Read Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir Online
Authors: Amanda Stevens
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense
The Brother’s Wife
Amanda Stevens
“You look like a desperate man.” The woman slid onto the barstool next to Andrew Kingsley and crossed her long, sleek legs.
He glanced at her appreciatively. She wore a short black dress that looked very expensive, very classy, and very sexy. Her eyes were blue, her hair so blond it was almost white, her oval face pale and flawless.
Her features gave her the illusion of softness, but there was something about her eyes, something simmering beneath the misty blue surface that belied her angelic appearance.
Another time she would have held Andrew’s undivided attention. But not now. Not with the argument he’d had earlier with Hope still ringing in his ears. After ten years of marriage, she wanted a divorce, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. God knew, she had her grounds.
The woman next to him swiveled on her barstool until the toe of her shoe brushed the back of his leg. “Well, are you?” she persisted.
“Am I what?”
“A desperate man.”
He shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”
She leaned toward him, so close he could smell her perfume, something dark and sensuous. Very seductive. She smiled knowingly. “Let me guess. Your wife kicked you out and you lost your last dime at the track.”
“You must be psychic,” he muttered.
She smiled again. “Not really. But I
am
very perceptive. My name is Carol, by the way.”
Andrew motioned to the bartender looming nearby. “Carol needs a drink.”
The bartender gave her an approving once-
over. “What’ll it be?”
“White wine.”
He brought her wine and another whiskey for Andrew. Scowling, Andrew stared at the drink. He was driving tonight. He usually limited himself to one, no more than two drinks. This would be his fourth, but hell, it wasn’t every night a man lost his wife, his fortune, and maybe even his life, if he couldn’t figure out a way to pay off his gambling debts. He needed this drink badly.
Carol ran a manicured finger around the rim of her wineglass. “So why don’t you tell me your troubles? Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t think you can help me get my wife back,” he said. He didn’t think anyone could do that.
“You might be surprised what I can do.”
“Look. You’re a very attractive woman—
very
attractive,” he added, his gaze slipping over her. “And I’m sure most any man in this bar would love to tell you his life story. But right now, I’m really not in the mood for conversation.”
She didn’t seem the least bit offended by his brush-
off. In fact, Andrew wasn’t sure she’d heard him. Her gaze was glued to the TV mounted over the end of the bar, and she seemed to be listening closely to a news broadcast, something about a policy decision the President had recently made.
“Interesting story,” she murmured.
Andrew lifted his glass. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Don’t you keep up with politics?”
“No more than I have to.”
She frowned, as if his answer displeased her. Hesitating, she said, “Have you ever heard of an organization called the Grayson Commission?”
Andrew shrugged, bored with the conversation. “Can’t say as I have.”
“It’s a group of powerful men and women, some from the business world, some from the political arena, and some from—shall we say?—the underworld, who have banded together to affect government policy from within. They’re always on the lookout for viable political candidates—people who, if elected, would be sympathetic to certain causes.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you.”
He stared at her in astonishment and laughed. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t even know me.” When she didn’t respond, his laughter faded. “Like I said, I’m not the least bit interested in politics.”
“But you
are
a Kingsley.”
An alarm went off inside him. “How do you know who I am?”
“Everyone in Memphis knows the Kingsleys. I’ve read all about you. Your family has a long and illustrious tradition in politics. Thirty years ago, your grandmother managed to get your father elected governor when his supporters had all but deserted him.”
“If you know your history as well as you say you do, then you know public sympathy put my father in office,” Andrew told her. “The election swayed in his favor when my twin brother was kidnapped, and believed to be killed.”
“Don’t underestimate your grandmother, Andrew. We don’t. She’s a very powerful woman to this day. With the commission’s backing and hers, you could become a very strong candidate.”
Andrew still didn’t know whether to take her seriously or not. The notion of him running for office was ludicrous. “Even if I were interested in politics—which I’m not—you’re forgetting one thing. I hardly have the background that would endear me to voters.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem.”
“What do you mean, that wouldn’t be a problem? Of course, it would be.” His father’s hasty second marriage had almost derailed his gubernatorial bid before it ever got started. And compared to Andrew’s indiscretions, a hasty second marriage was nothing.
Nothing.
“The Grayson Commission has people in the organization who can give you any kind of background they want you to have.”
“No one can do that anymore,” Andrew said. “There isn’t a public-
relations firm in the country that can hide anything from the media these days.” Now that the police were involved, it was only a matter of time before some nosy reporter found out about his association with Simon Pratt, a well-
known mobster in these parts. Andrew cringed when he thought of the headlines.
“Believe me, that wouldn’t be a problem.”
Her persistence was beginning to annoy him. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what kind of scam you’re trying to pull here, but I have no interest in politics, the Grayson Commission, or much of anything else right now. All I want is to be left alone. Okay?”
He turned to his drink, but her hand on his arm drew his gaze back to her. She leaned toward him. “You might want to reconsider, Andrew. One word from me and your debts would all disappear.”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you know about my debts? Who the hell are you?”
“Simon Pratt is a very dangerous man, from what I hear. He’s been known to break the arms and legs—or worse—of those who default on their loans. I’d hate to see that happen to you.”
Andrew looked at her in disgust. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You work for Pratt. This is some kind of sick game he’s orchestrated to torment me.”
Her gaze deepened. “This is no game, believe me. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime. Think about it, Andrew. How many people in your position get the opportunity to start over? To have mistakes from their past erased as if they never happened?” She lifted her wineglass and stared at him over the rim. “You could become the kind of man your wife always wanted you to be.”
For a moment, Andrew wanted to believe her. A tiny flicker of hope ignited inside him, then died. He shook his head. “You’re crazy. You don’t know anything about me or my wife. Our marriage is over. Finished. And so is my life.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“Yes, it does. Trust me, I’m as good as dead in this town.”
The woman’s smile turned mysterious. “Funny you should say that.”
The bar had become more crowded as the evening wore on. Someone bumped into Andrew’s back, and he turned, scowling.
A man wearing sunglasses said, “Sorry, pal.”
Andrew shrugged and swiveled back around. Carol smiled. “Well,” she said, “if we can’t do business, we can at least part as friends, can’t we?” She clinked her glass against his. “Here’s to second chances.”
“Here’s to nothing,” he said. Which is what he would have left, once Jake McClain, a police detective with an ax to grind, got through with him. Picking up his glass, Andrew downed the contents.
At first the whiskey ignited his stomach, then settled into a nice, warm glow. He glanced at the blonde. Her features seemed softer now, and exquisitely feminine. She saw him watching her, and slowly, very deliberately licked her lips.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Find some place where we can talk.”
“About politics?” His tongue seemed thick all of a sudden.
She shook her head. “No. About you and me.”
The comfortable numbness from the whiskey wore off too quickly. His head began to pound, and he thought he was going to be sick. “I don’t feel well.”
“Here.” She took his arm and helped him up. “You need some fresh air.”
She guided him through the throng of people to the door, held it open for him, then helped him across the parking lot to his car.
“Better call a cab,” he muttered, leaning against the door. “Don’t think I can drive.”
She fumbled in his pocket. “I’ll take you home.”
No, Andrew thought. What if Hope saw him with another woman? But then in the next instant, he realized it didn’t matter. Hope was gone for good this time. Or soon would be. Back to Jake, unless he could think of a way to stop her.
He let the blonde help him into the passenger side, then watched through slitted eyes as she crawled behind the wheel. She started the powerful engine, expertly shifted into gear, then tore out of the parking lot like a woman fleeing for her life.
The bar was on a secluded road, several miles from Memphis, near the small town of Shepherd. Andrew liked to go there because no one ever recognized him. But the blonde had known him, and had somehow known he would be there. Because of that, the deserted highway seemed particularly menacing to him now.
Who are you?
he tried to ask her again, but no words came out. The pain in his head became excruciating. He slumped against the door.
“Andrew?”
When he didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—he heard her mutter, “Damn. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
What wasn’t?
he tried to scream.
What have you done to me? Stop the car! Let me out of here!
“You’re going to be all right,” she told him. “Believe me, this is all for the best.”
Propelling himself away from the door, Andrew lunged toward the steering wheel and grabbed it. Carol screamed, trying to shove him away. For several moments, they struggled. Then the car careened off the road, out of control as they missed a curve, and Carol screamed again. She threw up her arms to protect her face as the car plowed down an embankment, straight toward the trunk of a tree.
The last thing Andrew heard was the sickening crunch of metal against wood. The last thing he saw was the splatter of blood against the windshield. The last thing he thought was that this time, Jake had won.
The game was finally over.
The car reminded him of a sleek, red bullet—low-
slung, fast, and dangerous. Jake McClain shoved a tiny plant into the freshly dug hole, then stood to admire the clean, smooth lines of the Viper as it tooled around the sharp curves in the drive leading up to the Kingsley mansion.
Next to Jake, his father, who had been the gardener at the Kingsley estate for as long as Jake could remember, was on his knees, still bent over the flower bed in front of the house.
Each hole had to be precisely dug, each plant had to be gently, almost lovingly placed inside, and then the dirt had to be carefully tamped in place. His father’s movements were slow, methodical, precise, and Jake bit back an oath. At this rate, they would be out here all night.
“Pop,” he said, trying to temper his impatience. “Whose car is that? I haven’t seen it around here before.”
Gerald McClain glanced over his shoulder as the vehicle came into view, then he returned to his work. “It doesn’t concern you. Stay out of the Kingsleys’ business.”
Jake scowled. Ever since he’d moved in with his father a couple of weeks ago, the two of them had been at each other’s throats. Jake had known it would be this way. He and his father were both too strongly opinionated not to have disagreements, but what else could he do? His father had recently suffered a mild heart attack, and there was no one else to watch out for him, to make sure he didn’t overdo. The Kingsleys sure as hell wouldn’t.
Unfortunately, however, since Jake had sold his house to cover the legal fees he’d incurred fighting his dismissal from the police department, his father had decided that Jake was destitute and had nowhere else to go. He thought he was doing Jake a favor by letting him move back home.
It was true Jake was down on his luck right now, but that wouldn’t last long. He’d already opened a private investigation firm and was actively seeking clients. And in the meantime, if his living on the Kingsley grounds afforded him the opportunity to continue looking into Andrew Kingsley’s death, Jake figured he could put up with a little harassment from his father.
From all indications, Kingsley had been into something pretty heavy before his death, and Jake had been determined to find out what it was, to bring down Andrew Kingsley if it was the last thing he ever did. Instead, Kingsley had died in a car crash, and Jake had been booted off the police force for instigating an unauthorized investigation—an infraction that should have warranted a reprimand or a suspension at worst; but Jake had been dismissed because Iris Kingsley was still a powerful woman in these parts. She didn’t like having her grandson’s memory tarnished, especially by the likes of Jake McClain.
He wondered if she was up there now, staring down at him with smug satisfaction that he had finally been put back in his place.
The red Viper pulled around the circular drive and stopped in front of the house. Jake couldn’t see the occupant of the car, but his instincts—and his father’s attitude—told him that something was definitely going on. He shielded his eyes from the sun and waited for the driver to emerge. When no one got out, he turned back to his father.