The Brother's Wife

A second chance at first love…

Now Andrew is dead…and an identical stranger has arrived at the Kingsley mansion. He says he’s Adam Kingsley, home after thirty years. But his eyes follow Hope, and he knows secrets only Andrew would know. Has the husband Hope never loved returned to claim her? And how can Jake, the man she never stopped loving, save her?

Previously published

Also available from Amanda Stevens

Mira Books

The Graveyard Queen Series

The KingdomThe RestorerThe Prophet and coming in 2016 The Kingdom

Harlequin Intrigue

The Kingsley Baby SeriesThe Long-Lost HeirThe Brother’s WifeThe Hero’s Son

Gallagher Justice Series

The Littlest Witness

Secret Admirer

Forbidden LoverGallagher Justice

Eden’s Children SeriesThe InnocentThe TemptedThe Forgiven

Quantum Men SeriesHis Mysterious WaysSilent StormSecret Passage

Stranger in ParadiseA Baby’s CryA Man of SecretsThe Second Mrs. Malone

Somebody’s Baby

Lover, Stranger

The Bodyguard’s AssignmentNighttime GuardianSecret Sanctuary

Visit the Author Profile page at www.millsandboon.co.uk for more titles

The Brother’s Wife

Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

PROLOGUE

“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.

CHAPTER ONE

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.

“Pop,” he said. “You know everything that goes on around here. Who is that?”

Gerald glanced up at him. “Leave it alone, Jake, and get back to work. You’re supposed to be helping me today.”

“We’ve been out here all day without a break,” Jake reminded him. “Why are you being so secretive?”

His father heaved a weary sigh. He sat back on his knees, rubbing his gloved hands along the tops of his thighs. “All right. I know you. You won’t give me a minute’s peace until I tell you. Word has it around the staff that a man claiming he might be Adam Kingsley is coming to see Miss Iris and Mr. Edward today. I reckon that’s him.”

Jake glanced down at his father in shock. “You’re kidding.”

“He contacted Miss Iris yesterday.”

“Yesterday? You mean she’s agreed to see him this quickly? He must have told her one helluva story.”

Adam Kingsley, Andrew’s twin, had been kidnapped from the mansion when the boys were only three years old. Until recently, the authorities had believed that Adam was dead. Shortly after the kidnapping, his body had been recovered from a shallow grave near the Kingsley estate and buried in the family plot. But everything changed a few months ago when the real kidnapper had finally admitted to the crime, thirty-one years after he’d taken Adam.

An ex-cop named Raymond Colter confessed that he and a woman had kidnapped the child for ransom, and then the woman had vanished with the boy. According to Colter, Adam Kingsley was still alive the last time he saw him, and his story was borne out when the body was exhumed. DNA testing proved conclusively that the remains were not those of Adam Kingsley but of another little boy named Johnny Wayne Tyler, who had been murdered by his stepfather.

Colter’s story kicked up a storm of controversy, not just in Memphis, but all over the country. And as expected, an army of impostors claiming to be Adam Kingsley had descended upon the family. Their attorney, Victor Northrup, had set up a task force within his law offices to handle and investigate each claim. To Jake’s knowledge, not one of the would-be heirs had made it past Northrup’s assistants.

Until now.

As Jake stood watching, the door of the mansion opened and Iris Kingsley appeared in the doorway. He hadn’t seen the woman in months, and he was amazed at how much she’d aged since he’d spoken with her after Andrew’s death.

Always thin, she looked frail enough now to be blown away by a puff of wind. Even from a distance, Jake could see the deeply creviced face and the clawlike hand that clutched the front of her black jacket. She hardly seemed strong enough to wield the kind of power that had gotten him fired from the police department, but Jake knew her appearance was deceiving. At eighty-five, Iris Kingsley was still as tough as nails. And still very powerful.

A shadow stirred behind her, and Iris turned to say something over her shoulder. Then the shadow stepped forward, into the sunlight, and Jake’s breath caught in his throat.

Hope.

She was still living in the Kingsley mansion. Jake had harbored some notion that after Andrew’s death, she might move out, might even go back to her old neighborhood, where her mother still lived. But such hadn’t been the case. She was still a Kingsley, and Jake would be a damned fool to ever forget that fact.

As with Iris, the months since Andrew’s death had taken a toll. Hope looked too thin and too pale in the subdued navy dress she wore. Her straight, brown hair was pulled back from her face, giving her features a gauntness that wasn’t altogether unattractive. She had the appearance of a woman who needed taking care of, and Jake wished like hell he wasn’t having the thoughts he was having.

She didn’t notice him at all. He was just a workman in the gardens, not worthy of her or Iris Kingsley’s attention. Both of their gazes were glued to the car, and in a moment, the door opened and a man climbed out.

The car was parked at such an angle that the women couldn’t see his face, but Jake could. The man glanced in his direction. Their gazes collided, and the impact was almost like a physical blow. Jake stood for a moment, too stunned to react.

The man looked exactly like Andrew Kingsley. Exactly.

The blue eyes, the dark hair, the arrogant set of his features—all the same.

Even the contemptuous glance he threw Jake was enough to send a cold chill down Jake’s spine. It was almost as if his nemesis had come back to life. But that was impossible. Andrew Kingsley was dead, and this man…this man…

No wonder Iris had agreed to see him so quickly. He must have sent her a picture of himself. His amazing resemblance to Andrew would naturally pique her interest.

With a curious little smile, the man turned and started walking toward the mansion, his shoulders squared, his gait confident. Jake shifted his gaze to Hope, studying her expression. He saw her eyes widen with the same shock he’d experienced seconds earlier.

Then, as the man drew closer, shock turned to wonder, and Jake’s heart twisted unexpectedly. He saw her lips move, forming Andrew’s name, as she took a tentative step toward the stranger.

* * *

“MY NAME IS MICHAEL Eldridge. But, of course, you already know that.” The stranger smiled down at Iris, then turned to encompass everyone in the room, his dark blue gaze resting for an instant on Hope.

Her face heated as she remembered the moment outside when she’d said Andrew’s name and started toward him only to stop short when he’d stared at her with eyes that held not the slightest bit of recognition.

He was seated on the white brocade sofa beside Iris. Grouped around him were Edward Kingsley—Andrew’s father—Edward’s wife, Pamela, and her son, Jeremy Willows. Hope remained on the fringes of the conversation, still unable to resolve the strong emotions she’d felt on first seeing Michael Eldridge. There had been shock, of course, and a sense of wonder that some miracle was taking place right before her eyes. But there had also been something else lurking in her subconscious, a darker emotion she didn’t want to explore.

“Tell us about yourself, my dear,” Iris invited. She wore black, as she had since Andrew’s death, but beneath the severely tailored jacket, she’d donned a blue silk blouse that added softness to her features. Her coloring had always been striking, with her dark blue eyes, pale complexion, and thick, snowy white hair. Her posture was still as straight as a ramrod, her bearing shamelessly arrogant.

The man beside her smiled. “There isn’t much to tell, I’m afraid. As I told you when I called, I’m a stockbroker in Houston. I was raised in a series of foster homes after my mother abandoned me when I was five years old. I don’t remember her. I don’t remember anything about my real parents at all, and to be honest, I’ve never been all that curious. I guess I just thought if they’d wanted me…” He broke off, shrugging.

“Well, anyway, after your grandson died, someone showed me his picture in the paper. I was…shocked, to say the least. And I felt an immediate…connection with him. I can’t really explain it. It wasn’t just because we looked so much alike. It was more than that. When I stared at his picture, I felt as if I’d…known him. And I felt this deep, terrible sense of loss….”