The Brother's Wife. Amanda Stevens

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….”

      No one said anything. They were all spellbound by his story, Hope included.

      He cleared his throat, as if made self-conscious by his confession. “I started making some inquiries to try and learn all I could about your family. You may find this hard to believe, but I had no idea who the Kingsleys were. When I found out that you all are practically royalty in these parts…” His smile turned self-deprecating. “Well, I don’t mind admitting, it was a bit daunting.”

      “I can imagine,” Pamela Kingsley murmured, smoothing the skirt of her turquoise silk dress. Sunlight caught the diamonds around her throat and both wrists as she perched on the arm of her husband’s chair, one hand resting on his shoulder. “It isn’t every day one learns he might be the sole heir to a considerable fortune.”

      Michael stared at her, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you. You only have my word that I didn’t come here to lay claim to your family’s fame and fortune. But I’ve actually done quite well for myself. I don’t really need your money, and I’ve never been one to crave the limelight. The reason I’m here is because—” He broke off again, seemingly at a loss for words. Then he turned back to Iris. “The reason I’m here is because I couldn’t stay away. Can you understand that?”

      She smiled and took his hand. “Yes, I believe I can.”

      Hope watched the exchange worriedly. For all her wealth and power, Iris was as fragile as a wounded bird. She was extremely vulnerable right now, and Hope knew she could easily be hurt.

      It was for precisely that reason that Hope had remained on here after Andrew’s death. In the days and weeks following the accident, Iris had begged her not to move out of the mansion. She was Iris’s last tie to Andrew, and her despair had been so great that Hope was afraid to upset her any further. To make matters worse, Iris’s doctor had warned the family that her heart might not be able to take any more stress.

      And so Hope, realizing it was the worst thing in the world she could do for herself, had agreed to stay with Iris for a little while longer. But days had turned into weeks, weeks into months, and here she was, no closer to moving out and starting a new life for herself than she had been the night she’d asked Andrew for a divorce.

      The night he died.

      As the voices droned on around her, Hope turned to look out the window, which faced the front lawn and gardens. Her gaze took in the lush, manicured grounds, the colored fountains, the marble sculptures, and she realized with something of a shock, that she was searching for Jake McClain.

      Ever since he’d moved in with his father, she’d caught glimpses of him on the grounds. He’d been out there earlier, when Michael had first arrived, and Hope had seen him out of the corner of her eye.

      It had taken all her willpower not to turn and stare at him. He’d been working in the gardens, and Hope could still picture the way he looked, standing there shirtless in the sunlight, his low-slung jeans hugging his lean hips and thighs.

      With an effort she turned her attention back to the gathering, and started. From across the room, Michael Eldridge was staring at her so intently, it almost took Hope’s breath away.

      My God, she thought. He does look exactly like Andrew.

      From his vantage, he had an unobstructed view of Hope and the window behind her. As his gaze deepened, Hope had the strangest feeling that he knew exactly what she’d been doing—whom she’d been looking for—and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

      A shiver raced up Hope’s spine at the way his thick lashes hooded his blue eyes, giving them a dark intensity that was disturbingly familiar.

      Their gazes clung for a long moment as Hope’s heart pounded and her mind whirled in confusion. Who was this man who looked enough like her dead husband to be him? Who was this stranger who seemed to know her innermost thoughts, her deepest, darkest secrets?

      After what seemed an eternity, the man’s gaze shifted to Edward, who was speaking quietly to Iris.

      Edward was a younger, weaker version of his mother, with the same white hair, the same deep blue eyes, and the same arrogant demeanor. But where his mother had retained her slender physique, her elegant beauty, Edward’s good looks, at sixty, had succumbed to the desecration of his vices. His eyes were shadowed and puffy, his jowls sagged, and his once-muscular body had grown soft and cumbersome.

      To look at him now, one would never have guessed he had once been a powerful man in this state, a governor over thirty years ago who had been on the short list to run for vice president. But then, after two terms as governor, he had retired from politics, much to Iris’s keen disappointment, and had discreetly gone about the business of destroying himself.

      All this Hope had learned from Andrew, who had never been close to his father. And he’d always despised his stepmother, Pamela, and her son, Jeremy Willows. “Parasites,” he’d called them in kindness. “Bloodsuckers,” when he was particularly aggravated by something one of them had said or