My Man Pendleton by Elizabeth Bevarly Page A

suddenly altered the movement of his fingers, and began rotating his thumb in a slow spiral, around and around and around in the moisture streaking the side of the glass. A flush of pale pink stained Kit's cheeks, and her mouth opened slightly, as if she suddenly needed more air.
    And for some reason, he felt a very wicked, thoroughly unwanted heat wind through his own body. "You know," he continued, his voice suddenly sounding a bit ragged, "I'm going to have to ask you to go over the specific rules of the game before long. Frankly, I'm having a hell of a time keeping up."
    He halted the movement of his hand and gripped his drink tightly, and only then was the mysterious spell broken. Kit glanced up at him again, but her wide blue eyes revealed nothing of what she might be thinking, in spite of the tell-tale blush that still stained her cheeks.
    "I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this," she said, her voice sounding almost as rough as his own had. "It was just a postcard."
    "Overnighted to me," he pointed out.
    She lifted one—naked—shoulder in a shrug, and somehow made the gesture seem very erotic. "I just wanted to make sure you got it. You never know with the mail down here."
    "Yeah, well, you really shouldn't have."
    She waved her hand negligently through the air. "Are you kidding? It took Novak almost a month to find me. And Daddy's getting more impatient all the time. How long did he give you to bring me back? Two weeks?"
    "One."
    "He really is getting impatient. He still has more than two months. I wouldn't think he'd become quite so desperate just yet."
    As always happened when Pendleton came within hailing distance of any member of the McClellan family, his head began to spin. "Two months?" he echoed. "Before what? You succumb to melanoma from overexposure to the Caribbean sun?"
    "Nah," she replied readily. "No chance of that. I'm always careful. I never go out without an SPF of at least forty-five, which is basically the equivalent of lying under a Mack truck. I'd spontaneously combust, if I did." She settled an elbow on the bar, cupped her jaw negligently in her palm, and leaned forward. Then she whispered conspiratorially, "I'm cursed with the fair Hensley complexion, you know."
    No, Pendleton hadn't known. And somehow, gaining the knowledge at this point clarified the situation not at all.
    "I suppose, however," she continued, not altering her pose, "that we've put you through enough. Since you've come all the way down here to find me, the least I can do is let you know what you're doing here."
    "That," he said, "would endear you to me forever."
    She pushed herself away from the bar and muttered, "Well, gee, Pendleton. Don't go getting all mushy on me." Her fair Hensley complexion suddenly turned a bit pink again. "I just hate to see a guy like you with a look like that on his face, that's all."
    "A look like what?" he asked.
    "Like someone just gave you a good, solid blow to the back of the head."
    "Ah."
    He began to lift his pink, frilly drink to his lips again, but before he could complete the action, Kit snatched the glass away from him.
    "I knew you wouldn't be drinking Bourbon, but good God, Pendleton, don't drink this," she commanded. "Drinks like this will mess with a man's testosterone level bigtime. Even a guy like you, who clearly has buckets to spare, could potentially turn into a flaming parfait eater."
    Without further comment—and before he had a chance to ask her to elaborate on the buckets-full state of his testosterone—she set a shorter glass on the bar and spun around to a veritable pyramid of liquor behind her.
    Pendleton's heart sank a bit as he watched her fingers hover over a bottle of Hensley's Bourbon that was situated on the top row. But after a moment of consideration—not to mention a sly little smile that she tossed over her shoulder—she opted instead for a single malt Scotch for which he had always embraced a very fond affection. In one single, fluid