Nathan’s name so casually, but then, Isabelle had known Nathan all her life. He had been the only one of the three elder McCloud siblings to maintain a relationship with their father after the bitter divorce from their mother a few months before Isabelle’s birth. “No, I don’t write children’s books.”
“What are your books about?”
“Most people call them thrillers. They have elements of science fiction and fantasy in them and what has been referred to as dark humor.”
She blinked a couple of times in response to his dry description, then said, “I like Dr. Seuss.”
Her matter-of-fact statement made Gideon grin. “So do I.”
His smile seemed to take her by surprise. She studied his face a moment, then smiled back at him before returning her attention to her artwork.
Okay, Gideon thought. Maybe this wouldn’t be so tough after all. How hard could it be to keep an eye on an exceptionally bright and well-behaved four-year-old?
It was cloudy and dark by 7:00 p.m. on that Monday evening, and a cold drizzle had begun to fall, blown in on a strong northern front. Not a very experienced driver in the first place, since she rarely needed a car in the city, Adrienne struggled a bit with the unfamiliar rental car on the bumpy Mississippi road. She’d gotten lost twice before she found the town of Honesty, then had some difficulty finding anyone to give her directions to Gideon’s address.
She should have known, she thought as she carefully negotiated a winding gravel road, that Gideon would live well outside of town. She was definitely forming a mental picture of a crusty hermit who was more comfortable with the characters in his head than the people in the real world.
She had never met him—had never even seen a photograph of him—but she’d talked to him several times on the telephone during the past two years since he had signed with her father’s literary agency. Mostly, their communication had been through letters and faxes. She loved his books, but she hadn’t been able to get to know him very well through their limited contact.
Based strictly on his behavior, she had formed a mental image of him that wasn’t particularly flattering. She guessed that he was in his late thirties or early forties. A bit geeky, most likely. Probably a real oddball. He wouldn’t be the first talented writer she had met who was downright strange.
He was the first she’d bothered to track down this way—something she couldn’t explain. She had decided her motives were a combination of wanting to impress her father with her professional cleverness and the fact that she absolutely loved Gideon McCloud’s books.
His house looked 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.”
