Conflict of Interest (The McClouds of Mississippi 2)

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

The 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.