TheThursday morning version of the Novak-Martin Variety Hour went much better than Monday’s had. Best of all, the addition of even more visuals, like the productivity report and the strategy graph, provided Pendleton with something to look at while his brain had the opportunity to wander at will. Unfortunately, the path his brain seemed most intent on wandering down ended with the not quite completed puzzle of Miss Katherine Atherton McClellan. Oddly, it was exactly the same route his brain had taken for nearly every one of the sixty-three hours and change—both conscious and unconscious—that had passed since he first made her acquaintance. And that was terrain no sane man should explore.

Just what the hell was Monday night about anyway? he wondered yet again. For all the McClellans’ dubious civil behavior, there was a tension in the air around them that was thick enough to hack with a meat cleaver. Pendleton had felt like a dead fly in the soup of family politics all evening long.

“Pendleton!”

Damn. Caught again.

“Sir?” he replied halfheartedly.

“I’d like your opinion,” McClellan, Sr. announced. “What do you think of the modifications Novak and Martin made to their presentation?”

Pendleton pretended to study all the visual aids—and, my, how they’d grown in the time he was thinking about the enigmatic Miss McClellan—then leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. Entwining his fingers thoughtfully, he said, “In my opinion, sir, the implementation of such a visionary objective does seem to impact our mission statement, but I wonder if it won’t be more productive in segmenting our quality group.”

McClellan, Sr. studied him through narrowed eyes. “In what way?”

This time Pendleton leaned back in his seat, exuding far more confidence than he felt. “Well, sir, re-engineering uncompetitive criteria can’t possibly achieve a strategic trend. I think we should focus instead on data compilation, the performance track, quality assurance, and a dynamic paradigm. And let’s not forget core competency.”

“Oh, I could never forget that.”

“Then I think we’re in agreement.”

McClellan, Sr. nodded. “I think we are.” He turned to Novak and Martin, who stood amid charts, graphs, what appeared to be a chemical equation of some kind, and a big blowup of something that somehow resembled a map of downtown Trenton. “Men,” he stated, “good work.”

The two VPs twitched a bit, clear indications of their relief. “Thank you, sir,” they chorused as one.

“Now then,” McClellan, Sr. continued as Novak and Martin returned to their seats. “There’s one final little matter on our agenda that we need to address this morning. Kit’s run off again.”

Well, that certainly caught Pendleton’s attention. Not just because it wasn’t often that a CEO’s daughter’s activities made it onto the corporate agenda, but also because every single one of the executives present began to squirm and avert his or her gaze steadfastly away from their fearless leader.

“Who went after her last time?” McClellan, Sr. asked, considering each of his executives one by one as they began to fidget even more restlessly.

“Come on, come on,” he cajoled. “Be a man about it.” When still no one came forward, he added, “I can check the files, you know.”

Across the table and to the left of Pendleton, Ramirez, with clear reluctance, raised a hand—a hand, he noted further, that was encased in a plaster cast that disappeared into the sleeve of his pin-striped blazer. McClellan, Sr. seemed to notice, too, because he squinted more closely at his VP.

“Did Kit do that to you?” he asked, indicating the cast.

Ramirez glanced at his hand, then back at his boss. “Oh, no, sir. This happened while I was playing squash. Miss McClellan only sprained my wrist. Novak was the one who got a broken arm.”

“Actually, it was just a hairline fracture,” Novak said. “It was Bahadoori who got something broken, wasn’t it, Bahadoori?”

The other executive nodded. “Ankle,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

“That’s right,” McClellan, Sr. recalled with a faint nod. “And, of course, we all know about Washington’s, um, posterior.”

Washington shifted a bit awkwardly in his chair, but remained noncommittal otherwise. Oh, wow, so she did bite him on the ass, Pendleton thought with some small measure of triumph… right before he realized just how bizarre the conversation had become.

“Carmichael was the one who escaped without incident,” Bahadoori added.

Carmichael lifted a hand to her close-cropped hair. “Well, except for the hair,” she said. Hastily, she qualified, “But I’d been thinking about going short with it anyway.”

As Pendleton catalogued each of the other executives’ experiences with the boss’s daughter, he once again received the sensation of having entered an alternate plane of existence. What on earth was going on? Surely Kit hadn’t been responsible for all those injuries. Washington, after all, topped six feet, and seemed in no way the kind of man who would put himself in the position of… well, of being bitten on the ass. Not even by Kit McClellan.

“Pendleton, you’re up.”

As always, his boss’s announcement snapped him right out of what had promised to be a very good preoccupation. And, as always, all he could say in response was, “Sir?”

His employer eyed him impatiently. “Go get Kit,” he reiterated. “Bring her home.”

“But—”

“Beaches,” McClellan, Sr. elaborated. “She likes beaches, Pendleton. Try the beaches.”

Well, gee, that certainly narrowed it down. That is, Pendleton thought, it would have narrowed it down. If he’d had any intention of going after the boss’s daughter. Which, of course, he didn’t. Hey, it wasn’t in his job description.

But all he could manage by way of an objection was, “Beaches, sir?”

Instead of answering him. McClellan, Sr. turned to Rutledge. “Where did you find her, Rutledge?”

“St. Lucia,” the other man replied.

McClellan, Sr. nodded, then eyed the next executive in the group. “Hayes, where was she when you went after her?”

“Antigua, sir.”

“Washington?”

“I found her in Jamaica.”

“Redhawk?”

“St. Croix, sir.”

“Bahadoori?”

“Montserrat.”

And so it went, all around the table, until McClellan, Sr. had quizzed each of his VPs as to his runaway daughter’s various destinations. Clearly, running away from home was a habit of Kit’s. And clearly, sending his executives after her was the way McClellan, Sr. handled it. What wasn’t clear was why the Hensley’s executives would go along with such a thing.

“It would appear, Pendleton,” his boss said, “that she rather likes the Caribbean. You might want to begin your search there.”

“My search, sir?”

McClellan, Sr.’s expression probably would have been the same if Pendleton had just hopped up onto the table, whipped open his pants, and introduced everyone in the room to Mr. Happy. “Of course, Pendleton,” he said evenly. “I thought I made that clear. It’s your turn to go after Kit.”

“But, sir,” he continued, already feeling defeated, “is that really necessary? After all, your daughter is an adult who’s free to do as she—”

“You can have a week off,” his boss interrupted him before he could finish. “I’ll look forward to Kit’s return to the house by Thursday night, next week. Put all your expenses on the company credit card. Oh, and, Pendleton.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t forget to pack your sunscreen. That sun down there in the Caribbean…it’s merciless.”

For one long moment, Pendleton only sat in his chair, pinching his nose hard, squeezing his eyes shut tight, willing himself to please, in the name of God, wake up from whatever bizarre dream he had tumbled into. Unfortunately, with the passage of every second, it became crystal clear that what he had been hoping was nothing more than the surreal, was, in reality, well…reality.

“Um, sir?” he finally managed to say.

“Yes, Pendleton.”

He forced his eyes open, willed his hand back down to the table, and somehow managed to meet his employer’s gaze. “This, um…That is, sir… What I mean to say is…”

“Spit it out, Pendleton.”

He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth for a moment, searching for the right words. “It’s just that…well, going after your daughter isn’t exactly in my job description, sir.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Sir?”

“Have you read your job description all the way through yet, Pendleton?”

He hedged. “Well, it is a bit longer than the average job description, and getting settled in my office has taken a lot more time than I thought it would, and—”

“Read it,” McClellan, Sr. interrupted him.

“Yes, sir.”

“And pay special attention to page four, paragraph six, subheading… subheading…”

“Subheading A, sir,” each of the executives offered as one.

“Subheading A,” McClellan, Sr. continued without missing a beat. “It’s perfectly self-explanatory. Anything else?”

Actually, there were quite a few anything elses on Pendleton’s mind, but for the life of him, he couldn’t find it in himself to utter even one.

So McClellan, Sr. gave his executives the final once-over, rose from his chair, and announced, “I think that’s everything. Now get out.”

Then, as was his habit, he disappeared through the door to his office, his son following in his wake. No sooner had the door clicked shut behind them did the rest of the executives leap up from their chairs, descend upon Pendleton like a plague of pinstripes, and begin to speak in a single, solitary roar.

“Forget about packing sunscreen,” Martin began. “You go after that girl, you better be packing a piece. The sun down there in Caribbean isn’t the only thing that’s merciless.”

“And forget about watching the beaches,” Ramirez told him. “You watch your back, man.”

Not more than an hour later, someone thrust a legal pad toward him with what appeared to be the names of several travel agencies.

“These are the agencies Miss McClellan has used in the past,” he heard Novak say. “Though you probably won’t have any luck there. She never uses the same one twice.”

“She always travels under an assumed name,” Washington added, “but it’ll be one you can probably identify if you try hard enough. Like Gertrude Stein, for instance.”

“Or Betty Crocker,” Carmichael said.

“Ida Lupino,” Rutledge added.

“Dr. Denton,” Ramirez continued.

“Che Guevera,” Bahadoori offered.

Pendleton studied each of his colleagues in turn. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see a pattern here.”

“Exactly,” Novak said, as the others nodded sagely.

He waited for a more complete explanation, but wasn’t quite surprised when none was forthcoming. So, with a sigh of resignation, he asked, “Then you think I should contact one of these travel agencies?”

“No!”the entire group chorused.

“You should absolutely not contact any of them,” Rutledge stated adamantly. “Miss McClellan’s reputation definitely precedes her”.

Hadn’t Pendleton heard that already from someone? Oh, right, he immediately recalled. He’d heard about Kit’s reputation from Kit herself. Hmm.”So I should try a new one then?” he wondered aloud.

“Preferably in another city,” Bahadoori told him.

“Another state,” Carmichael added.

“Another country,” Washington threw in. “They might not have heard about her in Abu Dhabi.”

This was ridiculous, Pendleton thought. No human being could possibly wreak the single-handed havoc that everyone ascribed to Kit McClellan. Certainly she came across as a handful, sharp-edged, sharp-witted, sharp-tongued. Sharp-shooter?

Stop it, he ordered himself. No way would he believe she was anywhere near as destructive as these people made her out to be. “She can’t be as bad as all that,” he voiced his thoughts aloud.

A ripple of anxious chuckles was his only reply.

“Okay, then can I just ask one last question?”

The others nodded.

“If Miss McClellan is so awful, then why doesn’t McClellan, Sr. just let her stay wherever she runs off to? And why do you guys keep going after her, job description or no job description?”

“That’s two questions, Pendleton,” Novak pointed out.

“Okay, two last questions then.”

For a long moment, none of the other VPs responded. Then Carmichael, evidently the least fearful of the repercussions, smiled a little grimly. “McClellan, Sr. needs her back, Pendleton, because Kit McClellan, for all her questionable tendencies, is far too valuable a possession for the McClellans to let her stray far.

“And why do you all keep going after her?”

Novak answered this time. “Same reason.”

As answers went, Pendleton thought, those left a lot to be desired. “Valuable in what way?” he asked further.

“Sorry, Pendleton,” Carmichael told him. “But any more questions you have, you’ll need to run by one of the McClellans.” Her grim smile returned as she added, “And I think you know which one would be most likely to give you the most accurate answer.”

Pendleton nodded silently. That, he thought, was exactly what he’d been afraid of.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Pendleton shook his head in disbelief as he slumped back in his chair. He tossed his job description back down onto his desk, his gaze pinned to the bottom of page four. Page four, paragraph six, to be specific. Right underneath subheading A.

Good God, it really was in his job description. Right there, in black and white, Times New Roman on Fine Linen Southworth, it stated quite clearly that should Miss Katherine Atherton McClellan ever take off for parts unknown, at any time during the period of his employment, he might indeed be called upon to travel to those parts and fetch her back to the bosom of her loving family.

They sure did things differently in this part of the country.

He expelled an exasperated sigh and spun around in his chair, focusing on the quickly darkening sky outside his window. Below him, Main Street was alive with the hum and honk of cars headed home for the evening. Across from him, the assortment of shapes and sizes known as the Center for the Arts was awash with glitzy light. Beyond that, the dark ribbon of the Ohio River ambled languidly on its way, emptying into rivers, gulfs and oceans beyond. And somewhere amid one of those oceans was a madcap heiress he was professionally obligated to find.

One week. That’s how long he’d been granted to locate Kit McClellan, to bring her home to a father who demanded her return, yet clearly did not want her. For all the McClellan clan’s wealth and prominence and opportunity, Pendleton thanked his lucky stars that his own family was one hundred and eighty degrees away from them.

The legal pad his colleagues had so thoughtfully provided mocked him from atop his desk. Unwilling to tolerate the reminder of his duty, he ripped off the top sheet, folded it in half, then in quarters, then eighths, then sixteenths, and he stuffed it into his shirt pocket. He stood and straightened his tie, crossed to collect his blazer and overcoat from the coat stand near the door, and shrugged into the rest of his corporate uniform.

If McClellan, Sr. wanted his daughter returned, then Pendleton would retrieve her. It was, after all, in his job description. Bottom line, he needed his job. He needed the money his salary provided, the prestige his position afforded, the opportunity it offered him to show a certain person of his acquaintance that, hey, he could, too, hack it, so who’s laughing now, huh? Therefore, resigned to his fate, he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and prepared to face his destiny head on.

But his destiny was interrupted just then by a quick series of soft raps that greeted him from the other side of the door. “Mr. Pendleton?” Beatrice, his secretary, called out. “Are you still here?”

He opened the door to find her standing on the other side, her own coat buttoned up to her numerous chins, obviously on her way out, too. Beatrice had come with his office, having worked for Hensley’s for longer than Pendleton had been alive. In spite of that, she left a lot to be desired in a secretary. He discovered that on his first day of work, when she couldn’t seem to remember even the most rudimentary of company policies. Like, for instance, where they kept the microwave popcorn.

“I really apologize,” she said, “but this arrived for you this morning while you were in your meeting with Mr. McClellan, and I just now realized I forgot to give it to you.” She extended a cardboard overnight mailer. “I am so sorry. I hope it wasn’t anything too important.”

Actually, he thought, one might assume that the words EXTREMELY URGENT, in big red capital letters, emblazoned on both the front and back of the envelope, might have alerted her that there was some degree of importance attached to its delivery. But, hey, that was Pendleton—always assuming the obvious.

So all he said was, “Thank you, Beatrice. I’m sure it will be fine.”

She smiled feebly, surrendered the overnight mailer, then spun around and fled without another word. When he glanced down to open it, he noted that instead of having a fancy, embossed label, the mailer had been addressed by hand and embellished by the word, CONFIDENTIAL. Addressed by a bold, feminine hand, too, if he wasn’t mistaken, something that made a strange feeling of dread shimmy right down his spine.

Hastily, he tugged the plastic thread on the back and pulled the sides of the mailer open wide. For a moment, he thought it was empty. Then he tipped it upside down and shook it once, and a tiny bit of cardboard color came fluttering out, tumbling end over end to land on the taupe carpet. He bent over to inspect it, for some reason reluctant to pick it up. Especially when he realized it was a postcard.

Of a beach.

Probably the Caribbean.

Dread filled him again as he snatched it up and flipped it over, only to find on the other side the same bold feminine handwriting that had appeared on the mailer. Hi, Pendleton! the words inscribed there read. Having a great time! Wish you were here! Love, Kit.

For long moments he only stared at those words, reading them over and over and over. Then his gaze fell on the fine print in the lower left-hand corner of the postcard. Sunset at Veranda Bay. St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands. And all he could think was, Oh no. Don’t make it easy. Please, whatever you do, don’t make this easy for me.

Just to reassure himself, Pendleton turned the overnight mailer to the address side and checked the postmark. Veranda Bay. St. John. U.S. Virgin Islands.

Well, gee, hadn’t Kit been clever to realize in advance that her father would be sending him to retrieve her from her current tropical locale. Why did he suddenly get the feeling that he was some pinstriped amoeba under a big, karmic microscope, and McClellan, Sr. was the one rolling him in and out of focus?

“Dammit,” he hissed under his breath.

He tucked the postcard into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and withdrew the much-folded list of travel agencies from his shirt pocket. Then he forced his feet to move forward, tossing the latter into Beatrice’s trash can as he passed it. He could make his own travel arrangements. He only wished he knew exactly what he was headed into.