arm with his. "Fried catfish," she told him. "Two words, Pendleton. Yum-mee."

She sensed immediately by the look on his face that he wasn't nearly as excited about the menu as she was. "Oh, boy," he said blandly. "Bottom-feeders soaked in fat and served up for dinner. I don't guess life gets any better than that."

"Well, there's no reason to be sarcastic."

"No?"

She enjoyed another sip from the martini glass she had taken from him, then extended it toward him again. Some Stepford Wife she was turning out to be. She wasn't even making sure her man had his nightly cocktail refill after a long, hard day at work. Surprisingly, Pendleton took the drink from her, but instead of tasting it, he continued to study her face.

And damn him for that. It was just too friggin' cold in this house to wear skimpy little outfits orchestrated to keep his eyes elsewhere on her body. But he'd only given her June Cleaver get-up a perfunctory glance before settling his attention back on her face. Now she was going to have to try something else. Maybe if she dressed up as a nun. Or a dominatrix. Or both at the same time. Hmmm…

"What else are we having?" he asked suddenly, dragging her mind back to the matters at hand. "For dinner, I mean."

She lifted her nose indignantly into the air. "Well, after your joyous outburst over the catfish, I think maybe I shouldn't tell you about the side
dishes. Or dessert, either, for that matter."

"Oh, I think maybe you should."

She shook her head. "Nah. It'd be more fun to watch your expression when you sample genuine
Kentucky
cuisine for the first time. Especially the—"

She halted when she saw his eyebrows shoot up expectantly. "Well, you'll find out," she concluded easily.

Pendleton nodded slowly, fatalistically. "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

Kit had little trouble keeping herself busy in Pendleton's house during the week that followed. She furnished his home from top to bottom with furniture that
she,
at least, adored—how fortunate that his arrival in Louisville had coincided perfectly with Bacon's department store's semiannual home sale (and that twelve-months-no-interest plan had just been
too
irresistible to pass up). She cleared his fridge and cupboards of all that trendy bachelor fare and replaced it with the basic four of her home state—cholesterol, cholesterol, cholesterol, and greens. And she played her Earl Scruggs CDs over and over and over again—only to learn that Pendleton, go figure, did
not
like bluegrass music. Oh, yes. And she'd named their new golden retriever puppy Maury.

All in all, it had been time well spent. And not just because she'd been so successful in organizing her new life with Pendleton. But because while she'd been redoing his home, hearth, and life from top to bottom, she'd also learned some
very
interesting things about him. Like the fact that he had every book ever written by F. Scott Fitzgerald
and
Ernest Hemingway. Like the fact that he owned not one, not two, but
three
pairs of Levi's 501s that had definitely seen better days. Like the fact that he preferred boxers over briefs. And like the fact that R&B and blues ruled in his CD collection. Funny, but he wasn't turning out to be anything at all like she had expected.

Now her second Saturday with him was upon them, a full day with just her and Pendleton, and she was looking forward to learning even more. Especially since he'd steadfastly avoided her last weekend by driving to
Paducah
, claiming that visiting
Paducah
,
Kentucky
had been a lifelong goal, and no, if Kit didn't mind, he'd just as soon go alone. So clearly, she intended to take advantage of his presence at home for a change to try and figure the man out.

Not surprisingly, upon opening her eyes that morning, Kit had found herself alone in the bed. She'd awakened alone every morning since that first one, now that Pendleton was sleeping downstairs on their new sofa every night. At any rate, a metallic rapping from the backyard had been what woke her. She'd moved to the bedroom window to find the door open on the shed-thing outside, and Pendleton's roadster—its roof now mended—parked out in the alley. Even after she'd made her way downstairs to pour herself a cup of coffee and let Maury out for his morning uproar, the pounding had continued.

Now, gazing out the kitchen window, Kit saw Maury yapping happily about the backyard, but Pendleton was nowhere to be seen. Heard, certainly, but not seen. Much as he'd been for the entire length of her invasion. She'd heard him come in from work every night, had heard him shaving and showering every morning. But she hadn't seen much of him at all.

Nor had he spoken to her. Although, all things reconsidered, she couldn't exactly blame him. After all, the only reason he tolerated her occupation of his home was that it meant he kept his job. As reasons went, Kit supposed his was as good as any that men had used over the years to hang around with her. She sighed as that
clink-clink-clink
started up again, and she wondered what on earth he was up to out there.

"Probably building a guillotine," she muttered to herself. Ah, well. Only one way to find out.

It took her almost no time to take a bath and change clothes. She opted for black velvet leggings and a bright purple chenille turtleneck that fell to mid-thigh, accessorizing the ensemble with purple socks and black ankle boots. Maury began to bark incessantly the moment she hit the bottom step outside, and the clamor in the shed-thing abruptly halted.

"Pendleton?" she called out experimentally as she approached, thinking that, if this were a Wes Craven movie, the spooky ax-murderer music would start kicking in right about now. "Everything okay in there?"

Not much to her surprise, she received no reply. Except for the constant
Awr-awr!
…
Awr-awr-awr!
from Maury as he ran in maddening circles around her feet.

"Down, boy," she instructed the dog, wondering why she bothered. He was about as obedient as Pendleton was. Sure enough, Maury only increased his frenzied movements in response. Kit rolled her eyes and drew cautiously closer to the shed-thing. "Pendleton?" she tried again. "Sweetie? Is that you in there?"

"Go away."

Yep, it was Pendleton in there, all right. "What are you doing?"

"Go … away."

Not one to be dissuaded by a surly attitude, nor the potential for becoming a homicide victim, Kit continued valiantly, "When I woke up alone this morning, I was worried about you."

He still hadn't emerged from the shed-thing, and Kit still wasn't quite brave enough to chance a look inside. "Why would you be worried?" his voice came from the other side of the open door. "Unless maybe you thought I might have hanged myself in the stairwell during the night. Which, as we both know, is a definite possibility."