The Brother's Wife

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.