Free My Man Pendleton by Elizabeth Bevarly Page A

snugly, her eyes were green, clear, almost bottomless, and framed by lush, dark gold lashes. And her mouth …
    Good God. Holt swallowed hard, feeling a part of himself swell and grow warm that had no business swelling or warming in public. Her mouth, that generous, erotic mouth, made it impossible for Faith Ivory to ever appear temperate.
    Clearly nervous about their meeting, she transferred the coat folded neatly over one arm to the other, then back to its original position, then back over the other arm again, all the while looking at him as if she wished he were someone else.
    "Ms. Ivory," he greeted her, tamping down his irritation. He rose to his full six-foot-four, rebuttoning his dark suit jacket as he went, then moved easily around to the front of his desk.
    "Mrs. Ivory," she corrected him immediately, taking a step backward for each one that he took forward.
    At her designation of her title, he quickly dropped his gaze to her left hand, but he saw no sign of a ring on its fourth finger. Strange, that. Stranger still was the little twist of disappointment that wound through him at the recognition of her married state.
    What difference did it make? he asked himself. The last thing he needed to do was involve himself with the Louisville Temperance League in any way, shape or form. Even if Mrs. Ivory's shape and form were too tempting to pass up.
    "Mrs. Ivory," he conceded reluctantly, emphasizing her title more for his own benefit than for hers. He swept his hand toward a chair that sat vacant opposite his desk. "Can I offer you a seat?"
    She nodded, the motion jerky and anxious. Then she fled for the chair he had indicated and fairly collapsed into it, her entire body seeming to shrink into the upholstery the moment she was settled. She clutched her coat and purse on her lap as if she might need them later, to use them as a shield to ward him off. And it hit him then that she was genuinely frightened of him.
    With no small amount of discomfort, Holt shrugged off her reaction, chalking it up to another extremist behaving, well, extremely. He returned to his chair and sat forward, steepling his fingers on his desk. With the big piece of furniture between them, the delectable Mrs. Ivory seemed to relax some.
    "Now then," he tried again. "How can I help you?"
    She inhaled deeply, her gaze darting everywhere in the room except to him. "As your secretary told you, Mr. McClellan," she began, her voice soft, well modulated, and a bit huskier than he would have expected, "I'm here as a representative of the Louisville Temperance League."
    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