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million bucks in his name, and his daughter living under someone else's roof.
    Ah, ah, ah, Daddy, she thought. Not … so … fast.
    But as she thought further, a truly masterful idea began to take seed in the darkest corner of her brain. No, she told herself quickly, even as the idea took root. She couldn't do that. Not to her family. Even if her family had bushwhacked every opportunity she'd had to put a little romance into her life. Even if they had chased off—or paid off—every guy who had ever taken an interest in her. Even if they had messed up any and every chance she'd ever had to find happiness with a man …
    She still couldn't do that to them.
    Could she?
    But bit by bit, as she considered her father's satisfaction with the way his little tableau was proceeding, the idea in Kit's head began to blossom. And slowly, she began to think that yes, maybe she could do that to them. Maybe…
    This situation with her father's new VP could work very well to her advantage. But she was going to have to make sure she played her role juuuuust riiiiight.
    She smiled, the first genuine smile she'd felt in some time. And she asked, "So, Daddy … what's for dessert?"
    * * *
    "What's this all about?"
    Pendleton's question diverted Kit's attention from the plotting that had kept her busy throughout dinner. When she turned, she found him gazing at the photograph that hung above the fireplace in the living room. The dinner party had retired here with the three C's—coffee, cognac, and cigars—to wind up the evening. Except that in the McClellans' case, the cognac was really Bourbon, because they didn't keep any other hard liquor in the house.
    Like every other room in Cherrywood, the main living room was filled with old things—old furniture, old rugs, old smells, old memories. And an old black-and-white photograph blown up to poster size, which hung where most people would post a portrait of the family patriarch. Though, in essence, she supposed that was exactly what the photograph was.
    "That's my great-great-grandfather, Noble Hensley," Kit told Pendleton.
    "What's that big, um, machine he's standing next to?"
    She smiled proudly. "That would be his still."
    "Ah."
    "He was a moonshiner."
    Pendleton nodded. "How fortunate for him to have had the opportunity to make his living working out in the sunshine and fresh air like that."
    "I assume you've never been within smelling distance of a still, have you, Pendleton?"
    "No, I can't say that I have been."
    "I could tell."
    Before she could elaborate, he gestured again toward the photograph and asked further, "And who are all those men surrounding your great-great-grandfather?"
    "The ones with the guns?" she asked benignly.
    "Yes, those."
    "Those would be his VPs."
    "Ah."
    "They were always on the lookout for revenuers. Back then, Hensley's Distilleries, Inc. was known as Old Noble's still up in Hoot Owl Hollow." She pronounced "Hollow" as "Holler," as the locals would, giving her Appalachian heritage, of which she was extremely proud, its due. "Instead of things like research and development and public relations, Noble's boys handled things like corn acquisition and
midnight
distribution."
    "Ah."
    "The distilling business was much more romantic back then."
    "And more dangerous, I'll wager."
    Kit eyed him blandly. "Is there a difference?"
    Pendleton eyed her back. "Between romantic and dangerous?"
    She nodded.
    "Don't you think there is?"
    Now she shook her head.
    "Ah."
    He was driving Kit crazy with his total lack of reaction, especially when she'd been doing her best all evening to be annoying. And the complete absence of animosity on his part was starting to get her really steamed.
    "It was your great-grandfather, Amon Hensley, who legitimized the Bourbon-making process, though, wasn't it?"
    Pendleton's question roused Kit from her thoughts. "I don't know that I'd say he legitimized it," she replied.
    "He wasn't the one who made it legal?"
    "Oh, that. Yes. He did, eventually.