The weather in Veranda Bay, St. John,U.S.Virgin Islands, was quite extraordinary, Pendleton had to admit. Beneath a perfect, pale blue sky, the seventy-six degrees surrounding him were made even more enjoyable by a warm, restive breeze redolent of the salty sea, the rich jungle soil, Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion, and a wide variety of red and yellow rum drinks that dotted the bar around him.

Kit had chosen well, he thought grudgingly. The Veranda Bay Resort was a primo bit of real estate. It was also the solitary structure on Veranda Bay, something that had narrowed considerably his search for her exact whereabouts. Of course, the massive resort did lay claim to roughly two hundred rooms, fourteen luxury suites, twenty private bungalows, five restaurants, two cafés, a bistro, and nearly a dozen bars, but that was beside the point. Kit was here. Somewhere. And he would find her.

His current position seated at the bar by the pool afforded him panoramic views of both the lush hotel grounds and the ribbon of white beach beyond—not to mention the incredible turquoise expanse of the Caribbean. It was undoubtedly the best seat in the house for spying runaway madcap heiresses. Unless, of course, the runaway madcap heiress in question happened to be Kit McClellan, in which case, Pendleton was fairly certain she’d have to want to be spotted before he would be able to spot her. But she obviously did want to be found, he told himself confidently. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Pretty certain, anyway. In a way.

The unruly breeze pushed a lock of his dark hair down over his forehead, and when he carefully nudged it back into place, the wind returned to fondle the open collar of his white linen shirt. Baggy khaki trousers and buff-colored Topsiders—sans socks, natch—completed his attire, suggesting to a casual passerby that he was simply a vacationing corporate executive of generous means, instead of a boss’s spineless lackey sent to recover a rebellious daughter.

Thankfully, his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a very large, very pink drink on the bar beside him. When he glanced up, it was to find a gorgeous, curvaceous bartender with elegant Latina looks, wearing a skin-tight sarong, smiling at him. “Compliments of the house,” she said. “Welcome to Veranda Bay.”

He returned her salacious smile with one of his own, automatically curling his fingers around the cool, slender glass. The drink was really far too pretty for anyone of the masculine persuasion to be caught dead possessing, but it had been a nice gesture.

“Thank you,” he said. “Do you do this for all the guests?”

She shook her head, her smile broadening. “No. Only the attractive ones I’d like to get to know better.”

Well, okay then. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be a total washout after all. “Oh, yeah?” he asked.

She touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth. “Oh, yeah.”

Then she was gone, glancing back at Pendleton over her naked shoulder as she went, the warm sun gilding the dark, bare skin of her back that was revealed by the brief sarong uniform. And as he watched her go, he found himself wondering why he’d never visited the Caribbean before. Balmy weather, picture-perfect beach, beautiful women, free drinks… Was there anything that could possibly make this better?

His question was answered almost immediately by a brief slash of feedback from a microphone, followed by an overloud, nervous chuckle, and the arrival of a large man poolside. He was dressed in the biggest pair of shorts and the most obnoxious Hawaiian shirt Pendleton had ever seen, and he brought with him tidings of great joy.

“Sorry about that, folks,” he said with another anxious chuckle. “But if you’d all like to turn your attention poolside, we’re about to begin the swim-wear fashion show.”

Pendleton nearly dropped the drink he had been lifting to his mouth. Good God. There was something that could honestly make this better.

“And that,” the man continued, “will be followed immediately by the lingerie fashion show.”

Pendleton’s voice nearly lifted in song as his libido jumped up to do the macarena. What next? He wondered. Swimwear/lingerie mud wrestling? Would his most excellent fortune never end?

“Hi, Pendleton! I didn’t know you already had some vacation time coming. I’m going to have to ask Daddy about his new policy.”

Jinx.

He sighed as a murky fog that was becoming way too familiar began to roll into his brain. He halted just shy of his lips the progress of the beautiful drink that the beautiful woman gave him only a few beautiful moments ago.

“Miss McClellan,” he greeted Kit as he slowly spun around on his stool. Reluctantly, he set his drink down on the bar and said, “What a surprise to find you here.”

She stood on the opposite side of the bar, wearing the same kind of tiny sarong the other bartender had been wearing. But where the other woman’s was bright pink and burgeoning in all the nice, soft places men liked to see a sarong burgeon, Kit McClellan’s was pale yellow, sleek, and— He sighed again. And hardly burgeoning at all.

“What’re you drinking?” she asked further, her smile dazzling. Before he had a chance to answer, she rushed on, “No, wait—let me guess. Not Bourbon.”

“No,” he agreed mildly. “Not Bourbon.”

“I had a feeling.”

“I bet you did.” When she only smiled in response, he added, “Thank you for the postcard.”

She rocked back on her heels and gazed at him through laughing eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, of course I should mention it. It would have broken your heart if I hadn’t.”

“Would it?”

“Sure, it would. It’s all part of the game, after all, isn’t it?”

She studied him in what was clearly feigned bewilderment. “Game? What game?”

He chuckled as he wrapped his fingers more tightly around his drink, thumbing the condensation that trickled down its sides. When he looked up at Kit, he noted she was watching the subtle movement of his hands quite closely.

“See, now that’s the two-dollar-and-sixty-eight-cent question, isn’t it?” he asked her.

For a moment, she didn’t answer him, only continued to watch with much fascination the leisure motion of his thumb stroking up and down…up and down…up and down… the side of the glass. Then, quietly, slowly, as if her mind was a million miles a way, she asked, “Is it?”

Just to see how closely she was paying attention, Pendleton 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. For some reason, that made a very wicked, thoroughly unwanted heat go meandering through his own body.

“You know,” he continued, his voice suddenly sounding a little ragged, “I’m going to have to ask you to go over the specific rules of the game before long. 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. “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 didn’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?”

“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 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 maneuver, she uncorked it, spun around, and waved it over his glass, until it was half-full of the dark amber liquid.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No problem,” she assured him. “That’ll be eighteen bucks. And don’t forget to tip your bartender at least fifteen percent. You want I should just charge it to your room?”

He had begun to reach for the glass, but now his fingers hesitated. “Eighteen dollars?” he echoed incredulously. “For one drink?”

She shook her head as she returned the bottle to its shelf. “Pendleton. Honey, sweetie, baby, cookie. That’s Abelour Scotch. You wanna play the resort game, big guy, you gotta pay the resort prices. Don’t you get around much? I mean, where were you brought up? A barn?”

“No, New Jersey,” he responded before thinking. She emitted a sound that was a mixture of disbelief and delight, and he knew at once that Kit McClellan was almost certainly envisioning him as the product of a Bruce Springsteen video, complete with vacant lots, crumbling row houses, factory smokestacks, and Lady Liberty’s backside in the background. “South Jersey,” he felt compelled to clarify.

But all she said in response was, “New Jersey? Really?”

“Yes, really.”

She eyed him with much speculation. “Funny, but I don’t picture you as coming from New Jersey.”

He sipped his Scotch, enjoyed the smoky, mellow flavor, and felt his testosterone levels surging mightily. “Why is that?”

As she considered him in silence, it occurred to Pendleton that for a woman who wasn’t beautiful, Kit McClellan was certainly very attractive.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “You just don’t seem…”

“What?”

Her—naked—shoulders lifted and dipped again, but she only shook her head slowly in silence. So he sipped his drink once more, rolling the warm liquid around in his mouth, and focused on Kit McClellan’s striking face as she watched him. Her lips parted softly as he relished the dusky flavor of the liquor on his tongue, and her eyes darkened dangerously when he took his time to swallow it. A hot splash of lightning ignited in his belly, long before the Scotch ever got there.

“Actually,” he said, the word coming out a bit strangled for some reason, “the part of New Jersey I come from isn’t much different from your part of the country.”

Except, of course, he amended, for the funny way of talking people had in Kentucky. For instance, no one in New Jersey had ever asked him if he was brought up in a barn. And he still wasn’t sure which of the half-dozen different pronunciations of “Louisville” he’d heard was correct, although the garbled, nearly incomprehensible version seemed to be the one used most frequently.

For a long, intriguing moment, Kit only continued to stare at him with dreamy eyes, as if she were thinking of something totally unrelated to the conversation at hand. Finally, however, she said, “Funny, but I have trouble seeing you as a product of my part of the country, too.”

This time Pendleton was the one to remain quiet and thoughtful for a bit too long. He gazed down into the depths of the liquid he swirled nonchalantly in his glass, and wondered if he should even bother to clarify any conclusions—whether accurate or not—that the boss’s daughter might be drawing about him.

Ultimately, his curiosity—and surely it was nothing more than that—got the better of him, and he heard himself ask, “Well, then, Miss McClellan, just where do you picture me as coming from?”

That mystified expression cluttered her face once more, and she expelled another nervous chuckle. “I don’t know,” she repeated.

She continued to scrutinize him, and it occurred to Pendleton that she was expending an inordinate amount of energy trying to figure him out. It seemed to bother her that she couldn’t easily peg him and send him on his merry way. For some reason, it irritated the hell out of him that she was trying so hard to peg him, because he knew he shouldn’t care one way or another what Kit McClellan thought about him. Oddly enough, though, he did care. A lot.

“I believe you were going to tell me my reason for being here.”

She nodded. “Right. I almost forgot. Buy me dinner tonight. La Belle Mer, the restaurant here, does a fabulous buffet. You’ll love it.”

The quickness of subject change dizzied him for a moment. “My reason for being here is to buy you dinner?”

She smiled. “No, Pendleton. Buy me dinner tonight, and I’ll tell you what you’re doing here. I can’t right now. I’m working. Sheesh.”

She folded her elbows on the bar, leaned forward again, and smiled a very tempting little smile. Though why exactly it was tempting, Pendleton couldn’t have said. It was her mouth, he finally decided. The sight of her mouth was what kept blurring his thoughts and making him forget the things he knew he should be remembering. For all the planes and angles of her face, Kit’s mouth was red and ripe and rich with curves, full and lush and sexy. It distracted him, her mouth, because he kept wondering what it was going to do next. She was as quick to smile as she was to frown, and she had a habit of snagging her slightly crooked eyetooth at one end of her lower lip whenever she was lost in thought. Like right now.

God help him, he really, really liked it when she did that. He kept thinking about that mouth—and that eyetooth—nibbling on other body parts besides her lip. And not necessarily her body either.

“The meaning of your life, Pendleton, for the price of a seafood buffet,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s the deal of the century.”

The warm breeze kicked up again, but they only gazed at each other in silence, each oblivious to the beauty and tranquillity of the sunny, tropical afternoon surrounding them. Not far away, a steel drum band began to warm up, the soft trilling of felt against metal singing through the air. A squawky bird cried out from a palm tree above them, and a woman on the other side of the bar called for another sloe gin fizz.

Finally, finally, Pendleton broke the silence. He had no idea what spurred the question in his brain, but, out of nowhere, he asked, “Will you wear your sarong?”

As questions went, that one clearly wasn’t at the top of Kit’s “Things Pendleton Will Be Most Likely To Ask Me” list. As a result of her surprise, she lost her momentum a bit.

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

And just like that, he felt the upper hand slip comfortably back into his grasp.

“I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby at six o’clock,” he said, “in front of the concierge desk.” Then, without further ado—or further adieu, for that matter—he spun on his heel and walked away.

The strangest thing happened to Kit as she was readying herself for dinner. The dull thump of melancholy that normally settled in her belly at the arrival of one of her father’s emissaries wasn’t there. Usually, an encounter with one of the Hensley’s VPs only acted as a reminder to her that her worth to the McClellans, although substantial—ninety-nine-point-four million bucks, to be exact—was strictly financial in nature. Had it not been for her mother’s will, Kit’s father would have gleefully left her to rot in the tropical paradise of her choosing, wasting neither time nor effort to retrieve her. So naturally, whenever she found herself face to face with one of his minions, who had strict orders to bring her back to the fold, Kit felt a bit down.

But not tonight.

Tonight, in place of the cool feelings of dejection and abandonment, there was a warm fizzy sensation bubbling up inside her. It was a sensation so alien, so unfamiliar, that she almost didn’t recognize it. Yet it had been her companion ever since she saw Pendleton that afternoon. For some reason, the sight of him sitting at the bar, looking so unbelievably attractive with the breeze ruffling his dark hair, the sun dappling his gentleman-vacationer duds, and laughter brightening his espresso-colored eyes when he asked her to wear her sarong…

She bit back a wistful sigh. Well, the whole thing just generated a very odd reaction inside her, one that felt strangely like…happiness? She wasn’t quite sure. It had been so long since she experienced such a thing, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

In spite of Pendleton’s request, Kit didn’t wear her sarong that night. However, taking pity on the poor boy—he would, after all, be saddled with her for an entire evening—she donned something only marginally less revealing: a brief, snug little turquoise miniskirt and an even briefer, even snugger, little cropped halter top to go with. And heels. High heels. Really high heels she bought that afternoon for just this meeting—she hesitated to call it a date—with Pendleton. For some reason, she wanted to be as tall as she possibly could be, despite the fact that, all her life, her accelerated height had made her feel like such a great, hulking ogre. Above all else, she wanted to make certain that she was sexy as all get-out tonight.

Why? Well, usually, when she donned such sexy little outfits, it was because she wanted to maintain control over the whole man-woman thing. She knew she couldn’t accomplish such a feat with her beauty alone, simply because she didn’t have any real beauty. She did, however, claim truly phenomenal gams, and not a bad torso, in spite of its being bereft of any real breast action. As long as she could keep a man’s interest lingering below her neck, Kit was fairly confident she could eventually draw him in, lull him into a false sense of security, and then reveal him for what he was—an emissary of her father’s whose sole purpose in life was to corral her into matrimony and collect a fat reward for his trouble.

Pendleton, however, was threatening to be more elusive than usual. For one thing, he spent far more time than other men did gazing at her face. And that, Kit decided, was something she simply could not have him doing. If she had any hope of exposing him, then she was going to have to direct his attentions elsewhere. Hence, the little blue ensemble, tiny enough to bring even the most uncooperative man’s eyes to the place a woman wanted to keep them. Away from the face. Always away from the face. As singular an impression as Pendleton made, she was certain that, deep down, he was no different from any other man. Shallow. Superficial. Greedy.

My goodness, she was looking forward to the evening. She glanced at her watch long enough to ensure she was running the required fifteen minutes late and smiled. By now, Pendleton would be in the lobby, pacing like a caged animal, wondering where she was. She could almost feel his sweaty palms and the anxious wrinkling of his brow from here. Men were so predictable.

She spritzed perfume on her arms and neck and down the front of her top—well, you just never knew—gave her gold bangle bracelets an affectionate jingle, grabbed her tiny purse, and headed for the door. Thanks to the luminous full moon—which she simply had to pause to appreciate for a few moments when she exited her bungalow—she was running twenty minutes late by the time she reached the lobby. But that was okay. Her date—or rather, Pendleton—would, of course, be waiting for her. His financial future depended on her. So she fluffed up her dark blond curls—well, as much as she could fluff the unruly, chin-length mass—threw back her shoulders, and sauntered forward, immediately darting her gaze to the concierge desk. Just as she’d expected, she found Pendleton—

Not there.

Wait a minute. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again, fixing her gaze on the concierge desk. That was the concierge desk, wasn’t it? C-o-n-c-i-e-r-g-e. Yep, that was how you spelled concierge. She could have gotten that one even without four years of high school French. But there was no pacing, sweaty-palmed, furrowed-browed Pendleton in sight.

Maybe she misunderstood. Maybe he said he would meet her at the reservations desk. But there was no Pendleton there, either, sweaty, furrowed, or otherwise. Kit spun around in a full circle, taking in the entire lobby, from its polished pink marble floor to the skylights opening on the star-studded night above, scanning all the lush potted palm trees and tastefully arranged rattan furniture. There were lots of people milling about, but none of them was Pendleton.

The men’s room, she thought then, reluctant to acknowledge the bubble of relief that burst in her belly. She gave her forehead a mental smack. Of course. He was probably in there throwing up because he thought he’d lost the boss’s daughter, and his job was sure to be next on the list. Poor guy. She hadn’t meant for him to become so overwrought as all that. She’d have to find some way to make it up to him.

With a contented sigh, she fluffed up her dark blond curls again, threw back her shoulders again, and sauntered forward again, halting only when she stood outside the men’s room. Then, as discreetly as she could, she leaned forward and cupped an ear to the closed door. Unfortunately, she detected not a murmur of ghastly retching, nor even the rush of a faucet to tell her Pendleton was cleaning up the aftermath. Just as she was taking a step closer, the door flew open, and a man—not Pendleton—emerged, casting her a look of censure.

“Do you mind?” he asked when she didn’t move out of his way.

“Not at all,” she replied. Before he could make a clean break, however, she added, “Was there anyone else in there? A tall, dark-haired man? Wearing some expensive, though understated, vacation wear? And, oh, say….losing his lunch, perhaps?”

The man’s expression would have been the same if he had just found something really disgusting on the bottom of one of his huaraches. “No,” he said. “There was no one. Only the attendant.”

Bewilderment—surely it wasn’t disappointment—welled up inside her at the news. “Oh. Thank you.”

All right, so if Pendleton wasn’t in the lobby waiting for her, or in the men’s room getting sick all over himself on her account, then where was he? Slowly, oh, so slowly, a strange suspicion flickered to life at the back of her brain, a suspicion that was really quite unthinkable. Yet no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that such a development was impossible, Kit found herself striding back across the lobby in the direction of La Belle Mer, the restaurant that was to have been her ultimate destination with Pendleton.

But surely he wouldn’t have…? Not without…? He wouldn’t dare think …of? Would he…? Before she even realized her intention, she found herself standing in front of the maitre d’s stand, waiting patiently until he glanced up with an obsequious smile.

“Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”

She smiled as becomingly as she could and said, “Although I know you must be frightfully busy, could you be so kind as to tell me if you have a reservation under the name Pendleton?”

The maitre d’ scanned the list of names before him and, without glancing up, told her, “Yes. Mr. Pendleton arrived right on time—at six-fifteen.”

He’d only waited fifteen minutes? Kit thought. How incredibly gauche. “Could you take me to him, please?”

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said as if he were addressing a small child or cocker spaniel. “But our policy is to leave our guests to their meals unless they request otherwise. Mr. Pendleton made no mention of a guest. It would be against hotel policy—not to mention grossly impolite—for me to interrupt his dinner.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to be impolite or go against hotel policy,” Kit assured him. Fortunately, she had no such problem with doing so herself and moved easily past him.

When he realized her intention, however, he called out and abandoned his post in hot pursuit. But she had the element of surprise on her side—not to mention a much longer stride—and continued confidently on her way.

He still hadn’t caught up with her when she cleared the bar and caught sight of Pendleton. He was seated alone in the corner of the restaurant at an intimate little table for two, chatting amiably with his waitress, an auburn-haired woman whose sarong-clad—or rather, sarong-bare—back was turned to Kit.

Kit fluffed up her hair again, threw back her shoulders again, and sauntered forward again. She would make an entrance, just as she had planned. Katherine Atherton McClellan always made an entrance. And she wasn’t about to let Pendleton ruin her record.

Unfortunately, as entrances went, it wasn’t one of her better efforts. Because Pendleton glanced up as she made her approach, smiled benignly, and waved a fork-impaled shrimp at her, as if she were a passing sous chef and he was showing his approval for the fare.

“Miss McClellan,” he greeted her warmly as she drew nearer. “How fortunate that you made it after all.” As she came to a halt by the table, he replaced his fork on his plate, settled his linen napkin beside it, and rose formally from his chair, hand extended.

She forced a smile, ignored his gesture, and was about to speak when the maitre d’—who was, by now, understandably agitated—clamped a hand over her upper arm.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, a little breathlessly. “But you’ll have to come with me.”

“It’s all right Orlando,” Pendleton assured the man. “I was expecting Miss McClellan. Quite some time ago, as a matter of fact.”

Clearly reluctant to do so, Pendleton’s new best buddy, Orlando, released her arm, and, with an awkward dip of his chin, he scurried off. Kit watched him go, her irritation at the maitre d’ evaporating as her annoyance with her father’s emissary compounded.

“Pendleton,” she greeted him stiffly. “I thought we were supposed to meet in the lobby.”

Without missing a beat, he said, “I thought so, too.”

“Then why aren’t you there waiting for me?”

His smile never wavered, but something darkened his eyes. “Because when you didn’t show up on time, I assumed you changed your mind. Fortunately, Stacie here has been keeping me company in your absence.”

Kit glanced at the other woman and clenched her jaw tight. Oh, fine. Stacie, of the huge green eyes and fiery mane and an orange sarong that was only about six sizes too small, had made the supreme sacrifice of keeping Pendleton company in Kit’s absence. Well, wasn’t that just dandy?

“Go away,” she said eloquently to Pendleton’s server.

Frankly, the terse edict was all Kit could manage. Because for the first time in two years, she had no idea what to say or how to act. She could scarcely believe what was happening. Pendleton had blown her off. And no one, absolutely no one—no one unrelated by blood anyway—dared do something like that these days. Just who did Pendleton think he was? She was Katherine Atherton McClellan, heiress to a fortune. Well, potential heiress to a fortune, anyway. Depending on her mood.

Stacie opened her mouth to offer a commentary on Kit’s command, but one look at Kit, and she must have decided it would be more prudent to keep her response to herself. Instead, she only leaned waaaaay in toward Pendleton and purred something to him about dessert. Then, with a throaty chuckle and a toss of enough hair to suit two voluptuous, squishy women, she departed.

Kit stifled a growl as she sat down, focusing her attention on the man who occupied the chair opposite. “Pendleton,” she began, surprised at how steady she managed to keep her voice. “I don’t think you quite grasp the…the…oh, shall we say… the sine qua non of this situation.”

He arched his eyebrows in mild surprise as he replaced his napkin in his lap. “Why, Miss McClellan, I didn’t know you spoke Latin.”

She expelled an exasperated sound and cut right to the meat of it. “You’re supposed to be having dinner with me.”

“It would appear that I am having dinner with you. Or will be, once you order something. However, seeing as you chased away our server, it could be lean cuisine for you tonight.” He reached toward the little crustaceans hung like pink pearls around the lip of the glass sitting before him. “Here,” he added generously, “you can have one of my shrimps.”

“No thank you,” she muttered. She’d rather have his head. On a platter.

He shrugged as he reached for his wine. “I’m so glad you were able to make it,” he said. She managed a chuckle for that. “Oh, I bet you are.”

He halted his glass just shy of his lips. “You don’t sound convinced of my sincerity.”

She placed an elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. “Gee, I wonder why.”

“I can’t imagine. Oh, there’s Stacie,” he added, hailing the waitress. Upon her return, he took the liberty of ordering for Kit, a repeat of what he was having himself—lobster Newberry, arugula and goat cheese salad and, hey, what the heck, a bottle of 1989 Haut-Brion blanc to go with.

Before Kit could ask, he snapped the menu shut and explained, “They’re the most expensive items on the menu. I knew that would be what you’d want. It is, after all, going on the company credit card.”

Stacie jiggled off again, returning moments later with an additional wineglass, a bottle of wine, and another place setting. All Kit could do was watch in silence as Pendleton poured her a generous helping of wine.

Well, that, and ponder the fact that the evening wasn’t starting off at all the way she had planned.