The Brother's Wife. Amanda Stevens

      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