Conflict of Interest (The McClouds of Mississippi) (25 page)

She nodded, mentally rearranging schedules and making lists of nonessential appointments she could cancel during his stay. “How’s Isabelle?”

She watched as his face softened a bit. “She’s fine. I spent an hour at the park with her yesterday afternoon. She wanted me to tell you hello. She said she’d have sent you a drawing if I’d given her more notice that I was coming.”

Pleased that he was still making an effort to stay in contact with his little sister, she smiled. “I have her other drawing hanging in my office.”

“I know. I saw it. She’ll be tickled when I tell her.”

“Have you ever been to New York before?”

“Other than to change planes on my way to London a few years ago, I haven’t.”

“Is there anything in particular you would like to see or do while you’re here?”

He shrugged. “I’m not here as a tourist. I came to see you.”

She laughed. “Do you suppose other people actually plan visits with each other—with advance notice and reservations and other minor details like that?”

His eyes gleamed with shared amusement. “No one I know.”

“I’ll have to go to the office for a few hours in the morning, and I have a meeting Saturday afternoon I can’t really get out of, but I should be free most of the weekend.”

“Take care of your business. I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself while you’re occupied.”

And then what? Did he see this only as a brief visit—a reward to himself for finishing the book? A little rest, a little sex, a little fun before diving into the next project?

Was he envisioning more encounters like this in their future? Brief visits a couple of times a year, perhaps, until one or the other tired of them and moved on?

A no-strings, nonexclusive, long-distance affair. Was that what he had in mind? She found the prospect depressing, but she wasn’t quite ready to explore his thoughts just yet. “Would you like some more tea?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

Live in the moment, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t serve any purpose to fret about a future she had no way of predicting.

Late Saturday afternoon Gideon let himself into Adrienne’s apartment with the key she had left him. He paused for a moment to study her trendy decor, trying to decide if he liked it. It wasn’t bad, he concluded finally. Just not…homey. It reminded him more of the Manhattan art galleries he had visited than of someone’s living room. He had a hard time imagining himself propping his feet on her chrome-and-glass coffee table and watching football on her TV—even if she had one in here.

Wandering into the kitchen, he made coffee in her space-age coffeemaker. He’d spent the afternoon the same way he had entertained himself yesterday morning while she’d cleared away pressing business at the office. He’d done the tourist thing, roaming the streets of Manhattan by cab and foot, studying the sights and the people, soaking in the atmosphere. Trying to imagine himself living here.

After all, he’d told himself, a writer could work anywhere—and there were damn sure plenty of them who called this crowded island home. What did it really matter where he lived as long as he had his computer, his ideas—and Adrienne? He was the mobile one. It would be stupid to expect her to give up her life here and move back to Mississippi with him.

As if she would even consider doing so.

Restless, he paced through her apartment, trying not to leave footprints on her plush, steel-gray carpet. Like him she had turned an extra bedroom into a home office, hers furnished with matching steel-and-laminate office furniture, unlike his own haphazard mix of woods.

Also unlike his own work space, hers was immaculate, the surfaces uncluttered. The only thing on her desk was a large manila envelope that looked ominously familiar. He saw Dylan’s name on the outside of the package when he moved closer, and he realized it was the one that had caused the quarrel between Adrienne and him the day she had left Honesty. The envelope looked a bit more battered than it had the last time he’d seen it; it had obviously been opened and the contents removed more than once.

He had deliberately not asked Adrienne about Dylan—whether she had spoken with him since she’d left Honesty, whether he really had written a book and, if so, whether it was any good. He’d only seen Dylan once in passing since that day in his kitchen, and they had greeted each other only with cool looks.

What twist of fate had brought Dylan back into his life at this stage through Adrienne? The fact that he’d been there to assist her after the rental-car accident, that he and Adrienne had become so friendly and that Dylan had been secretly planning to follow in Gideon’s writing footsteps, how could Gideon have predicted any of those things?

He didn’t even want to think of how Deborah would have reacted if she had walked into that cozy impromptu party in Gideon’s kitchen on that Sunday afternoon.

He studied the unsealed envelope with a scowl. He would hate it, of course, if anyone walked into his office and read something without his permission. He didn’t like anyone messing with his stuff.

This situation was even more problematic because it involved both Adrienne’s privacy and Dylan Smith’s. Not that he particularly cared about the latter, of course. And he
had
opened his own office completely to Adrienne, giving her free access to everything in there.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered, snatching up the envelope. “They can sue me.”

Chapter Fifteen

T
he meeting lasted longer than Adrienne had planned. Though she knew Gideon didn’t expect her to entertain him, she was still in a hurry to get back to him. Mostly because she didn’t want to waste any of her time with him.

It had been a very nice visit so far. They had been totally absorbed in each other, carefully avoiding any sensitive subjects. They had not talked about the future or their pasts or their families, yet there had been few awkward silences between them. And on a physical level, well, they had no trouble at all communicating in that respect.

She didn’t even want to think about how badly she was going to miss him when he left.

He was sitting on the Italian leather sofa in her living room when she walked in. His expression was so grim that she stumbled a little. “What’s wrong?”

He nodded toward a stack of papers on her coffee table. “I rifled through your things today.”

Confused, she took a step forward. “I don’t mind—oh.”

Recognizing the pages, she looked back up at him. “You read Dylan’s book?”

“Most of it.”

She set her things down and moved toward him. “You know he wouldn’t have wanted you to read it without his permission.”

“I imagine he would absolutely hate that I did it.”

She frowned at him. “I never thought you would go through my papers.”

“You have every right to be angry with me.”

“Oh, I am,” she replied, and she was, she assured herself. Not furious, but highly annoyed.

“I won’t do it again. Wouldn’t have this time if I hadn’t seen Smith’s name on it. I’m not exactly rational when it comes to that guy, you know.”

It was said in a rueful tone that failed to make her smile. “I’m aware of that.”

She sat in an armchair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well? Since you read it, what did you think of it?”

His dark scowl gave her the answer. If he had hated Dylan’s book, he would be smiling. “You liked it,” she said.

“It’s okay,” he muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear him.

“It’s better than okay. It’s a very good first book. With just a little polishing, there’s no reason at all why it shouldn’t be published. I think he has the beginning of a potentially successful mystery series.”

“Yes, so do I.” Gideon looked even more disgruntled as he made the admission. “You’re going to represent him.”

It wasn’t a question, but she waited a beat before replying. “No. I’ve spent the past couple of weeks making some notes for suggested revisions he might want to consider before sending it out again. I’m also sending him a list of reputable agents that I think might be interested in his work.”

She’d certainly gotten Gideon’s attention. He sat up straight on the couch and stared at her. “Why would you do that? We just agreed, the book’s good.”

“Yes, and normally I would be pleased to work with him. But in this case there seems to be a conflict of interest.”

“Me.”

She merely inclined her head. It had taken her nearly three weeks of internal debate before she had finally accepted that she couldn’t represent both Gideon and Dylan without eventually encountering problems because of it.

Gideon’s scowl had deepened. “You’re really turning him down?”

“You asked me to,” she reminded him.

He glowered at her a moment, then firmly shook his head. “You aren’t pushing this off on me. Dylan will tell everyone you turned him down because I was threatened by him. You’ve got to take him.”

“You’re the one who said you didn’t want me to represent Dylan,” she repeated.

“That was before I knew he was any good.”

“Gideon, you make me crazy.” She shook her head in exasperation. “You don’t really know what you want, do you?”

“I want
you.
” He was on his feet now, a look in his eyes that she knew very well. “And I owe you an apology for invading your privacy.”

She placed her hands in his outstretched palms and allowed him to draw her to her feet, but she couldn’t help pointing out, “We haven’t really resolved anything, you know.”

“Sure we have. I’ve agreed to stay out of your personal papers and your business.”

He probably thought she would be pleased by that promise, but instead she found it rather depressing. It sounded so…detached. Neatly separating and compartmentalizing their lives.

He pulled her close against him when he kissed her, and she tried to find solace in the unmistakable evidence of his desire for her. She had never expected forever from him, she reminded herself as his mouth moved enticingly against hers. Even these few days together were more than she had expected when she’d left him in Mississippi five weeks ago.

She supposed she should be relieved that he wasn’t going to protest her representing Dylan, if she decided to do so. It was a very mature and professional concession, coming from Gideon.

So why did it feel as though they were moving even further apart?

Gideon woke in the middle of the night and found himself alone in Adrienne’s bed. It was a startling experience, because he was usually such a light sleeper that any noise or movement woke him. He must have been more tired than he’d realized.

Because he knew he wouldn’t sleep again until he’d made sure Adrienne was okay, he slipped out of the sheets and stepped into the jeans he’d left lying beside the bed. Following a faint trail of light, he padded silently into the living room, where he found Adrienne.

She sat in a chair with her bare feet curled beneath her. The only light in the room came from the lamp beside her. It gleamed in her auburn hair, glowed in the ruby satin of her short robe and glittered off the tears sliding slowly down her cheeks.

He took a quick step forward. “Adrienne?”

A sudden, bright smile belied her tears. “You changed the ending.”

Only then did he see the stack of papers lying in her lap. “My book?” he hazarded.

Setting the manuscript on the table beside her, she leaped to her feet, crossed to him and slid her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his bare chest. “It’s wonderful. I love it.”

His arms closed automatically around her. His cheek found a natural resting place against her soft, lush hair. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“When did you decide to bring Alanya back to life?”

“A couple of weeks after you left, when I finally acknowledged that you were right. I was just being stubborn when I refused to consider your suggestions.”

She beamed up at him. “I thought it would be a good idea, but you were the one who made it work so beautifully. That was one of the most emotionally rewarding endings I’ve ever read.”

“You,” he told her with a slight lump in his throat, “are hardly objective.”

“Being crazy about you doesn’t affect my judgment about your writing,” she informed him loftily.

The lump grew until it almost choked him. When she said she was crazy about him, what did she mean, exactly? Was it only a figure of speech? An offhanded expression of casual affection? Or was it more?

Maybe he was the one who was just plain crazy.

“I’m glad you like it,” he repeated, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She rose on tiptoe to press a kiss against his lips. “You have real talent with a love scene, Gideon McCloud.”

A surge of heat went through him. “You could say I’ve found a great source of inspiration.”

Her throaty chuckle was lost in the depths of his plundering kiss.

Having showered, applied her makeup and dressed in a comfortable peasant top and drawstring linen pants, Adrienne exited her bathroom Sunday morning prepared to spend a nice, leisurely day with Gideon.

She hadn’t expected to find him packing his suitcase, looking as though he were getting ready to leave. “What are you doing?”

He looked at her with an expression that made her chest clench. “It isn’t going to work, Adrienne.”

Her hand wasn’t quite steady when she set down the hairbrush she had been carrying on the dresser. “What isn’t going to work?”

He motioned vaguely toward the window. “I thought I could make my own place here, figure out a way to create my own space where I wouldn’t have to deal with people. In some ways, I thought I could find even more privacy in a big city where no one knows me or my family or our business. Instead I just feel smothered by the sheer numbers of people here. It’s as if I can almost feel them pressing against the walls and windows of this apartment.”

It was his vivid imagination that made him such a wonderful writer, of course. And it was his reluctant attachment to the charming little town where he had grown up that made him so intriguing.