Conflict of Interest (The McClouds of Mississippi)

by Gina Wilkins

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “Oh. Well.” He looked around the room, which was decorated in Southwestern style with leather, distressed woods, pottery, western paintings and Remington bronzes. The walls were lined with shelves almost filled to over-flowing with hardcover and paperback books. It was a guy’s room, and there was nothing in it to entertain a child except the television she had been watching.

  “I need to finish something in my office,” he said. “Will you be okay in here watching TV?”

  She nodded gravely. “I’ll be okay.”

  She looked awfully tiny sitting there on his big couch. “If you need anything, just let me know, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He practically bolted out of the room. His office had always been a retreat for him, but it seemed even more a refuge now. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t stay locked in there until his mother returned to free him.

  Gideon had been sitting in front of his computer for half an hour when a sound from the doorway pulled his concentration away from the computer screen. To his frustration he’d managed to type maybe two sentences since he’d sat down, so he was frowning when he looked up.

  Annoyance turned to consternation when he spotted Isabelle standing just inside the doorway, a stuffed white owl cuddled against her chest and a pitiful quiver in her lower lip. She looked to be on the verge of tears, which was enough to make Gideon panic.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, pushing away from the computer. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  She shook her head. “I heard a noise outside the window. It scared me.”

  Exhaling slowly in relief, he shoved a hand through his already disheveled dark hair. A brisk, mid-March wind was blowing outside, and he suspected she’d heard a tree branch tapping against the house. “There’s nothing scary outside, Isabelle,” he assured her. “Just a couple of trees planted next to the den windows. It isn’t even dark out yet.”

  A fat tear rolled slowly down her cheek. “It’s lonely in the den.”

  He supposed it was natural for her to be upset. The child had been through a great deal of trauma in the past year. She’d lost her parents in an accident, had been uprooted from her home in California and resettled in her oldest half brother’s home here in Mississippi and was now with a half brother she hardly knew. A brother who had no idea how to comfort an upset child.

  “Can I stay in here with you?” Isabelle asked. “I promise I’ll be quiet.”

  He glanced toward the writing desk he used for paying bills. “You can sit at this desk. Do you like to draw pictures?”

  She nodded, her expression brightening.

  “I’ve got the only refrigerator in town with no artwork stuck on the front with magnets. Maybe you can draw something for my fridge.”

  She seemed to like that idea.

  He dug out a stack of printer paper, several pencils and a box of colored markers from his supply closet and piled them on the desk after moving a teetering tower of unopened mail out of the way. He had no toys in the house, but plenty of art provisions, since he was seriously addicted to office supply stores. Isabelle settled into the big chair behind the writing desk, and Gideon returned to his computer.

  True to her word, Isabelle was very quiet as she contentedly scribbled and colored, but Gideon still found himself unable to concentrate on his writing. He wasn’t accustomed to having anyone else in his house when he worked, much less in the same room with him. After writing and deleting the same sentence for the fourth time, he muttered a curse beneath his breath and punched a key to close the file.

  “What’s the matter, Gideon?”

  She had a unique way of pronouncing his name, he mused. Nothing he could pinpoint, exactly, but it sounded different when she said it. “Nothing’s wrong,” he lied.

  “Are you writing another book?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Nate said you write good books, but they’re not for kids.”

  She always shortened Nathan’s name so casually, but then, Isabelle had known Nathan all her life. He had been the only one of the three elder McCloud siblings to maintain a relationship with their father after the bitter divorce from their mother a few months before Isabelle’s birth. “No, I don’t write children’s books.”

  “What are your books about?”

  “Most people call them thrillers. They have elements of science fiction and fantasy in them and what has been referred to as dark humor.”

  She blinked a couple of times in response to his dry description, then said, “I like Dr. Seuss.”

  Her matter-of-fact statement made Gideon grin. “So do I.”

  His smile seemed to take her by surprise. She studied his face a moment, then smiled back at him before returning her attention to her artwork.

  Okay, Gideon thought. Maybe this wouldn’t be so tough after all. How hard could it be to keep an eye on an exceptionally bright and well-behaved four-year-old?

  It was cloudy and dark by 7:00 p.m. on that Monday evening, and a cold drizzle had begun to fall, blown in on a strong northern front. Not a very experienced driver in the first place, since she rarely needed a car in the city, Adrienne struggled a bit with the unfamiliar rental car on the bumpy Mississippi road. She’d gotten lost twice before she found the town of Honesty, then had some difficulty finding anyone to give her directions to Gideon’s address.

  She should have known, she thought as she carefully negotiated a winding gravel road, that Gideon would live well outside of town. She was definitely forming a mental picture of a crusty hermit who was more comfortable with the characters in his head than the people in the real world.

  She had never met him—had never even seen a photograph of him—but she’d talked to him several times on the telephone during the past two years since he had signed with her father’s literary agency. Mostly, their communication had been through letters and faxes. She loved his books, but she hadn’t been able to get to know him very well through their limited contact.

  Based strictly on his behavior, she had formed a mental image of him that wasn’t particularly flattering. She guessed that he was in his late thirties or early forties. A bit geeky, most likely. Probably a real oddball. He wouldn’t be the first talented writer she had met who was downright strange.

  He was the first she’d bothered to track down this way—something she couldn’t explain. She had decided her motives were a combination of wanting to impress her father with her professional cleverness and the fact that she absolutely loved Gideon McCloud’s books.

  His house looked normal enough—a neat frame bungalow tucked into a woody hillside. The lot was naturally landscaped with mulch and ground cover, which would require a minimum of effort to keep it looking nice. And it did look nice, she had to admit. She’d bet it was really pretty later in the spring, when the trees and bushes would be in full bloom, and in the fall when the surrounding hillsides would be ablaze with color.

  Okay, so she liked his home. And more than liked his writing. That certainly didn’t mean she would like him.

  Parking at the end of the long gravel driveway, she climbed out of the rental car. As she hunched into her clothing against the chilly mist, she wished she’d brought a heavier coat. The wind seemed to slice right through the leather jacket she wore over a black pantsuit.

  There was only one pole lamp on the property, and as far as Adrienne was concerned, it cast more spooky shadows than it eliminated. Moving swiftly but carefully over the slick rock walkway that led to the porch steps, she could almost feel the eyes of hungry night creatures following her progress. It was so quiet she was sure she could hear her own heart pounding. Who could sleep out here without the soothing sounds of cab horns and emergency sirens, muffled shouts and the clatter of garbage trucks?

  She was relieved to duck under his covered porch, out of the mist. Tossing her damp auburn hair out of her face, she paused for a few moments to catch her breath before reaching for the doorbell. There
were lights burning in the windows and sounds coming from inside, so she knew someone was home. Showing up unannounced on his doorstep was hardly proper business etiquette, but it wasn’t as if she could have called and let him know she was on her way. He wouldn’t have answered the phone if she’d tried.

  She had to ring the bell a second time before the door finally opened. Her first thought was that this could not possibly be Gideon McCloud. This man was young—no older than thirty—and incredibly good-looking, with tousled dark hair, long-lashed green eyes and an athlete’s body clad in a gray sweatshirt, washed-soft jeans and running shoes. Maybe she had the wrong house.

  But then he spoke—or rather, barked at her—and she knew she had the right man, after all. “What do you want?”

  “Are you Gideon McCloud?” she asked, more a formality than an inquiry.

  “Yes. Who are you?” His tone was impatient, his attention obviously focused elsewhere.

  “I’m Adrienne Corley. Your agent,” she added, in case the name didn’t immediately register.

  At least that got his attention. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Before she could answer, a child’s wail sounded from behind them. “Gideon! I still can’t find Hedwig.”

  Gideon grimaced, then held the door wider. “Come in. You can help us look for—”

  “Gideon!”

  He shoved a hand through his hair, explaining its disarray. “I’m coming, Isabelle.”

  Closing the door behind Adrienne, he turned and walked away, motioning for her to follow. Thoroughly confused, she trailed after him, her bulging briefcase tucked beneath her arm.

  She noted in a quick, sweeping glance that the room they entered was a neatly furnished, Southwestern-style den. In the center of the room, dressed in a white nightgown with pink ribbons, stood a little girl with the angelically beautiful face of a Sandra Kuck cherub. Framed in a cloud of golden curls, her rosy cheeks were tear-streaked, her huge blue eyes flooded. Even as Adrienne watched, another teardrop escaped to slide slowly down her face.

  “Your daughter?” she asked Gideon.

  “My sister,” he answered curtly. “Isabelle.”

  Sister? The child couldn’t be more than four.

  “Gideon?” The little girl’s lower lip quivered as she spoke. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Then we’ll have to look again,” he said. “My house isn’t that big, and you’ve only been here a few hours. Your toy couldn’t have simply disappeared.”

  He turned toward the doorway. “I’ll go look in the office and the kitchen again. You two keep searching in here.”

  “Um, what are we looking for?” Adrienne called after him.

  “Hedwig,” Isabelle replied.

  “A stuffed toy owl,” Gideon clarified over his shoulder. “White.”

  Left alone with the woebegone child, Adrienne looked uncertainly around the room. “Where have you looked?”

  “Everywhere.”

  Adrienne drew a deep breath and moved toward the suede couch. She laid her briefcase and leather jacket at one end, then turned toward the child. “Okay, let’s look again.”

  They searched behind the cushions and beneath the couch, then peered under a big leather recliner and a couple of armchairs covered in a Southwestern tapestry fabric. Their efforts netted nothing. There weren’t even any dust bunnies beneath the furniture. She wished Gideon’s housekeeper lived in New York; Adrienne could use someone this scrupulous, she thought, recalling her own string of less-than-dedicated domestic workers.

  Sitting back on her heels, she looked at Isabelle again. The child had been peering under tables and behind the television cabinet to no avail. Adrienne could hear doors opening and closing forcefully in another part of the house, probably the kitchen, the slams accompanied by a low mutter that was very likely a string of unintelligible curses. Gideon wasn’t having any better luck with his own search, obviously.

  Remembering what he’d said, Adrienne spoke to Isabelle. “You’ve only been here a few hours?”

  The child nodded. “Nanna brought me.”

  “And you haven’t been anywhere else since?”

  Isabelle shook her head. “I’ve been right here.”

  “You had your owl when you got here?”

  Another nod.

  “Okay.” Adrienne stood. “Tell me everything you’ve done since you arrived.”

  Isabelle puckered her face in thought. “I watched TV, and I drew pictures in Gideon’s office.”

  “He said he would look in the office.”

  The child sniffed. “He already did. He looked all over it.”

  “What did you do after you drew pictures?”

  “I had dinner. Gideon made spaghetti. I spilled some on my clothes,” she added, her lip quivering again, “so Gideon told me to change into my pajamas.”

  “You changed in a bedroom?”

  “No. In the bathroom, because I had to wash spaghetti off my face and hands.”

  “Where did you put the clothes you had on before?”

  “In the hamper.”

  Adrienne held out her hand. “Show me.”

  Slipping her little fingers into Adrienne’s, Isabelle led her down a short hallway to a small bathroom papered in a muted plaid and fitted with oak cabinets and a marble sink and tub. White globe lights framed the beveled mirror over the sink, and a wicker hamper stood beneath a print of ducks in flight at sunrise.

  Isabelle opened the hinged lid of the hamper and pointed at the brightly colored knits tumbled in the bottom. “Those are mine.”

  Adrienne reached in to pick up the spaghetti-sauce-splashed shirt and slacks. Two brown plastic eyes stared up at her from the bottom of the hamper. “Is this a friend of yours?” she asked with a faint smile, holding the toy up for Isabelle’s inspection.

  The child’s face brightened with a broad, dimpled smile. “Hedwig!”

  Adrienne watched as Isabelle hugged the stuffed owl tightly, and then she said, “We’d better go tell your brother we found it.”

  “He’ll be glad. I think he was getting sort of mad. It’s hard to tell with Gideon, though.”

  Adrienne couldn’t help chuckling. “Is it?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” As naturally as if they’d known each other for a long time, she reached up to take Adrienne’s hand again as they moved into the hallway. “I don’t think Gideon’s used to being around kids.”

  Adrienne was intrigued by Isabelle’s mannerisms. She was such a tiny little thing, yet her self-possession seemed years ahead of her age. Adrienne suspected she’d spent a great deal of time with adults. “You don’t think he’s used to kids? Don’t you know?”

  “I haven’t known him very long,” Isabelle confided, then pulled Adrienne into an airy kitchen, where Gideon was peering into an oven.

  The little girl seemed to find the sight amusing. “Hedwig’s not in the oven, Gideon. He’s right here.”

  Closing the oven door, Gideon turned to stare at the child who had transformed from tearful to cheery. “Where was it?”

  “We found him in the clothes hamper. She, um, what’s your name?” Isabelle suddenly thought to ask Adrienne.

  “I’m Adrienne Corley.”

  Isabelle nodded gravely and turned back to Gideon. “Miss Corley found him.”

  Gideon released a pent-up breath. “Good. Now why don’t you and Hagar go watch TV or something while Ms. Corley and I talk a few minutes?”

  “It’s not Hagar, it’s Hedwig,” Adrienne corrected him before Isabelle could do so. “From Harry Potter, right?”

  Isabelle smiled and nodded, then skipped out of the room with her owl. Adrienne watched her leave, then turned to find Gideon looking at her questioningly.

  “I’m in publishing,” she informed him. “I know about Harry Potter.”

  “You want some coffee or something? I could use some myself. Actually, a couple of shots of bourbon sound pretty good right now, but since I’m baby-sitting, I guess I’d better st
ick with coffee.”

  “Coffee sounds good. Thanks.”

  He waved her to one of the four chairs grouped around a round oak pedestal table. “Have a seat. Want something to eat? I’ve got some lemon pound cake I bought at the bakery yesterday.”

  “That sounds great,” she said, realizing only then how hungry she was. She’d missed dinner during her travel adventures.

  A few minutes later she found herself sitting across the table from Gideon, cake and coffee in front of them. It was somewhat disconcerting to be facing him that way, after the unexpected chaos surrounding her arrival. The search for Hedwig had certainly been an ice-breaker, but now she was having a bit of trouble getting her mind back to business.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about how attractive he was, with those amazing green eyes and that brooding mouth, and his thick, dark hair. She noted only as an objective observer, she assured herself—someone who had reason to imagine his photograph on the back of a book jacket.

  As for anything more than that, she still wasn’t even sure she liked the guy.

  Chapter Two

  Gideon studied the woman sitting across his kitchen table. She didn’t look exactly the way he’d pictured her during their telephone conversations. She was younger, for one thing, no older than his own thirty years, if that. And prettier, with glossy auburn hair and dark-chocolate eyes set in a creamy heart-shaped face. Nice figure, too, the type he referred to as “society sleek.” Small bust, narrow waist, slender hips, long legs—all nicely toned.

  Definitely a big-city girl, as out of place here in rural Mississippi as he would have been in the juice bar of her trendy health club. “So why are you here? We didn’t have an appointment or anything, did we?”

  Apparently savoring every bite of her cake, she shook her head. “I’ve been unable to reach you to set up an appointment. And I have tried,” she added, a touch of accusation in her tone.

  He shrugged without apology. “I haven’t had a chance to check the mail in a while.”