My Man Pendleton (10 page)

He nodded. "I'm aware of your position. But I can't imagine how Hensley's could possibly be of service to you."

"Well, you can't be of service to us," she told him frankly, her gaze finally skidding toward his for a moment before ricocheting away again. "That's the point. Your company, and the product you manufacture, aren't of service to anyone."

He hoped his smile wasn't as brittle as it felt. "On that matter, Mrs. Ivory, I beg to differ with you. As would millions of Bourbon drinkers world
wide. Hensley's is one of the best, if not
the
best Bourbon available. Our product—and our service—are of impeccable quality and have been for generations. We take great pride in that."

At his pronouncement, she fixed her gaze levelly on his without flinching. "Your
product,"
she said, virtually spitting out the word, "has been responsible for the suffering, the sickness, the
death
of millions of people over the years. I don't know how you can possibly take pride in something like that. In fact, I don't know how you can sleep at night."

This time Holt didn't even bother to fake a smile. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, all pretense of civility gone. "Cutting right to the chase, are we, Mrs. Ivory?"

"Well, I know you're a busy man, Mr. McClellan."

Her outburst had clearly provided her with the needed boost for battle, because she suddenly didn't seem to be at all intimidated by him. Ignoring her remark about him not sleeping at night—frankly, it was none of her damned business why he had trouble sleeping—he backpedaled to address her other remarks instead.

"It isn't Bourbon that's been responsible for the things you like to blame it for," he said. "It's irresponsible people who have caused those things."

"The old 'Guns don't kill people' line, Mr. McClellan? I'm disappointed. I would have thought you could be more creative than that when making excuses for your role in ruining countless lives."

He frowned. "As much as I abhor the presence of handguns in our society, and regardless of the cliché, the reasoning is appropriate. It's not the product that the Louisville Temperance League should be going after, Mrs. Ivory. It's the people who misuse it that you should be directing your attentions to." He sat forward now, linking his fingers loosely on his desk. "Will you be going after Hillerich and Bradsby when you're finished with Hensley's?"

She looked a bit puzzled but only said, "The baseball bat manufacturers? Why on earth would we do that?"

He shrugged. "Hey, one good blow to the head with a Louisville Slugger could kill someone."

"Mr. McClellan," Faith Ivory interjected mildly, "I don't think—"

"And don't forget the Ford plant," he continued, ignoring her as he warmed to his argument. "Automobile accidents have maimed and killed a lot more people than Bourbon has."

"Mr. McClellan, you're being—"

"And General Electric. My God. I don't think I need to remind you that one fork in a toaster and you're…" He shrugged again, philosophically this time. "Well, you're toast."

She gazed at him in silence for a moment before asking, "Are you finished?"

"I don't know. Have I made my point?"

"Repeatedly."

"Then I guess I'm finished."

She hesitated, not seeming to know exactly how to proceed. Finally, she began again, "Few people can dispute the fact that drinking alcohol is dangerous. Drunk drivers have killed thousands of innocent people. And alcoholism is responsible for everything from domestic violence to birth defects to heart disease to—"

Beautiful mouth or no, Holt was losing patience with Faith Ivory. Her arguments were the same ones he'd been hearing for years, and frankly, he
didn't want to hear them again. "Alcoholism and the enjoyment of spirits," he interrupted her, "are two entirely unrelated things, Mrs. Ivory."

"They're not at all unrelated," she countered.

"They are
completely
unrelated," Holt insisted. He inhaled a deep breath to clear his thoughts, then continued, as levelly as he could manage, "Alcoholism is a serious illness. The enjoyment of a cocktail after work or a glass of wine with dinner isn't."

"One leads directly to the other," she retorted.

"Not necessarily, though irresponsible behavior can contribute to it," he volleyed.

Faith Ivory studied him in silence, as if she'd known they would reach such an impasse, and she was just gearing up to drive home her next point. Oddly enough, Holt found himself looking forward to her argument. Strangely enough, somewhere along the line, this little sparring match with Faith Ivory had become diverting. Almost enjoyable. So he waited. But, surprisingly, Faith Ivory's luscious mouth remained firmly shut on the subject.

"Mrs. Ivory?" he finally spurred her, still unsure why he would try to prolong such a dialogue.

With some distraction, she answered, "Yes?"

"Aren't you going to respond to my comment that alcoholism is a serious illness?"

Very quietly, she said, "Alcoholism
is
a serious illness."

He nodded. "Well, my gracious goodness. We actually agree on something." When she still offered no comment to set them off again, he continued, "How about the irresponsible behavior part? Don't you want to say something about that?"

She shook her head slowly, her mind obviously still elsewhere. "No. Irresponsible behavior definitely contributes to alcoholism. I'll grant you that, too."

Well, golly, Holt thought. If she kept this up, she was going to take all the fun out of it. "So your point would be
…
?"
he tried again.

The steam she had been gathering evaporated, and whatever argument Faith Ivory had been about to make evidently disappeared with it, because she simply sat there and said nothing.

"Mrs. Ivory?" he tried again.

"My point, Mr. McClellan, would be
…
"
Abruptly, she stood, slinging the strap of her purse tightly over her shoulder, folding her coat back over her arm. "I have no point, Mr. McClellan. Obviously, it was a mistake for me to come here. I apologize for taking up so much of your time."

Holt jerked to attention. Suddenly, he was desperate to do something to keep her from going. What had begun as an odious task to deal with as quickly as possible had turned into a strangely enjoyable little interlude with a woman full of mysteries he somehow wanted to solve.

It had been a long time since Holt had been drawn to a woman, especially with the immediacy and ferocity for which he'd become ensnared by Faith Ivory. Of all the women he could find himself attracted to, she was the last type he needed. Yet somehow he got the feeling that there were layers under her brittleness that she didn't allow others to see. And now he found himself wanting to flake away that thin shell of her exterior and find out what kind of motor was revving up beneath.

Because Faith Ivory was definitely revving up. Holt wasn't sure where she intended to go once her motor was at full throttle—he wasn't even sure
she
knew where she wanted to go—but there was definitely some destination on her horizon.

And just what made him so philosophical on a rainy Friday morning, he couldn't possibly have said. Unless maybe it was a beautiful woman with hair the color of champagne and eyes as deep as the ocean. A woman of mystery. A woman of intrigue.

A woman who called herself
Mrs.

* * *

Faith didn't dare stop running until she'd made it through the
Humana
Building
's

Safe, she thought hollowly. Like she would ever feel that again in this lifetime.

In no way could she have anticipated Holt McClellan. He had just been so
…
so…
Her breath caught in her throat at the memory of him rising from behind his desk. And rising, and rising, and rising. She'd been afraid he would keep rising until his head brushed the ceiling, and he reached across his desk to pluck her off the carpet and consume her whole. She squeezed her eyes shut at the recollection, pressed her hands to her cheeks and tried to steady her breathing. Holt McClellan had been, in a word…

Well, in a word, he'd been
awesome.

She opened her eyes and spun away from the passing throngs of people to face the fountain, focusing her attention on the gentle stream of water that rippled poetically down the flat black marble.

Best not to think about it,
she told herself.

Unfortunately, she knew that wasn't likely. Because now she was going to have to face the members of the Louisville Temperance League and tell them what a miserable failure she was.

She'd been so sure that her contribution to the cause would be her superior debating and argumentative skills. And under other circumstances, she knew she would have made a difference. She'd been an incredible criminal justice attorney once, had brought juries and judges to their knees. Of course, it had been years since she'd performed in the courtroom, but still…
Some things never left you, in spite of the tests and obstacles you put them through. Some things were just inbred. Some things…

She cut off her own little pep talk, knowing it was pointless. She had failed at her task—just as she'd failed at so many other things—and now, as always, she was going to have to make reparations. The Temperance League could let someone else take over the Hensley's maneuvers. Maybe they could give her Maker's Mark or Brown-Forman or Heaven Hill instead. That way, she wouldn't have to deal with Holt McClellan again.

Because there was no question in her mind that
he
was the reason she hadn't been able to continue with her duties that morning. He was just too big, too handsome, too blond, too self-assured. Just like Stephen had been.

Don't think about him,
Faith commanded herself.

Don't even think about Stephen Ivory.

But the admonishment was as ineffective as always. Nothing would ever be able to make her stop thinking about her late, but hardly lamented, husband.

Forcing the thoughts away before they could turn into memories, she shrugged into her coat. Miriam was going to be disappointed that Faith had finally managed to breach the fortress of Hensley's Distilleries, Inc. only to surrender at the first sign of combat. What a coward she was.

Faith shoved her hand into her coat pocket to retrieve her car keys, only to find herself grasping a fingerful of lint where her keys should have been. She tried the other pocket, but it, too, was empty, save for a stray gum wrapper. Her purse provided her with little more than the basic paraphernalia necessary for feminine upkeep—hairbrush, lipstick, compact
…
a ball-point pen of questionable effectiveness, a half-f box of Tic-Tacs. But no keys.

When she realized what she'd done, she dropped her hands to her sides and threw back her head in defeat. Considering the way she'd been manhandling her coat in Holt McClellan's office—not to mention the velocity of her flight—it was a good bet that she'd dropped her keys in there on his lush-pile carpet.

Great. Now she was going to have to walk back to the Temperance League offices. Because there was no way she would go back into Holt McClellan's lair. Now she'd have to take a bus all the way to her sister's house in Fern Creek, for the spare set of keys Stephanie kept in case of emergency.

Faith eyed the slate sky overhead and felt the sting of ice-cold rain patter against her face. The Temperance League offices were on

Just as the realization materialized, the rain began to fall more resolutely, and Faith sighed as she stepped from beneath the meager protection of the
Humana
Building
's generous overhang.

Was there anything, she wondered, that could possibly make this day worse?

It was only a matter of hours until Faith had the answer to that question. Yes. As a matter of fact, the day could get much,
much
worse.

Not because Miriam Dodd, the director of the Louisville Temperance League, had pontificated with even more vigor than usual about Faith's inability to achieve her goal where Hensley's Distilleries was concerned. And not because Faith's car dealer had told her that it would be at least twenty-four hours before he could get her a new set of keys. Nor was it because she'd been notified that her car was towed away, due to its being parked illegally during rush hour. And not because she'd had to sit on her sister's back porch for forty-five minutes—in the pouring, icy rain—waiting for Stephanie to arrive home from work.