My Man Pendleton [NOOK Book]

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His life fit very nicely into seven boxes. Three of those boxes contained books. Two held his music collection. One housed the sort of small appliances that made a single man's life complete—digital alarm clock, coffee maker, wet/dry razor, portable CD player. And one box—the biggest one—held all the designer suits and pointy-toed Italian shoes a man could ever use in one lifetime. All in all, he had everything he needed to start a new life. New city. New house. New job. New wardrobe.

He was a new man.

Restlessly, he scrubbed a hand over his nape, still not quite comfortable feeling the brush of frigid February air on a part of his body that hadn't been exposed for almost half a decade. The heat and electricity were working fine in the house in Old Louisville on which he had closed three days before. But thanks to the ice and wind of his first Kentucky winter that currently pelted his new home, the radiators in the old brick Victorian were taking their time warming up the roomy three story structure. And because he hadn't yet bought any new furniture to furnish his new life, save a mattress and box springs to sleep on, there were no lamps for him to fight to keep the darkness at bay.

A chill wound through him in spite of the leather jacket hugging his shoulders, so he puffed briefly on his bare hands and shoved them deep into the pockets of his blue jeans. Then, unable to tolerate the darkness any longer, he crossed the empty living room, continued without slowing through the dining room, and entered the kitchen, where he flipped on the overhead light. The sputter of the bare fluorescent bulb spilled a perfect bluish-white rectangle of illuminationinto the dining room, creating at least the illusion of warmth. And in spite of all the misgivings eating him up inside, he sighed with much satisfaction.

Tomorrow he would start his new job as executive vice president in charge of finances at Hensley's Distilleries, Inc., Kentucky's premiere producer of fine Bourbon whiskey. Frankly, he'd never much planned on becoming a high-powered corporate suit again. But, at thirty-two, he needed a change. And he had something to prove. Hey, it wasn't like his new position was something he couldn't handle, right? He'd been in a far more demanding position before. Granted, it had been one that had nearly destroyed him as a human being, but still ...

Things would be different this time. Holt McClellan, Sr., the CEO of Hensley's, and the head of the family that had run the distillery for more than a century, was crazy about him. Although he had been a bit surprised to find himself seated across from the Big Guy himself when he'd interviewed for the position, he -was fully confident he'd won the old man's approval. And although he didn't kid himself that someday he'd take over as CEO himself—Hensley's was, after all, a family-run business, and McClellan had five kids, one of whom was a VP himself—he knew he could be happy there for some time. Or, at least, until he had proved his point.

His new home was the land of Bourbon, tobacco, and thoroughbred horses, the greatest trio to come along since wine, women, and song. What wasn't there to like here?

Pushing away from the kitchen doorjamb, he sauntered slowly back toward his living room. His boot heels scuffed softly over the hardwood floors, and his nose filled with the combined fragrances of old dust and neglected fireplace. He absorbed the quiet, the solitude, the darkness. And he felt very, very good inside.

A new life in a new place for a new man. Nothing but blue skies and smooth sailing ahead, he promised himself. He decided to overlook the fact that the sky had been gray since his arrival and that he'd never sailed anywhere in his life. Because hey, what could possibly go wrong?

Something was very, very wrong.

As he folded himself into one of thirteen chairs that surrounded the long, mahogany table bisecting the boardroom of Hensley's Distilleries, Inc., the hair on his nape leaped to attention. And it had nothing to do with the haircut on which he'd spent more than he normally paid for a good lube job. There was definitely something strange about the entire collection of Hensley's executives, something that bothered him significantly. He just couldn't quite say what it was.

He watched as Holt McClellan, Sr., CEO, seated himself at the head of the table beside his son, Holt McClellan, Jr. "Gentlemen," he said, clearly unconcerned that his greeting excluded the solitary female who sat at the other end. "Good morning."

"Good morning, sir," the executives replied with all the precision of a Broadway chorus line.

McClellan, Sr. sifted through a small stack of papers before him as he announced, "I assume you've all heard by now that we've filled Riordan's position. Pendleton is our new VP in charge of finances. I hope you'll all make him feel welcome."

Pendleton, he repeated to himself. Corporate America, he recalled now, had an Ellis Island-like habit of changing the names of its citizens. Simply put, no one had a first name in this particular country. Only a last name, a career label, a personnel number, and a tee time. Pendleton, he supposed, he would be from now on.

"Thank you, sir," he said to his new employer

McClellan, Sr., who most closely resembled a white-haired Burt Lancaster playing his most eccentric role to the hilt, bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of Pendleton's gratitude. Pendleton tried not to throw up.

The other executives nodded and welcomed him quietly, but somehow their greetings seemed a bit strained. Pendleton shrugged off his odd feeling to new-kid nerves, greeted them quietly as a group, then turned his attention back to his employer.