Conflict of Interest (The McClouds of Mississippi 2)

Though his tone wasn’t particularly encouraging, she opened the door, anyway. “I’ve prepared dinner. Everything’s on the table.”

He didn’t look around from the computer. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She knew better, of course. If she closed this door now, he would forget all about her again. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast. You really should take a break. Besides, Isabelle will be disappointed if you don’t join us for dinner.”

He exhaled gustily and spun his chair away from the computer. “Fine. I’ll come to dinner. Give me a few minutes to wash up.”

She didn’t take offense at his curtness. She didn’t like to be interrupted when she was trying to concentrate on something, either.

If Gideon seemed unusually quiet during dinner, Isabelle made up for it with her chattering. She was as animated that evening as she had been subdued the day before, making Adrienne marvel at the mercurial resilience of childhood. She repeated nearly everything she had said to Adrienne earlier, including Danny’s stint in the time-out corner, and then spent another ten minutes describing the antics of a couple of squirrels she had watched in the backyard. That somehow led her back to the subject of the dog she had been promised.

“Adrienne had a poodle named Susie,” she informed Gideon. “Did you ever have a dog, Gideon?”

He shook his head. “Nathan had a couple of dogs when we were kids, but I never considered them mine.”

“Why not?”

“Too much trouble. They

always have to be fed or watered or walked or cleaned up after. I always had other things I wanted to do.”

Isabelle considered that a moment, then said firmly, “I don’t care. I want a dog. I’ll take care of it all by myself.”

Adrienne and Gideon exchanged a knowing look.

Oblivious to their skepticism, Isabelle kept talking, listing all the things she would do with her dog. Teach him to fetch and roll over and catch a Frisbee and jump through a hoop—those were only a few of her plans for the future Fluffy.

When they had finished eating, Isabelle dashed off to play while Adrienne began to clear away the dishes. Gideon gathered a handful of utensils to stuff into the dishwasher.

“I can clean up in here,” she assured him. “There isn’t much to do.”

“You cooked. The meal was delicious, by the way. Least I can do is clean up. You need to get off that ankle.”

“It’s not too bad right now. I can tell it’s getting better.”

“It won’t keep getting better if you overexert yourself. Go put your feet up. I’ll finish in here.”

Because he effectively blocked her access to the sink and dishwasher, she gave in. Rather than leave the room, she settled at the table to watch him. “You’ve put in long hours today. Did you get much written?”

“Some.”

His curt reply told her it hadn’t been a satisfying session for him. “Have you thought any more about the changes I suggested?”

“No. I told you, your suggestion didn’t fit with my vision of the book. It’s a story of one man’s single-minded and all-consuming quest for revenge and justice—in that order. Alanya has to die.”

“Or Jackson has to think she’s dead.”

She watched his shoulders stiffen before he glared at her over his shoulder. “You’re determined that I’m going to write a passionate ending to this book, aren’t you?”

“Gideon, you have to understand that it’s my job to help you market your work. If I think there’s something you can do to make your book more successful, I would be remiss not to tell you what I think.”

“If I had wanted to create generic, marketing-driven, cookie-cutter products, I’d have gone to work on some factory assembly line.”

She sighed and shook her head. “You’re overdramatizing a bit, aren’t you? I haven’t exactly asked you to prostitute yourself. I simply made a suggestion because you’re having trouble finishing the book.”

“Of course I’m having trouble finishing the book!” He slammed the dishwasher door closed. “How can I write with so many people in my house? With toddlers having emotional meltdowns and my agent nagging me to write romantic drivel?”

Elbows resting on the table, she propped her chin on her crossed hands. “Should I remind you that you invited me to stay the weekend? And that you asked me to read your manuscript and tell you what I thought?”