Conflict of Interest (The McClouds of Mississippi) (23 page)

“You’ll miss her, won’t you?” she asked, studying Gideon’s face as he looked at the bracelet.

He shrugged and set his truck keys on the counter. “I can see her whenever I want. Take her out for ice cream or something.”

“That’s not quite the same.”

“Are you kidding? It’s better this way.” He took a glass down from a cabinet and filled it with tap water. “I can spend an hour or two with her, then turn her back over to Nathan and Caitlin when she gets bored or tired. I don’t have to worry about dentist or doctor appointments, or whether she’s done her homework every night, or whether she bathes or brushes or eats her veggies—all the day-today minutiae of child-rearing.”

He tilted his head back to drink the water and she watched his throat work as he swallowed. Everything about him was attractive to her. She wanted to press her lips to the pulse in his throat, taste the skin over his sexy Adam’s apple.

Did he feel much the same way about her that he did about Isabelle? He enjoyed being with her while she was here, but would it be nice when he didn’t have to worry if she was entertained or hungry or annoyed—what he would probably call the day-to-day minutiae of a relationship?

Maybe she should look at it that way, too. After all, Gideon was a very difficult man. Living with him on a daily basis would be challenging, to say the least. She should take full advantage of the few hours she had left with him and then walk away with a heart full of fond memories and a sense of relief that she didn’t have to deal with his capricious moods any longer.

That was exactly the way she
should
feel, she just wasn’t sure that she would.

Setting the empty glass down, he turned to her, his heavy-lidded green eyes somber on her face. “I suppose you’re tired.”

It wasn’t a question, but a question lay behind it. Only a few more hours, she reminded herself, and moved toward him. “No,” she said, sliding her hands up his chest. “I’m not tired.”

He caught her wrists, holding both her hands in front of him. For just a moment she thought he was going to decline her implicit invitation, and she wondered why. Was he still annoyed with her for inviting Dylan inside? Had he already mentally said his goodbyes?

But then he lifted her hands to brush his lips across her knuckles. “Did I tell you how pretty you look tonight?”

She melted, of course. How could such a simple line—one she had heard so many times before—affect her so deeply when Gideon said it? Heaven only knew how she would react if he started spouting poetry. “Thank you.”

Still holding her gaze with his, he dropped her hands, then swung her into his arms without warning. She gave a laughing gasp and clutched at his shoulders. “Gideon,” she said, her legs dangling over his arm.

Flashing one of his rare, wicked grins, he turned toward the kitchen doorway. “I’m only thinking of your injured ankle,” he assured her, striding confidently down the hallway toward his bedroom. “You should probably keep your weight off it for the rest of the evening.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” she said with as much dignity as possible.

“You could probably use a good massage, too. I’ve been told I have very talented hands.”

She eyed him speculatively. “I won’t ask how many people have told you that.”

“A very select few,” he assured her, lowering her to his bed.

The thought of Isabelle’s mother flashed very briefly through her mind, but she pushed it away. His past was none of her business. Neither was his future, for that matter, except where it concerned his writing. All they had was tonight, and she would be foolish to waste a minute of it.

She reached for the top button of her blouse. “Massages feel best against bare skin, I understand.”

His tie was already off, and he tossed his jacket over the back of a nearby chair. “Most definitely.”

“But I thought it was only the client who disrobes, not the masseur.”

His hands fell to his belt buckle. “I have my own way of doing things.”

“You can say that again.”

Shedding the last of his clothes, he loomed over her. “Roll over.”

She still wore her black bra and panties. For some reason—perhaps the way he was looking at her just then—she felt more vulnerable in those expensive scraps of lace than if she had been completely nude.

He very efficiently flipped her onto her tummy.

She jumped a little when his hands fell on her shoulders.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re too stiff.”

She moved just a little, brushing against him with her hip. “You’re one to talk.”

“Be still,” he said, just a hint of amusement in his voice as his fingers made short work of the back fastening of her bra. And then he went to work on her knotted muscles.

Those other select people, who she would rather not think about, had been entirely correct, she mused with a sound that was a cross between a moan and a purr. Gideon had
very
talented hands.

They had been sharing a very quiet breakfast the next morning when Gideon noticed the manila envelope on the counter near the coffeemaker. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up. “Something you forgot to pack?”

Adrienne still looked a bit heavy-eyed from their near-sleepless night. They hadn’t wanted to waste a moment of their remaining time together.

“Yes,” she said, glancing at the envelope without elaborating.

He scowled when he saw Dylan Smith’s name, address and telephone number printed neatly on the outside of the envelope. “This is the reason Smith was here yesterday? Was is it, a copy of your accident report?”

But no, he thought, it was much too thick for anything like that. It felt very much like a manuscript—but surely not.

“It’s just something I wanted to see,” she answered evasively. “I’ll stick it in my briefcase.”

He handed her the envelope. “So what’s Smith done, written a book?”

He had spoken lightly, not really believing it, but the expression that crossed Adrienne’s face made him stiffen. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“The contents of this envelope are between Dylan and me,” she told him, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t think he would appreciate it if I discussed his business with you.”

It wasn’t his business, of course. She had no obligation at all to discuss anything with him, despite the past two nights. But just the thought of her having secrets with Dylan Smith was enough to make Gideon see red.

“Surely that guy isn’t trying to call himself a writer these days. And even if he is, you wouldn’t seriously consider representing him.”

Her eyebrows rose. “That would be my decision, wouldn’t it?”

“There is such a thing as a professional conflict of interest.”

“And this isn’t it,” she shot back. “You are not my only client, Gideon. You know that. I’ve never once neglected you for any of the others. In fact, I would say I’ve gone rather above the call of duty on your behalf.”

Thinking of the things they had shared during the past week, he glowered. “I damn well hope you don’t treat all your clients exactly the same.”

She rose very slowly to her feet, her eyes narrowing with the temper he had seen from her only once before. “I have never slept with another client, if that’s what you’re referring to. It isn’t something I plan to make a habit of. And you know very well that my decision to do so with you had nothing to do with business.”

Hearing a hint of hurt beneath the anger, he grimaced. “Look, I didn’t mean it that way—”

“That’s certainly the way it sounded. And I didn’t appreciate it.”

“Adrienne, I’m sorry. It’s just, well, you know how I get about Dylan Smith.”

“Yes, I know how you get about him. And to be honest, I’m fed up with it. At least Dylan makes an effort to be civil, despite your macho posturing around each other.”

Her defense of Dylan piqued his own temper all over again. “Then I guess you’ll be glad to get back to New York and away from my uncivilized behavior,” he said stiffly.

“I certainly
should
be glad,” she snapped.

Because she hadn’t actually said she
would
be glad, he was somewhat appeased. Giving a disgruntled look at the envelope that had started this quarrel—and thinking that Dylan could cause trouble even when he wasn’t around—he told himself he should let it go. Even if Dylan Smith did have delusions of following in Gideon’s creative footsteps, it didn’t mean the guy actually had talent. The book was probably a poor imitation of Gideon’s books, and Adrienne was too professional to pretend otherwise, no matter how much she liked the jerk.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

She moved her head in a barely perceptible nod. “I’ll go make sure I have all of my things out of your room. We have to leave soon.”

He swallowed a curse as he watched her stalk out of the room. Seemed like every time he turned around he ticked her off.

It was probably a good thing that she was leaving now, before he made her so angry she would never speak to him again. He was lousy with relationships—even the temporary kind. Just as well this one was over, he assured himself, trying to ignore the hollow feeling deep inside him.

Gideon walked her as far as the check-in counter at the airport. They hadn’t said much during the drive, though Adrienne had made an effort to put their spat behind them and get back to a professional tone with him. She could stew about her pain and irritation with him during the long flight home.

“There’s no need for you to hang around,” she told him. “You’ve got a long drive back, and I’ll have to sit around here for a while.”

Pushing his hands in his pockets, he nodded. “I guess I’ll go, then. You’re sure you’ll be okay? Your ankle’s not bothering you?”

“It’s still sore, of course, but I’ll sit whenever I have the chance. I won’t overdo it.” She had worn her sock-and-brace again, leaving the crutches behind for Gideon to return to the doctor. She figured she would be tired and sore by the time she finally reached her apartment that evening, but she would make it.

“You’ll ask for help if you need it?”

“Of course I will,” she answered heartily, but she knew she lied. She was too accustomed to looking after herself.

He didn’t look particularly reassured by her answer, but he only nodded again.

She shifted her purse more comfortably on her shoulder, clutching her bulging briefcase in her hands. “I’ll call you in a few days—after I talk to your editor.”

“I’ll try to have the book finished in a couple of weeks.”

She hesitated, then took the risk of annoying him again. “You haven’t considered changing the ending?”

“It’s moving along fine the way I planned it.”

She studied his mulish expression for a moment, then sighed and shook her head. “Stubborn man.”

His slight smile was rueful. “Bossy woman.”

She chuckled and spoke without thinking. “Quite a pair, aren’t we?”

He reached up to touch her cheek in a gesture that was uncharacteristically sweet, coming from him. “We certainly were.”

His use of the past tense made her smile fade. “Well,” she said, gripping her things more tightly, “I guess I’d better get started with all the security checks.”

“Yes, that does take a while. So, goodbye, then.”

Feeling a bit foolish, she stuck out her right hand. “Goodbye.”

He glanced at her hand, scowled, then reached out to snag the back of her neck and pull her toward him. He kissed her firmly, with the arrogant possessiveness that was entirely characteristic of him. Only when he had kissed her half-senseless did he release her, stepping back so abruptly she staggered a little.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice gruff.

And then he was gone.

Despite her best intentions, Adrienne found herself wiping tears as she turned toward the counter.

Chapter Fourteen

“G
ideon, I want you to come to lunch. Your brother and sisters will be disappointed if you aren’t here—especially Isabelle.”

The telephone propped in the crook of his shoulder, his hands on his keyboard, Gideon answered rather impatiently, “I really can’t come tomorrow, Mom. You know I’m trying to finish this book.”

“Yes, and I know that you have to take a little time off to eat. We won’t expect you to stay long, but no one has seen you in weeks.”

“It hasn’t been that long. You’ve only been home from Aunt Wanda’s a week.” And Adrienne had been gone for three weeks, he added silently. Yet with all the solitude and freedom to write he’d had since, he still hadn’t finished this damned book.

“And I haven’t laid eyes on you since I got back. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Mom. Just busy.”

“Not too busy to eat. I’ll expect you at twelve-thirty tomorrow.”

“Mom, I—”

“And don’t be late. The rest of us will be hungry.”

His next protest was met only by the sound of a dial tone.

Slamming the telephone back into the receiver, he muttered a string of phrases he couldn’t have said if Isabelle had been there. Not that it did any good. He knew very well he would be at his mother’s for lunch the next day, whether he was in the mood or not.

“So then I informed him that if he wants to continue to publish Stephen’s books under his imprint, he’s going to have to make it worth our while. I expect a new offer on my desk by tomorrow afternoon.”

The smug satisfaction in Lawrence Corley’s voice was extremely familiar to his daughter; she had been hearing it all her life. She couldn’t remember him ever actually admitting that he had failed or handled any situation in a less than brilliant manner.

There had been a time when she’d thought she had to compete with her father’s idea of perfection. Now she simply acknowledged it. “That’s great, Dad. I’m sure Stephen will be pleased with you, as always.”

“Everyone knows Stephen is lucky to have Lawrence as his agent,” Melinda Corley, Lawrence’s thirty-year-old bride, murmured. The lights of the popular Sunday-brunch restaurant gleamed attractively on her perfectly blond tresses and illuminated the perfection of her buffed-bronzed-and-botoxed skin. “Lawrence is the best literary agent in the business.”