Cherrywood, the McClellan home, was a majestic brick Georgian monstrosity perched high on a majestic green hill in majestic Glenview, an enclave for the way too rich just outside Louisville. The house was nestled amid huge, majestic trees—probably oaks and maples that were doubtless even more majestic when they weren’t stripped of foliage by the winter chill. Because the sun had just set, the house was awash in soft, golden, majestic light, thanks to the majestic outdoor illumination in the majestic landscaping.

All in all, it was very majestic.

Pendleton rolled his car to a stop in the cobbled court in front of Cherrywood and simply sat behind the wheel, staring. A house with a name. God. He didn’t begrudge anyone the material rewards that came with success. Hell, he planned to buy a few of his own once his paychecks from Hensley’s started kicking in. But no one should be allowed to have as much money as the McClellans obviously had. There was just something very unbalanced about it.

Nevertheless, he supposed it wasn’t his role in life to decide who got what and how much. So he pushed the thought away, opened the door of his brand new Porsche Carrera—okay, so he’d already bought himself a material reward—and unfolded himself from inside. The winter wind whipped around him again, and he tugged the collar of his Ungaro overcoat—okay, two material rewards—up over his bare neck. Then he approached the McClellans’ front door as he checked the time on his Breitling watch. All right, all right. Three material rewards. But that was it.

Noting that he was a few minutes early, he lifted leather-clad fingers to the brass door knocker, an art deco sun with an expression on its face Pendleton could only liken to completely soused. After four quick falls of the knocker, he stepped back to await a response. Within seconds, the door opened, and he was met by a slender, white-haired woman with a very nice smile.

“Mrs. McClellan?” he asked.

She shook her head slightly. “Mrs. McClellan passed away two years ago. I’m Mrs. Mason, the McClellans’ housekeeper. You must be Mr. Pendleton.”

The Mr. part surprised him for a moment. Even having been employed at Hensley’s for such a short time, he had already begun to think of himself as just Pendleton. “Yes, ma’am,” he returned with a smile of his own.

“Please come in,” Mrs. Mason told him, stepping to the side of the door. She swept an arm toward the interior, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it felt like it was about a hundred below zero outside.

As he entered and watched her close the door softly behind him, Pendleton noted that she wore the traditional livery of a housemaid—a plain black dress with white collar and cuffs. She lifted her hands at shoulder level, and for a moment, he wondered why she was surrendering. Then he realized she was waiting to help him remove his coat so she could hang it up for him. Feeling a little self-conscious, he unbuttoned himself, turned around, and let the woman who was his mother’s age help him out of his coat. And he made a mental note to remember that if he ever rose to the status of filthy, stinkin’ rich, he’d never hire anyone to undress him.

The foyer in which he stood was bigger than most suburban living rooms. It opened onto an ivory-colored, softly lit hallway that extended a good fifty feet before ending in a staircase that wound up to the next story. The hardwood floor was buffed to honey-colored perfection, and topped with the biggest Oriental rug he’d ever seen, woven of the softest colors he could ever imagine—apricot, ivory, pale blue. Along the walls, flowered loveseats beckoned to visitors, while marble-topped tables boasted a variety of knickknacks and family photographs, antiques, and fresh-cut flowers. Above the furnishings hung massive oil paintings of landscapes that—just a shot in the dark here—must have cost a small fortune.

Halfway down the hall were two large entryways facing each other beneath elaborate molding, the French doors of both thrown open wide in welcome. Muffled voices emerged from one of the rooms, though Pendleton couldn’t have said which. He glanced at Mrs. Mason in silent question.

“Mr. McClellan and the boys are in the library,” she told him. “Miss McClellan hasn’t yet come down.”

The girl. Pendleton recalled Washington gritting his teeth and decided that Miss McClellan must be the one with the overbite he was supposed to watch out for.

“The library?” he asked, pointing first to one entryway and then the other.

Mrs. Mason smiled benignly, and Pendleton couldn’t help but wonder if she really, really hated her job. “On the right,” she told him with a quick gesture.

“Thank you.”

She dipped her head forward in silent acknowledgment, and Pendleton stiffened a bit, uncomfortable with her display of deference. He wasn’t much one for being deferred to, mainly because he wasn’t much one for deferring. Unless, of course, his paycheck depended on it, but even then, it stuck in his craw. He gazed toward the door the housekeeper had indicated, but paused before taking a step.

He hadn’t bothered with the Kevlar that Chang suggested, but he had opted for his Brioni pin-stripe. Now he ran a hand quickly over the finely woven, charcoal-colored wool, nudged a little tighter the Valentino necktie knotted expertly at his throat, and made his way toward the room Mrs. Mason indicated. The sweet aroma of old books and cigars met him first. Then he entered a room furnished in Early Rich Guy, occupied by four of the more contemporary versions.

The library was small when compared to the brief sample he’d seen of the rest of the house, but it was still bigger than the studio apartment Pendleton had occupied while he was in college. Nevertheless, intimacy prevailed here. The ceiling was low and decorated with ornate molding, and the walls on three sides were covered with shelves—most of them crammed full of books in every color and texture available. Interspersed with the books were more knickknacks, more family photographs, more antiques. Another massive Oriental rug, this one spattered with rich jewel tones of emerald, ruby, sapphire, and topaz, spanned much of the floor, while illumination came from twin torchieres of brass and milk glass that stood sentry on opposite sides of the room.

“Pendleton!” McClellan, Sr. greeted him the moment he rounded the entry. “There you are, at last.”

“Am I late, sir?”

McClellan, Sr. waved a cigar gregariously through the air. “Not at all. You’re right on time. Cigar?”

Pendleton had actually always preferred Marlboros, but he quit smoking almost five years ago. So naturally, he now nodded enthusiastically at his employer’s offer. “Thank you, sir.”

“They’re Cohibas,” his host stated, as if Pendleton should know what that meant. “Would you prefer a Churchill or a robusto?”

“Uh…”

This was going to be tricky. The Cult of the Cigar was an aspect of corporate life that Pendleton had never embraced, even when he was a part of corporate culture. Although he recalled that Churchill was a prominent figure from twentieth-century British history, he couldn’t imagine smoking the man. And, of course, he had no idea what a robusto was.

Finally, he replied, “Why don’t you choose for me, sir?”

McClellan, Sr. nodded his approval as he headed for a small wooden box that sat alone on a table near an oxblood leather chair. “All right. You seem like the robusto type to me. And these are very mild. You’ll love them,” he added as he deftly snipped the end off the cigar with a tiny pair of strangely shaped scissors.

“Thank you, sir,” Pendleton said as he took the proffered cigar.

He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger as McClellan, Sr. had done upon removing it from the box, then, because he’d seen James Bond perform the gesture in movies, he lifted it to his nose for an idle sniff. What exactly he was sniffing for, he couldn’t have said. But the cigar did have a pleasant, bittersweet aroma.

Holt McClellan, Jr. stepped in with a flick of what appeared to be—and doubtless was—a solid gold lighter, and Pendleton puffed robustly on his robusto with what he hoped was acceptable relish.

McClellan, Jr. was the oldest of four sons, Pendleton knew, and, judging by the little scene with his father earlier in the day, the younger McClellan seemed to be agreeable enough. Probably in his mid-thirties, the junior was clearly planning to take over the reins of Hensley’s upon the senior’s retirement. Likewise, it was clear that the senior McClellan was grooming his namesake for just such a scenario.

“What do you think?” McClellan, Jr. asked after Pendleton enjoyed a good half-dozen puffs.

As fluent as Pendleton was in Corporate-speak, he’d received no education at all in Cigarese, so had no idea how to reply. Finally, he expelled a stream of fragrant white smoke and replied, “That, McClellan, is one fine cigar.”

“Pendleton, I’d like you to meet my other sons,” McClellan, Sr. interrupted. “Holt, as you probably know, is the oldest. Mick, my second, is currently unavailable.”

“Unavailable sir?”

“Last we heard, he was hugging the side of some mountain in Tibet. That was a good month ago. God only knows where he is now. Transylvania maybe.”

“Transylvania, sir?”

“He’s working his way around the world in alphabetical order,” McClellan, Sr. said.

Pendleton arched his brows in surprise. “Wouldn’t it be more prudent to go around the world in a more, ah, geographical manner? East to west? North to south? That kind of thing?”

“Well, Mick never did like doing things the easy way,” his employer stated negligently. “Says it’s not manly.”

“Ah.”

McClellan, Sr. moved toward a sandy-haired son who appeared to be about Pendleton’s age. But instead of the corporate uniform of suit and tie, this younger McClellan was dressed in a pair of baggy, cognac-colored corduroys and an even baggier, burgundy-colored sweater. Chic tortoiseshell glasses were perched on his nose, and his dark blond hair was bound fashionably—or perhaps rebelliously, if one was a McClellan—in a shoulder-length ponytail. Like his father and brothers, he was armed with a cigar, and he was clearly not afraid to use it.

“Dirk, here,” McClellan, Sr. continued as he clapped a hand over his son’s shoulder, “is a professor of men’s studies at U of L.”

“Men’s studies, sir?”

Belatedly, Pendleton realized he had asked the question of his host, and not of the man who could more accurately answer it, thereby dismissing young Dirk in a manner that showed Very Bad Form. After voicing the question, Pendleton sensed instinctively that he had committed a grave faux pas. He also sensed it by the way Dirk stiffened and clutched his drink with enough force to whiten his knuckles.

And also by the snippy tone in the other man’s voice when he assured Pendleton, “Men’s studies is an extremely important part of the liberal arts curriculum at U of L. It’s an area of scholarship that’s been sadly neglected for far too long, on campuses across the country.”

In comment, all Pendleton could manage was, “Ah.” In no way did he mean for the remark to be encouraging.

Unfortunately, Dirk took it in exactly that way. “Proponents of men’s studies,” he continued, still snippily, “delve far more deeply into the realm of manhood than the unfortunate stereotype that lingers from the genesis of the men’s movement.”

“Ah,” Pendleton murmured again.

And again, Dirk misunderstood. “The fur-wearing, drum-beating, poetry-spouting stereotype, I mean,” he continued. “The one that people have come to associate with anyone who has the temerity to suggest that a man’s experience in the world is every bit as important as a woman’s. God forbid we should let men have their say in this, the twenty-first century. Oh, no.”

Pendleton nodded, hopefully sympathetically, and reiterated, “Ah.”

“The father-son relationship alone,” Dirk went on, evidently anxious to don his own metaphorical fur and beat his own proverbial drum, “is an area rife for scholarly study. Do you realize how many perfectly good men have been ruined by a total lack of fathering?” he demanded, arcing his cigar through the air for emphasis.

“Ah…no.”

“Or worse still, by shoddy fathering? Do you realize how many men have fathers who were never even present in their lives? Fathers who spent their weekends working instead of tending to their sons’ needs? Who left the entire shaping of the male experience to their sons’ mothers, for God’s sake? Who selfishly thought it more important to carve a niche for themselves in the world, instead of helping their sons form some kind of cohesive—”

“Dirk.”

McClellan, Sr.’s single-syllable interruption put an effective—and immediate—stop to Dirk’s meandering, though, Pendleton had to admit, compelling, thesis.

“Anyway,” the younger McClellan concluded, glancing down at his Hush Puppies. “My work is very, very important.”

“Ah,” Pendleton said again. Then he expanded his response by adding, “I see.”

“And this,” McClellan, Sr. said as he moved on to the fourth son, “is my youngest boy, Bart. We’re fortunate that he could be with us tonight. Normally, he makes his home in Camp Lejeune, but he’s visiting on leave. Marines.”

Actually, Pendleton probably could have guessed that part, seeing as how young Bart was wearing his dress blues, complete with sword, in spite of the fact that the occasion was dinner with his family. Then again, he thought, recalling his colleagues’ warnings of that morning, maybe keeping a sharp object within reach at all times wasn’t such a bad idea.

By way of a greeting, Bart snapped to attention and saluted Pendleton. Actually saluted him. How very off-putting. “Captain Bartholomew McClellan, sir,” he corrected his father’s introduction and avoided Pendleton’s gaze.

“Uh,” Pendleton replied eloquently, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. So he only clutched his cigar more tightly Finally, he greeted the youngest McClellan son with “Semper paratus?”

Bart’s hands sprang to the small of his back, then he spread his legs and assumed a new position Pendleton supposed was meant to look more relaxed, but not really. Still avoiding his gaze, Bart replied formally,”Semper fidelis. Semper paratus is the Coast Guard.”

“Ah. Well. Semper fidelis to you, too.”

Bart nodded once, then turned to his father. “Request permission to speak with you about a private matter, sir?”

“Of course, Bart.” McClellan, Sr. puffed his cigar a few times, then eyed his youngest son warily. “This isn’t about that Donna person again, is it?”

Bart’s face suddenly flamed fuchsia, a color that did nothing to complement his uniform. His gaze flickered once to Pendleton, then back to his father. “Da-a-ad. I told you it’s private,” he whined softly.

As McClellan, Sr. and Captain McClellan moved to the other side of the room in quiet conversation, Pendleton considered McClellan, Jr. and Professor McClellan again. For a moment, he wondered where the three sons’ wives were. Then he decided that the McClellan testosterone level being what it was, the little women were probably all at home skinning fresh kill and wondering what to do about the waxy yellow buildup on their husbands’ pedestals.

The McClellans were, to say the least, a colorful family. For some reason, Pendleton felt as if he had suddenly stumbled into a Preston Sturges movie circa l930ish, replete with a cast of the usual suspects. The only thing missing was the madcap heiress, a perky little redhead in a gold lamé gown, who had an equally perky little name. Like Pepper or Dody or Annabelle or—

“Kit!”

Yeah, that’d do.

At McClellan, Sr.’s outburst, Pendleton turned to greet what he assumed could only be the mysterious, toothsome Miss McClellan. But instead of a redhead, he found himself staring at what his mother referred to as a dishwater blonde. And in place of the gold lamé gown was a little black dress that fairly shrieked, Va-va-va-voooom. Miss McClellan herself, however, wasn’t particularly little. Nor, he noted with some trepidation, did she appear to be in any way perky.

What she was in her black high heels was close to Pendleton’s own six-feet-plus, and every inch of her seemed to crackle with energy. She wasn’t by any means beautiful—her features were too angular, too strong, too striking, to be labeled beautiful. Nevertheless, there was something very compelling about her. The smile she wore held a hint of mischief, and her blue eyes fairly sparkled with anticipation. What she might have been anticipating, however, Pendleton was hesitant to ponder.

“You must be Pendleton,” she greeted him easily as she drew near. He tipped his head forward. “If I must be, then I suppose I am.”

She threw her head back, giving her dark blond, chin-length curls a dramatic shake. Then she sighed with all the melodrama of a madcap heiress, and announced, “I’m Katherine Atherton McClellan. My friends call me Kit. You, however, may call me Miss McClellan.”

“Kit,” her father called from the other side of the room, his voice edged with warning. “Play nice.”

She chuckled, her smile dazzling. Her gaze never left Pendleton’s as she asked, “Who says I’m not playing nice?”

Oh, yeah. He could see her taking a bite out of Washington. Easy. Probably from his ass.

McClellan, Sr. cut a quick swath across the library and stepped between him and Kit, though whether to make introductions or read them the rules of the fight, Pendleton couldn’t have said.

“Pendleton,” he began, his voice level and smooth, offering no clue as to what he might be thinking, “This is my daughter, Katherine. Call her whatever you want to. In my opinion, the list of possibilities is endless.”

Something strangely melancholy shot through her expression at her father’s words, but she recovered herself admirably. “Can I fix you a drink, Pendleton?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Automatically, he began to request his usual Scotch and water, completely forgetting for a moment who his new employer was. “Sco—uh, Bourbon and water,” he hastily corrected himself when every eye in the room snapped toward him. “Or just… Bourbon straight over ice?”

“Good choice,” Kit said smoothly. “After all, the only hard liquor we keep on hand is Hensley’s. Duh.”

It was then that Pendleton decided he would have to be on his guard around the sole McClellan female. Not just because she was impossible to gauge, but because she didn’t keep Scotch in the house. He didn’t care how well she filled out her little va-va-voom dress. Or that her long, long legs looked even longer thanks to the black silk hugging them. Or that her family had millions and millions and millions of dollars, not to mention a house with a name. They had no Scotch. And a man had to draw the line somewhere.

He watched her graceful movements as she plopped ice cubes into a cut crystal tumbler, then splashed a generous two fingers of Hensley’s over them. When she returned to Pendleton’s side, she was carrying another drink identical to the first, and was still wearing the same expression on her face—one that resembled a cat’s, when it has one paw on a mouse’s tail and the other on a catnip salad.

“So, Pendleton, tell me about yourself,” she said as she handed him his drink.

He shrugged off the request, sipped his drink and tried not to gag. God, he hated Bourbon. “What’s there to tell?”

“You big-wheeling corporate types,” she said with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “Always so unwilling to talk about yourselves. Why is that, I wonder? Is it because you have absolutely no life outside the workplace? And because having to talk about yourself would just make you face the fact once and for all that, gosh, your life is just a big fat zero when it comes to leisurely enjoyment?”

Pendleton pretended to consider the suggestion as he sipped his drink again. He shook his head slowly as he swallowed. “Nah. I’m pretty sure that’s not it.”

She shifted her weight to one foot and eyed him speculatively. “Okay, fine,” she said. “Then let me just give you a little quiz I developed to better understand the people who work for my father.”

“Oh, now wait a minute,” he interjected, feigning concern. “No one told me there was going to be a test. I didn’t have a chance to study.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she cooed. “I’ll take it easy on you. Only multiple choice and true or false.”

“I don’t know,” he hedged. “I was never very good at pop quizzes. Will there be math?”

“Maybe for extra credit. Question number one,” she, continued before he had a chance to stop her. “I, Pendleton, received my MBA from (A) Harvard, (B) Stanford, or (C)Bob’s School of Big Business.”

He felt a smile threatening, so quickly bit it back as he replied, “A.”

She nodded. “Question number two. I’ve always envisioned myself (A) as the ruthless, sadistic CEO of my own corporation, (B) retiring before I turn forty to sail around the world, or (C) hosting my own daytime talk show so I can meet lots of dysfunctional strippers with big hooters.”

He gave some serious thought to that one, then replied, “D.” She narrowed her eyes. “D?”

“All of the above.”

She considered his response, then evidentlyciddeed to allow him credit. “Okay. Final multiple choice, then we’ll move on to the true or false portion of our exam.”

Pendleton filled his mouth with a generous, fortifying sip of his drink, remembered belatedly that it was Bourbon, and somehow managed not to spit the entire mouthful on his examiner. “Shoot,” he managed after swallowing, the word a bit strangled.

Kit smiled coquettishly, and for the briefest of moments, something inside Pendleton went zing.

“If I could be anywhere in the world right at this moment,” she said, “I’d like to be (A) at home watching Top Chef and hoping it was an episode where Padma Lakshmi licked her fingers at least once, (B) in the eye of a hurricane on a kayak with a broken paddle, or (C) why, right here with you, Miss McClellan—where else would I want to be?”

“Oh, now that’s an easy one,” Pendleton said smoothly. “I wouldn’t think of insulting your intelligence by even bothering to answer that one.”

She tilted her head to the side and eyed him with much interest, but gave no hint as to what she might be thinking. Instead, she straightened again and quickly launched into part two of what he supposed was the KMAT—the Kit McClellan Aptitude Test.

“True or false,” she began. “I only receive the Victoria’s Secret catalog by accident—I have never actually ordered anything from it.”

“True.”

She nodded, though whether or not she believed him, he couldn’t have said.

“True or false,” she went on. “When I’m flipping through my Victoria’s Secret catalog, I always look at the faces of the models, too.”

He started to fudge a bit on that one, then decided, What the hell, and told the truth. “Mmm…false.”

She actually did chuckle at that one. But all she said was, “Final question. True or false. If given a choice between spending an evening with Mahatma Gandhi and Golda Meir, or two Victoria’s Secret models, I would choose the models.”

He didn’t have to think about that one at all. “Absolutely true.”

Kit smiled at him again before turning toward her father, who had moved to the other side of the room, where he appeared to be caught up in a very important conversation with McClellan, Jr. “Hey, Daddy!” she sang out. When her father’s head snapped up at the summons, she called further, “You know, he’s really cute and everything, and he seems to be more intelligent than the last two you got me, but I couldn’t possibly keep him. Thanks, anyway.”

Her father inhaled a deep breath, excused himself from the company of his oldest son, and strode across the room as if nothing in the world was wrong. Then he completely ignored his daughter and said, “Pendleton, would you mind joining me and Holt? We’re discussing the new trade agreement with China.”

And before Pendleton had a chance to comment—or to say goodbye to the enigmatic Miss McClellan and her gorgeous legs—his boss was leading him away.