Conflict of Interest (The McClouds of Mississippi 2)

“Maybe you could answer a few of them for me?” he suggested. “You’re probably better at that sort of thing than I am.”

“I’m your agent, not your secretary.”

“You did offer to help. And the more time I spend on that stuff, the later I’ll be delivering this book.”

She gave him a look. “You’re shameless.”

“What can I say? I’m drowning here.”

She had to give him that. The office was a wreck. “Bring me my laptop and I’ll see what I can do.”

He flashed her one of his sneakily charming smiles—the kind that made her hands clench in her lap beneath the desk. “I’ll be right back.”

“And bring a diet cola with you, too,” she called after him.

If he was going to manipulate her into serving as his secretary, the least he could do was serve her a cold drink.

Gideon never would have believed that he would be able to concentrate on his work with someone else in the office with him—he hadn’t even been able to do so when Isabelle ha

d sat at the other desk quietly coloring pictures. But for some reason Adrienne’s presence didn’t bother him. Just as he’d been able to work while knowing she was in another room, he had no trouble focusing on his story with her at the other desk.

Actually, he had gotten quite a bit of writing done since she’d arrived, even if she had caused a few inconveniences. But she had helped him with Isabelle, and now she was clearing away some of the stacks of mail that had been nagging at the edges of his consciousness lately.

Yes, he thought smugly, hitting a couple of keys to begin a new chapter, every writer needed a good agent.

It took Adrienne about two hours to reach the bottom of Gideon’s In basket. She surveyed her work with satisfaction.

The ads and solicitations had been consigned to the now-overflowing wastebasket. The fan mail had all been answered, the stack of replies printed, waiting for Gideon’s approval and signature. Bills were stacked in order of due date; she had already nagged him into writing checks for the most pressing, which she had then stuffed into envelopes and stamped so he could mail them when he fetched Isabelle.

The last item remaining in the metal tray was a battered manila envelope with a San Diego postmark dated several weeks earlier. Inside she found a sealed, letter-size white envelope addressed to Gideon, but not stamped, as if someone had intended to mail it, but had never gotten around to it.

She unfolded the single sheet of paper that had been enclosed with the white envelope. “Gideon?”

He responded without looking away from the computer screen. “Mmm?”

“Here’s a letter addressed to you that was found in a box of your father’s belongings,” she said, summarizing the note she’d just perused. “Apparently, it was in the possession of a Mrs. Barbara Houston, who died recently.”

She saw Gideon’s shoulders stiffen before he answered. “Just set it aside. I’ll get to it later.”

“Who was Barbara Houston?”

“Isabelle’s mother was Barbara Houston’s niece. Isabelle lived with Mrs. Houston after her parents died, until Mrs. Houston became ill and sent Isabelle to Nathan.”

Adrienne studied the sealed white envelope, noting that there was no return address. “Do you think this is a letter from your father?”

“Could be.” He sounded supremely disinterested.

Adrienne didn’t buy his act for a minute. “Don’t you want to know what it says?”

“Not particularly. My father died a year ago. There’s nothing in that letter that could make any difference now.”

She frowned. “That sounds rather cold. What if he wanted to repair things between you? What if he apologized in this letter for whatever it was that went wrong between the two of you? Wouldn’t it make you feel better to know that he cared enough to make the effort?”

He turned to face her then, his eyes hard. “Look, Adrienne, you and your father probably have a close relationship, since you work for him, which, I’m sure, makes him very happy. It must be hard for you to understand that not everyone has that type of father-child attachment. Nothing I ever did pleased my father, and there’s nothing he could have said in that letter that could make up for the things he did to me or the rest of my family.”

She bit her lip as he turned back to his computer. Looking down at the neat stacks of mail that had given her such satisfaction earlier, she said quietly, “You’re wrong about me not understanding. My relationship with my father isn’t at all what you assumed. To be honest, it’s very strained and distant. I’ve never been able to live up to his standards, either, and I’ve spent twenty-eight years trying.”

Though he didn’t look around again, his tone was just a bit warmer when he asked, “Why do you keep trying?”