Conflict of Interest. GINA WILKINS

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      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.”

      “Or e-mail, apparently. And you don’t have an answering machine. I sent two registered letters—both of which you signed for—but you never replied. I didn’t know what else to do except come here myself.”

      He supposed maybe he should express a little regret at her inconvenience. “Sorry. I tend to ignore the rest of the world when I near the end of a book. I’ve been told it’s not a particularly admirable trait.”

      “So you are nearing the end of the book?”

      “Is that why you’re here?” he asked instead of answering. “To find out how the book’s going?”

      “That’s one of the reasons. Since your deadline was three weeks ago and I haven’t heard from you, I thought there might be a problem. I have some other business to discuss with you, also. Since I wasn’t able to give you advance notice of my arrival, I certainly understand if this is an inconvenient time for you. I would be glad to make an appointment with you for a later date—either a telephone conference or another face-to-face meeting.”

      “What sort of business do you want to discuss?”

      “The offers on your next book, for one thing. And the promotional opportunities for the one you’re working on now. Your publisher wants to give this one a big marketing push—book tours, national TV, print interviews, that sort of thing. I have several pages of paperwork I want you to look over.”

      He winced. The very thought of a book tour gave him a headache. Having to deal with all those people? It was enough to make any respectable recluse shudder. “I really can’t discuss this tonight. It’s been a stressful afternoon, to say the least, and frankly, I’m too tired to think about promotion. Besides, I’ve got to get Isabelle bunked down for the night.”

      She nodded, her expression resigned. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

      “Maybe,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine he’d be any more in the mood then. As she had pointed out, he was already past deadline on the current book, and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone to work on it. It seemed as though everyone was conspiring to keep him from doing so.

      Adrienne nodded. “If you’ll direct me to the nearest hotel, I’ll call you tomorrow about a convenient time to meet.”

      He chuckled dryly. “Closest we have to a hotel within an hour’s drive are a couple of bargain-rate motels out on the main highway.”

      Her jaw seemed to tighten a bit, but she said only, “I’m sure that will be fine.”

      “Tell you what,” he said on an impulse. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? Isabelle has the spare bedroom, but you can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch in the office.”

      “Oh, no, I—”

      He silenced her with a quick slice of his hand. “If you’re worried about inconveniencing me, don’t. I sleep in there half the time, anyway.”

      Actually, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. Since Isabelle was staying overnight, and since she had responded well to Adrienne, maybe Adrienne could help him keep an eye on the kid during the night. Maybe even help her get ready for school in the morning; after all, what did he know about dressing a little girl, fixing her hair, that sort of thing? Since he seemed to be stuck with them for the night, he might as well make the best of the situation.

      And very soon, he hoped, he would have his house to himself again. Just the way he liked it.

      As Adrienne lay in bed that night—Gideon McCloud’s bed, she reminded herself, shifting restlessly on the crisp, clean sheets she had put on herself—she wondered if she had made a monumental mistake when she’d rather impulsively left New York. She certainly hadn’t expected to find herself staying overnight with him and his little sister.

      She wondered what the story was with little Isabelle. She doubted they were full siblings, with a twenty-six-year gap between them. Had Gideon’s father, like her own, chosen a young trophy bride for his second marriage? At least Adrienne was spared the embarrassment of late-life half siblings. Lawrence Corley hadn’t particularly wanted her, much less any more offspring at this stage of his life.

      She really should have insisted on finding another place to stay for the night, even if she had to make use of one of those bargain-rate motels Gideon had mentioned. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t put up more of an argument. She’d found herself agreeing almost before she’d realized what she was doing.

      What was it about him she found so persuasive? Sure, he was handsome, but she was accustomed to being around striking men. His green eyes were uncomfortably perceptive but hardly hypnotic. She’d been aware of a tug of attraction, but she had never allowed her hormones to guide her actions before.

      So what was she doing in his bed?

      She and Gideon hadn’t engaged in much conversation after she had agreed to stay the night. Somehow she’d found herself tucking Isabelle into bed and reading her a bedtime story—a suggestion that had come from Gideon. By the time Isabelle was asleep, Gideon had been closed into his office and settled at his computer. He’d looked up from his work only long enough to absently inform Adrienne where she could find the clean linens. As an afterthought he had added that she should let him know if she needed anything, but she suspected he was hoping there would be no further interruptions.

      She had spent the rest of the evening reading one of the manuscripts she’d brought with her. After watching the local ten-o’clock news, she’d turned in a good two hours earlier than she would have usually gone to bed. Gideon had not once emerged from his office.

      Rolling onto her side, she closed her eyes, but sleep proved elusive. It was much too quiet. She could hear every gust of wind, not to mention hooting owls and the occasional moo from a distant cow. As soon as she had Gideon’s signature on several contracts, she was heading back to civilization and her long-overdue vacation.

      Groggy and disoriented, Adrienne woke after a restless night when the morning sun hit her full in the face. Either Gideon was an early riser, she thought, glaring at the sheer curtains that allowed the dawning sun into the room, or he was a heavy sleeper who wasn’t bothered by the light.

      The bedside clock read six-forty-five when she climbed out of bed and moved into the adjoining bath. By seven-fifteen, she had showered, dried her hair and dressed in one of the two casual outfits she had packed with the two professional pantsuits she’d brought with her. Smoothing her thin, emerald-green sweater over comfortably tailored black slacks, she left Gideon’s bedroom.

      Gideon and Isabelle were in the kitchen, and from the look of things, the morning was not running smoothly. Isabelle’s fine blond hair was a pillow-tangled mess, and there was a smear of grape jelly on her chin. She wore a long-sleeved pink T-shirt festooned with cartoon characters Adrienne didn’t recognize and black leggings that ended just above her bare feet. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sat in front of her, along with the remains of two jelly-spread slices of wheat toast and a half glass of milk.

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