Conflict of Interest. GINA WILKINS

blue-jeaned, T-shirted, early-thirties redhead working the cash register just inside the door greeted Gideon with an eager smile that dimmed a few watts when she spotted Adrienne. “Just find yourselves a table,” she said to Gideon. “Carla will be with you in a minute.”

      Adrienne couldn’t help noticing that Gideon barely gave the woman a second glance as he nodded and led the way into the busy diner. Signs dangling from the ceiling designated the smoking and nonsmoking sections, but since it was only one big room with no dividers, it seemed to Adrienne to be a rather meaningless gesture. Gideon chose a booth at the back of the nonsmoking area, where the haze seemed a bit thinner. Accustomed to restaurants that did not allow smoking at all, Adrienne blinked a bit to clear her burning eyes, her nose twitching against the acrid odor.

      “Guess I should have asked if you suffer from allergies or anything,” Gideon commented belatedly. “There are still a lot of folks around here who haven’t kicked the habit.”

      “I suppose I can tolerate the secondhand smoke for the duration of a meal.”

      He plucked a plastic-coated menu from a stand that also held salt, pepper, ketchup and hot sauce. “Trust me, the food here is worth the discomfort,” he said as he handed her the menu.

      Glancing down at the breakfast list, she mentally winced at the calorie counts of some of the features. Fried eggs, fried sausage, fried bacon, fried hash browns, buttered grits and biscuits with sausage gravy. Heart attack on a plate.

      A heavyset woman with teased gray hair and a pleasantly lined face set a steaming mug of coffee in front of Gideon, then offered a second mug to Adrienne. “I already know what Gideon wants,” she drawled. “What can I get you, hon?”

      Adrienne ordered one scrambled egg, an order of dry toast and a fruit cup.

      “Are you sure that’s all you want?” Gideon asked. “The omelets and hot cakes are both great here, and nobody makes better biscuits.”

      “He’s right about that,” their server said ruefully. “Take it from someone who’s eaten way too many of them.”

      Adrienne thought of the lemon pound cake she’d eaten in lieu of dinner the night before. “I’d better stick with my original order,” she said with a touch of regret.

      Their waitress nodded and moved away.

      “Are you always so disciplined?” Gideon asked.

      “Not always. But I try.”

      He grunted and sipped his coffee, apparently considering the subject of breakfast food closed. Adrienne noticed that they were receiving quite a bit of attention from other diners, both covertly and openly. Gideon was obviously a frequent customer here, but there seemed to be a lot of speculative interest in her. The only greetings Gideon had exchanged with the other diners were a few cordial nods. She wondered if the others kept their distance because of her presence or if Gideon generally discouraged small talk.

      For some reason, she suspected it was primarily the latter.

      The waitress returned in an amazingly short time with their food. “Is this one of your writer friends, Gideon?” she asked casually as she served them.

      “My agent,” he replied, reaching for the salt shaker. “Adrienne Corley, meet Carla Booker.”

      “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Booker.”

      The older woman chuckled. “You just call me Carla, hon. Everyone does. Are you from up north?”

      “New York.”

      “Well, isn’t that something?”

      “I think Joe Huebner is trying to get your attention over there,” Gideon said. “Probably wants to start on his second pot of coffee.”

      Carla grinned. “You’re probably right. Nice to meet you, Miz Corley. Y’all give a holler if you need anything else.”

      The platter in front of Gideon was completely filled with a huge omelet oozing with cheese, ham, onions, peppers and mushrooms, a side order of buttered grits and two fat, fluffy-looking biscuits with a bowl of cream gravy. She watched as he dumped salsa on the omelet. “Are you always this undisciplined?”

      “When I eat breakfast at home, I usually have cereal or a bagel. But when I eat here, I have what I want.”

      Had to be a guy thing, she thought with a slight sigh. She was probably gaining weight just looking at his breakfast. Gideon, on the other hand, was shoveling it in with almost sensual pleasure, and there wasn’t a superfluous ounce anywhere on his extremely fine body.

      She speared a chunk of cantaloupe from a bowl of mixed melons and strawberries. “Are you ready to discuss business?”

      “Not while I’m eating.” He scooped a bite of grits into his mouth.

      Gideon McCloud was definitely a difficult client, even among the group of often demanding, sometimes neurotic and frequently temperamental writers she dealt with on a daily basis. The others were usually eager to hear exciting offers, to grab every chance to advance their careers and increase their recognition. Gideon seemed to want to write in complete anonymity.

      Though he had turned down a few early offers he didn’t consider rewarding enough, he didn’t seem to be motivated solely by money, since he’d also shown little interest in several very lucrative propositions. He had approved the release of very little biographical material, had not provided photographs for publicity purposes—even though he certainly had the right look—and had expressed absolutely no enthusiasm for book tours or interviews or even a promotional Web site.

      Because she sensed that he was on the verge of a breakthrough with his writing, his lack of cooperation frustrated Adrienne. Her father was becoming impatient with her inability to get Gideon to commit to the newest offers, and he had been hinting that he might have to take this client in hand himself.

      But she sensed that she would get nowhere by pushing Gideon before he was ready. She concentrated on her breakfast and directed the conversation away from his work. “We seem to be attracting attention. I suppose your acquaintances are wondering who I am.”

      He glanced around briefly—causing several heads to turn abruptly away—and then returned to his food. “They all know who you are by now. Carla’s told them you’re my agent from New York. Now they’re wondering why you’re here. She’ll be back in a bit to try to find out for them.”

      “Word travels fast here.”

      “You have no idea.”

      She watched the other diners with discreet curiosity during the remainder of the meal, intrigued by the contrasts between big-city and small-town dynamics. Here, everyone seemed to know everyone else, and even those who appeared to be strangers tended to exchange “good mornings,” even to strike up conversations as they stood in line to pay at the old-fashioned cash register.

      She saw quite a few wide hips encased in stretch fabrics, teased hair in questionable shades of blond, beer bellies sagging over drooping blue jeans, farm equipment caps and camouflage—stereotypes she had expected to find in rural Mississippi. But the rumble of laughter and low drawls of conversation, mingled with the smell of coffee and food, proved to be pleasantly relaxing. Adrienne found herself enjoying the simple meal quite a bit, even without much conversation from her taciturn companion.

      Carla stopped by the table with a coffee carafe. “Y’all doing okay?”

      Adrienne held out her mug. “Fine, thank you. The food is very good.”

      “Well, thank you. Are you here on business with Gideon, Miz Corley?”

      “Yes, I am.”

      The woman nodded her tightly teased gray head. “I thought you must be. Bet you got some movie or TV offers for him, hmm? I said when I read that last book of his that it would sure make a good movie. I think you need to hire Mel Gibson and Julia Roberts to be in it. Don’t get any of those flash-in-the-pan teenyboppers who show