My Man Pendleton Read Online Free PDF

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 blond. And in place of the gold lamé gown was a little black dress that fairly shrieked, Va-va-va-voooooom. 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 possibly 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, and 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 butt.
    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 absolutely 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, um … 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,