Amanda Stevens - The Brother's Wife

“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.