Amanda Stevens - 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.ukfor more titles

The Brother’s Wife

Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

“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.