Conflict of Interest (The McClouds of Mississippi) (14 page)

He noticed that she watched as Dylan ambled away, and he couldn’t help wondering if she was admiring the other guy’s butt or some stupid thing like that. And then he cursed himself viciously for acting like a jealous fool, when he had absolutely no right to be jealous over Adrienne.

“What’s the matter, Gideon?” Isabelle asked somewhat anxiously. “You look mad.”

He made a massive effort to smooth his expression. “No, I’m not mad. I was just…thinking about something.”

He avoided Adrienne’s eyes for a moment, just in case his perceptive agent caught a lingering trace of wholly masculine—and totally inappropriate—possessiveness in his expression.

Chapter Eight

“T
he feud between you and Dylan is absolutely ridiculous,” Adrienne told Gideon later. Exhausted from her tantrum and her movie outing, Isabelle had gone to bed right after dinner, leaving Adrienne and Gideon alone in the kitchen drinking coffee. “I’ve never seen so much measuring and muscle flexing in such a short time.”

He gave her a look, then shrugged. “I’ve wasted enough time on Smith today. Did you have a chance to read any of my manuscript last night?”

“Almost all of it,” she replied, resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to discuss Dylan. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I read for quite a while.”

“And?”

She’d known all day that this question was coming. She’d spent all day trying to decide how to answer it. “It’s a great story. I couldn’t stop turning the pages.”

He didn’t look particularly pleased by her praise. “Something’s bugging you about it. What?”

She eyed him warily, knowing exactly how he felt about anyone critiquing his writing. Yet he
had
asked. “It’s Alanya.”

“Alanya?” Gideon frowned in surprise at the mention of one of his characters. “What about her?”

“Why did you kill her?”

A frown creased his forehead. “I didn’t kill her. Prater did.”

“You know what I mean. What was the purpose of killing her?”

“I don’t know.” Looking both annoyed and puzzled, he searched for words. “It just seemed like a good dramatic turn for the story to take at that point. Gave Jackson more reason to hate Prater. More of a drive for revenge.”

She nodded slowly. “I understand that, of course, but…well…”

“Well,
what?
”

“The book seemed to lose something after Alanya died. Spark, tension, diversity. I don’t know. Something.”

“Oh, that’s very helpful.”

She didn’t take offense at his snarl. She, as well as anyone, understood a writer’s protectiveness toward his creative vision. “Keeping her alive wouldn’t involve much rewriting, would it? I mean, you really haven’t gotten so far since she died.”

The look he gave her then would have singed her eyelashes had she not been prepared for it. She had a strong suspicion that Gideon’s struggle with this book had begun immediately after the gripping, intense, emotional—but in her opinion, unfortunate—death scene. In fact, she
knew
that was the exact point where he had run into trouble. She could see it in his writing.

He shoved himself abruptly to his feet, his chair clattering noisily against the tile floor. “Oh, no, that’s no big deal at all. Simply bring a character back to life, work her into a storyline that wasn’t plotted with her in it, change every damned scene to include her. Piece of cake. And why? Because my agent likes her.”

He was pacing now, his hands flying as he vented his frustration. “I suppose you want a big, sloppy, romantic scene at the end. Just like Carla at the diner suggested? Something Hollywood would turn out?”

“Well…”

“Damn it.” He swept a hand over the counter, knocking over a roll of paper towels and a salt-and-pepper set. A few more colorful curses followed as he stomped from one end of the kitchen to the other.

Sipping her coffee, Adrienne watched him warily. She had confidence that he would eventually see that she was right. Well, maybe confidence was too strong a word. But she
was
right. She knew she was. Not only was she an experienced agent with a good grasp of the market, she was also a reader who loved his books. This one had the potential to be the best of them all—if he kept Alanya alive. She was the strongest, most vibrant, most complex and interesting female character he had ever written, and Adrienne wanted her back.

Pushing a hand through his hair, he spun to glare at her. “You really think letting her die was a mistake? Even after I explained my reasons for doing so?”

“I really do. I think the readers are going to have a hard time accepting her death—she’s such a fascinating character. She and Jackson are a powerful team, drawn together even as their differences and their equally forceful personalities work to keep them apart. The love scene you wrote just before her death—wow. It was one of the most intensely erotic scenes I’ve ever read, and you managed it in only a few not-particularly-explicit paragraphs. I simply don’t want to accept that they won’t be able to defeat their enemies together. No matter how brilliantly you conclude the story, Jackson’s victory will always feel hollow to me.”

“I don’t write romances, Adrienne. I’ve never believed that a book has to end happily to be good.”

“Neither do I. But the ending must satisfy the reader. And, trust me on this, your readers are going to want Alanya to survive. I know this because I
am
one of those readers, and I feel rather passionately about it.”

She had risen to face him during her persuasive speech, one hand resting lightly on the back of her chair to support her injured ankle. Gideon stood for what seemed like a long time just staring at her with no particular expression on his face, making her wonder if he was considering her suggestion or choosing the words he would use to fire her.

The words he finally spoke took her by surprise. “The sex scene turned you on, huh?”

She felt her cheeks warm, an unusual occurrence for her, since she didn’t usually blush easily. Must be because his question had caught her off guard. “I called it a love scene, and I said it was beautifully written. I didn’t…”

He had moved soundlessly toward her as she spoke, and her voice had grown weaker with each step he had taken, until it finally faded completely. She gazed up at him when he stopped directly in front of her. “Gideon…”

“Have I mentioned lately that I think you’re very good at your job?”

From his deep, silky tone, he could have been waxing lyrical about her eyes or her lips. The fact that he had chosen to compliment her competence was much more seductive. She had spent so much of her life trying to prove herself, with so few meaningful validations along the way. This one meant a great deal to her.

Trying to mask her emotions behind a brusquely professional facade, she asked, “Does this mean you agree with my suggestion?”

“It means I’m going to think about it. And that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me this week, even if I haven’t made that clear before.”

Her fingers tightened around the back of the chair. “I think you’ve done as much for me. Frankly, I needed a break from work. It took a sprained ankle and a toddler’s tears to keep me here, but I’ve actually enjoyed the visit.”

He surprised her again. “Then stay a while longer. You have another week of vacation. You know if you go back to New York, you’ll only end up working.”

She cautioned herself not to misinterpret his invitation. “You need help with Isabelle so you can finish your book. I understand. I suppose I could—”

“This has nothing to do with Isabelle,” he refuted a bit roughly. “I can deal with her.”

“Then why?”

“Because I don’t want you to go yet.”

The admission seemed difficult for him to make. She swallowed, wondering what, exactly, he meant by it and how, exactly, she should respond.

He seemed to feel the need for further explanation. “The, uh, the St. Patrick’s Day festival Saturday,” he blurted. “You said it sounds like fun. I’ll take you. You can’t spend a vacation in Mississippi without getting a sample of local flavor.”

“But I thought you disliked that sort of thing. Dylan said—”

The unfortunately timed reference made him scowl. “I don’t give a damn what Smith said. He doesn’t know me half as well as he thinks he does. So what do you say? Will you stay through the weekend?”

It wasn’t very hard for her to come up with an answer, after all. She wasn’t ready to leave just yet. “Yes, I’ll stay. I would love to attend the St. Patrick’s Day festival with you.”

His mouth tilted into a rueful smile. “It’s hardly on a scale with the St. Paddy’s Day festivities in New York or Boston, but it will probably be…interesting.”

“I’m sure it will be,” she agreed, but she wasn’t sure she was talking about the festival.

His gaze holding hers, he reached up to run his fingertips lightly down the side of her cheek, reminding her of the way he had traced her face before. It was a gesture she had mentally replayed many times since, a memory that never failed to make her shiver. Just as she shivered now.

She could see that he was thinking about kissing her. And she was thinking about letting him, professional relationship be damned. His mouth was only an inch away from hers, and she felt herself swaying forward, her lips already tingling in anticipation….

“Miss Corley?” Isabelle’s sleepy voice came from the kitchen doorway, breaking Adrienne and Gideon apart as effectively as a bucketful of cold water. “I had a bad dream.”

Adrienne turned too quickly, sending a spiral of pain from her ankle all the way up to her hip. Clenching her jaw to hold back an expletive, she waited a beat before speaking to the child. “I’m sorry you had a bad dream, Isabelle. Would you like a glass of water before I take you back to bed?”

Gideon was already moving toward the sink. Adrienne wasn’t quite ready to look at him yet, so she concentrated on Isabelle. The little girl wasn’t crying, but her expression was somber again, completely opposite to the contented smile she had worn when she’d fallen asleep.

It didn’t take a child psychologist to conclude that the bad dream was in some way connected to the incident that had upset her at school. Apparently, the movie outing hadn’t worked miracles, after all.

Isabelle drank a few sips of water from the glass Gideon handed her, then handed it back to him. She took Adrienne’s hand, clinging tightly enough to cut off the circulation to her fingers. “I guess I’m ready to go back now,” Isabelle whispered.

“Do you want me to come, too, Isabelle?” Gideon asked as they moved toward the kitchen door.

“No, thank you,” she replied without looking around. “Miss Corley can tuck me in.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Adrienne thought she saw Gideon recoil a bit from the casual rebuff, but she decided he must have been reacting in relief, instead. After all, this was exactly the sort of thing he wanted her there to help him handle, she reminded herself. He didn’t like getting overly involved with messy emotional scenes—in his writing
or
his real life.

Isabelle climbed into the bed willingly enough, but then immediately reached for Adrienne’s hand again. “Don’t leave yet.”

To rest her ankle, Adrienne lowered herself to the side of the bed. “I’ll stay for a little while.”

She smoothed tangled, baby-fine, blond tresses away from the child’s warm little face. “Do you want to talk about your bad dream?”

Isabelle didn’t immediately answer. And then she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Then how about if I read you a story?”

“Could you read me one of Gideon’s stories?”

Adrienne laughed softly. “Well, no. Gideon’s books are rather long for bedtime, and they aren’t written for children.”

Isabelle looked disappointed. “Oh.”

“I suppose I could
tell
you one of Gideon’s stories,” Adrienne said on a sudden inspiration.

“You could?”

“Yes. I know his books very well. I’m sure I can condense one of them into a bedtime story.”

Isabelle pulled the covers to her chin and settled more comfortably into the pillows. “Okay.”

In a quiet, soothing voice, Adrienne launched into a tale of two ancient, magical races who lived among humans, hiding their true identities while waging war with each other. She left out the gorier parts, of course. And in her version of the story, brave, noble Alanya remained alive, and she and her heroic lover, Jackson, lived happily ever after. By the time she reached that cheery resolution, Isabelle was sound asleep.

Tucking the covers more snugly around the little body, Adrienne leaned over to brush a soft kiss against Isabelle’s cheek. She stood very carefully to keep from jostling the bed, then turned toward the doorway. She hadn’t expected to find Gideon standing there, his long, lean body propped against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest.

After a momentary hesitation, she stepped quietly out into the hallway. He followed her several feet away from the bedroom before he spoke. “I told you, I don’t write romances.”

She smiled a bit self-consciously. “I had to adjust it somewhat to make it a suitable bedtime story for a little girl.”

“So you just happened to tell it the way you want it to end.”

She shrugged. “I thought she would like it best that way, too.”

“Did she tell you what the bad dream was about?”

“No. She didn’t want to talk about it.”

Frowning, he squeezed the back of his neck with one hand. “Why do I have the feeling she’s not going to want to go to school again tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid you’re right. This bad dream must have something to do with whatever happened at school.”

“Man, I wish Mom or Nathan would get back. This thing with Isabelle is starting to worry me.”

“Me, too,” she admitted.

“If it’s still going on tomorrow, I’m calling Mom. I hate to add to her worries, but I’m out of my league here.”

“So am I.”

He nodded. “We’ll call her tomorrow, then.”

“If we don’t solve the problem on our own first,” she amended, clinging to a shred of optimism.