Conflict of Interest. Gina Wilkins

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