The Brother's Wife. Amanda Stevens

Jake. I didn’t think you were coming in today.”

      Jake shrugged. “I have some paperwork I need to get caught up on.”

      “I tried to beep you earlier.” Deanna’s brown eyes were soft and curious. “But you didn’t call back.”

      “I forgot and left my beeper at home. What’s up?”

      “I have some messages for you.”

      Jake arched a brow. “Bill collectors?”

      She grinned. “Not all of them. One sounded like he might be a potential client. Said he’s looking for someone to do a background check for him.”

      Jake took the pink message slips, thumbed through them until he found the one he wanted, then looked up with a frown. “He didn’t leave a name or number?”

      Deanna shook her head, and the permed waves in her hair rippled in the fluorescent lighting. “Said he’d call back later.”

      Right, Jake thought, wadding the messages into a tight ball. More likely he’d gone on to the next name in the Yellow Pages, which brought up an interesting question. McClain Investigations wasn’t listed in the phonebook yet. How had the man found out about him?

      “If he calls back before I leave, I’ll put him right through,” Deanna said helpfully.

      “You do that.” Jake headed for the elevator.

      “Jake?”

      He glanced back over his shoulder. Deanna blushed as she curled a strand of brown hair around one finger. “I was wondering. You wouldn’t, uh, like to have a drink or something after work, would you?”

      Jake grimaced inwardly. Deanna was a nice girl, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He knew she’d developed a crush on him since he’d opened his office, but she was just a kid, probably no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. The last thing she needed was to get involved with the likes of him, and the last thing he wanted was an entanglement of any kind.

      “Thanks for the offer,” he said. “Best one I’ve had all day. But I have to get to that paperwork.”

      She blushed again and glanced down at her desk. “Some other time, maybe.”

      “Yeah.” He escaped into the open door of the elevator and punched the button for the third floor.

      McClain Investigations was located at the end of a long corridor, with several accounting and insurance firms in between. Most of the businesses were one-man or one-woman operations like his, but a few had their own clerical staff, and as Jake walked down the hall to his office, there was a brief but intense exodus toward the elevator as workers headed for home or happy hour.

      He unlocked his door and flipped on the light switch. The office was small, barely accommodating his desk, two filing cabinets—which did double duty as fax-machine and coffeemaker stands—and two brown leather chairs, worn but still in good condition. The view from those chairs was somewhat obstructed by the computer monitor on his desk, but Jake had neither the space nor the extra cash for a separate computer desk.

      A small storage room contained office supplies, surveillance equipment, and a cot that Jake occasionally used when he stayed late at the office.

      Turning on his computer, he settled back in his chair and sorted through the mail that had been inserted through the slot in his door.

      “Occupant, occupant, occupant,” he muttered, tossing one unopened envelope after another into the trash. The bills he shoved into his top drawer, out of sight.

      As always when he had nothing else to do, and sometimes when he did, Jake opened the Andrew Kingsley file and perused his notes, wondering how much, if anything, Hope knew about Andrew’s association with Simon Pratt. How much she’d known about her husband’s gambling and drinking and, if the rumors were true, his infidelities.

      A knock on the door scattered Jake’s thoughts, and he looked up with a frown, wondering if Deanna had come to try and change his mind about the drink. He hoped not, because in his present mood, he might not let her down so easily this time. Hell, he might not let her down at all, and that would be a big mistake. For both of them.

      “Come in,” he called.

      The door opened and a man with silver hair and a deeply bronzed face stepped inside. He looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies, tall and thin with a regal bearing and expensive attire that suggested he might be one of the well-heeled corporate clients Jake had been hoping for. But Jake knew that wasn’t the case. He recognized the man.

      “Hello, Jake.” The deep, cultured voice contained only the barest trace of a Southern accent, the gray eyes only a hint of the contempt he felt for Jake. “I suppose you’re surprised to see me,” said Victor Northrup.

      “Don’t tell me.” Jake sat back in his chair and eyed Northrup warily. “You were in the area and thought you’d drop in. Which really means, you’re here to check out my new office and report back to Iris Kingsley.”

      Victor smiled. “She has no idea I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

      Something in his tone intrigued Jake, though he had no intention of letting Victor Northrup know that. Northrup was not only Iris Kingsley’s closest friend, but also her attorney. He’d been instrumental in getting Jake fired from the department, and Jake still carried a grudge. He didn’t like the man, and what was more, he didn’t trust him.

      Without being invited, Northrup sat down in one of the leather chairs and crossed his legs, apparently at ease. But a slight twitch at the corner of his left eye suggested he might not be as relaxed as he wanted to appear.

      Jake came around the desk to lean against the edge, so that the computer monitor wouldn’t be an obstacle. He didn’t want to miss one single flicker of the man’s expression.

      “So you’ve gone into the P.I. business, have you?” Northrup glanced around the shabby office. “Business is booming, I see.”

      Jake folded his arms. “You don’t hear me complaining, do you?”

      Northrup smiled. “You should be. You haven’t had a client since you opened this office four weeks ago. Your reputation precedes you.”

      “Thanks to you and Iris Kingsley.”

      Northrup shrugged. “I know you believe otherwise, but Iris and I had nothing to do with the review board’s decision to dismiss you.”

      “Like hell,” Jake said. “Let’s just cut to the chase here, okay? What do you want?”

      Northrup reached inside his pocket, and Jake automatically tensed, his training still deeply ingrained. But instead of a weapon, Northrup withdrew a photograph and handed it to Jake. “Who would you say this man is?”

      Jake took the picture and glanced down at the familiar blue eyes, the dark hair, the arrogant smile. He returned the picture to Northrup. “He looks like Andrew Kingsley, but I assume, since you bothered to ask, that he’s the man claiming to be Adam Kingsley.”

      Northrup was clearly startled. “You know about him?”

      “I was helping my father in the gardens when he arrived at the mansion yesterday.”

      Northrup sat forward in his chair, his expression tense and alert. “Did you get a good look at him?”

      Jake shrugged. “Fairly so.”

      The gray eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. “What did you think? Did he look like the man in this photo?”

      Jake stared at Northrup in surprise. “Are you telling me you haven’t met him yet? I thought your office handled all claims against the Kingsley estate.”

      “We do. I’ve seen the man’s picture, and I’ve spoken with him on the phone. But I haven’t met him in person yet.”

      “Then