Something isn't right about this woman. I can feel it. When I ask her questions about her relationship with my brother, she's cagey. She gives off an elusive and slippery vibe. As an attorney, I've had to develop a pretty keen bullshit detector. It's one of the critical tools needed for the kind of success I've experienced.

And something about this woman really sets off my internal lie detector.

For starters, she looks nothing like the women my brother typically dates. He usually dates tall brunettes who look like they just came off the robot assembly line. His girlfriend’s always seem to be very prim, proper, and driven professional women. They're always sharply dressed in the latest career-woman fashion and completely straight-laced. They all also tended to come up a bit short in the personality department.

“Alice” is entirely different. She’s maybe five-six at most with long hair and bottomless blue eyes. She's thin and petite but has full hips, perky breasts, and lightly tanned skin. A light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose give her a girl next door look, but I can tell she's anything but. It’s obvious that this woman has a bit of a wild streak to her. Dressed in a long, flowing, floral dress and a cream-colored cardigan, she seems more of a bohemian than a Wall Street type. She seems like the kind of woman who'd read emotional poetry or sing heart-wrenching songs about pain and loss at an open mic night at a local coffee house.

It could just be my own biases and harsh judgments coming through, or maybe I'm just overly suspicious of people all the time – yet another byproduct of my profession – but the woman sitting in the passenger seat seems more like a high school art teacher than someone intent on climbing the corporate ladder.

We pass a brightly lit truck stop and I see her looking at it curiously. Her face is troubled, as if she's wrestling with some decision inside her own mind.

“You okay?” I ask.

She turns back to me and gives me a smile that seems way too enthusiastic to be normal. “Yeah, fine,” she says. “I was just thinking that I should have had you stop so I can pee.”

A wry grin touches my lips. “Do you want me to turn around?” I ask. “It's probably another thirty minutes or so until we get home.”

“No, I'll be fine,” she replies. “But, thanks.”

She still looks troubled to me, but I let it go. As we ride along, listening to the hum of the tires on the pavement below, I realize that I'm probably wound way too tight about this. It feels like I’m being too harsh and skeptical of this woman. It's probably weird for her to be riding in a car with a total stranger – and me poking at her like I'm cross examining a witness probably isn't helping much.

As far as her being the complete opposite of who Chris usually dates – maybe that's a good thing. Those uptight corporate drones are almost always a bore. And those romances tend to fizzle out pretty quickly to boot. I can't recall the last time my brother has been in a relationship that's lasted more than six months. Maybe dating someone out of his comfort zone is exactly what he needs.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. And he certainly picked a beauty. I can see that she's tough but still feminine as hell. Alice is gorgeous, no question about it, and I find myself envying my brother just a little bit.

Giving my head a shake, I hastily push those thoughts away. I really don't want to go down that road. This is my brother's girlfriend and the last thing I need to do is to start having lustful thoughts about her – even if it's really easy to do.

“So, what do you do?” she asks.

“Oh, Christopher didn't tell you?”

She gives me a timid smile. “Sorry, I guess he didn't tell me much about you.”

I wave her off. That's not entirely surprising. Chris and I don't always see eye-to-eye. He's still resentful that I passed on working for the family business. I've tried to tell him countless times that I did him a favor – that this means he’s the undisputed law around Churchill Technologies without me there breathing down his neck.

He refuses to see it that way, though. He sees me as the black sheep of the family – treasonous and disloyal to our father's memory. What he doesn't understand, however, is that Dad wanted me to choose my own path. He wanted that for all of us. He didn't want us involved with the company if it wasn’t what moved or motivated us. Our father wanted us to have fulfilling careers that made us happy.

For Christopher, running the company is what makes him happy. It's his passion – which makes him the perfect fit for the job. That's not me. Never has been and never will be. I just wish he could understand that.

“I'm an attorney,” I explain.

“Oh really?” she asks. “Must be exciting to help put criminals in prison.”

“I don't practice criminal law,” I say. “Civil law, actually. My partner and I take on companies that try to defraud clients. Corporations that hurt people. We take them to court and rake them over the coals.”

“Oh,” she says, looking perplexed. “I didn't realize there was a difference.”

I nod. “Yeah, most people think civil law is dry and boring,” I reply. “But it's always satisfying to take on some Fortune 500 company with an army of legal eagles and force them to cough up a massive settlement to pay for their misdeeds.”

“Do you win a lot?”

I can't keep the smile off my face, smarmy though it might be. “Yeah, we win quite a bit,” I reply. “Most of the time, in fact.”

“That's really interesting,” she says. “You seem to really like what you do.”

I nod. “I do.”

“Why is that?”

“I believe in fighting for people who don't normally have a voice. These corporations – they abuse people. Mistreat them badly and then spit them out. Most people don't have the resources to fight back,” I say. “I believe in a fair and equal footing for everybody. It’s sickening how powerful corporations with almost unlimited resources treat people like disposable commodities.”

It's the standard speech I give when someone asks me that question. For now, I think it succinctly conveys the essence of my message. Of my brand. It's a plank in the platform I'm building – one I want to be completely ready when I launch my campaign for elected office.

“That sounds very noble,” she says.

I shrug. “It's what I believe.”

She looks at me for a long moment, the dashboard lights causing her eyes to sparkle, a curious expression on her face. Very few people have the power to make me uncomfortable with nothing more than a gaze. In fact, I think that list is limited to my father and mother – and since Dad is gone, that makes my mother the only person on the planet with that kind of power.

Something about the way Alice is looking at me, disquiets me. It's like she's can see the truth – or insincerity – in my words. It's almost like she can lay me entirely bare.

It's not something I'm used to – and not something I particularly like, to be honest.

“Is it?” she asks. “Is that what you really believe??”

“Of course, it is,” I say. “Why would I say it if it weren't true?'

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Lots of reasons,” she says. “Maybe because it's a means to an end. A way to further yourself. Advance your career, perhaps.”

A rueful chuckle bubbles out of my throat. The woman is far sharper and more perceptive than I initially gave her credit for.

“Don't get me wrong,” she says, “I believe you when you tell me it's what you believe. I can hear a kernel of truth in it.”

“A kernel of truth?”

She nods. “It's there, but it's a kernel,” she says. “But I hear more in your voice than that. A lot more.”

“Oh? And what it is you hear?” I ask, suddenly feeling oddly defensive. “Enlighten me.”

“I hear naked ambition,” she says. “I hear the lust for something more. Something bigger.”

I laugh. “And what do you think that something is?”

She shakes her head. “I have no idea,” she says. “But I hear it. Oh, I don't doubt that you enjoy taking on these corporations, and I don't doubt that you like helping your clients. Like I said, I hear a kernel of truth in what you said. Some small part of you does believe that. But, there's more to it than that for you.”

Damn. The woman is good. Really good. Maybe I was wrong in my initial assessment of her. She’s not actually the hippy-dippy art teacher, coffee house poet I assumed her to be. She’s just like the shrewd, cold-blooded corporate type my brother favors.

Her blunt dissection of my personality and motives leaves me more than a bit rattled, to be honest. No one, not even Nate, has been able to lay me bare like that before. It's disconcerting. To say the least.

“I have bigger aspirations, that's true,” I admit. “But that doesn't make the work I'm doing any less sincere or valuable.”

“I didn't say it does,” she says. “I'm just throwing my two cents out there. Take it for whatever it's worth.”

I clear my throat and focus on the long strip of darkened road ahead. The fact that this woman can figure me out like that after half an hour is troubling. And yet, at the same time, it adds to her allure. There's obviously a lot more going on beneath the surface of Alice Donnelly than I noticed at first. I find it intriguing. Someone who has that sort of cutting insight is incredibly rare – it’s intoxicating.

I find myself thinking it’s unfortunate that she's my brother's girlfriend and I'll never get to explore the deeper side to the woman.

I pull the car to a stop in the circular driveway in front of the house. Alice is looking at it with a wide-eyed wonder that I can't help but find adorable. I guess she comes from more humble beginnings and isn't used to the kind of wealth my family as amassed.

“This house is amazing,” she says, the note of wonder in her voice matching the expression on her face. “It's like – a castle.”

“I think that's what the architects were going for when they built it,” I say. “It's what attracted my parents to it all those years ago – well before any of us were born.”

“You and Christopher?”

“And Neil,” I reply. “He's the youngest.”

“Wow, three boys,” she says. “I feel sorry for your mom.”

“She put up with a lot, that's for sure,” I say. “But she never hesitated to put us in line when needed.”

“I'm sure that was a lot.”

“For me, yeah. Probably,” I say and laugh. “More so than Christopher, that's for sure. He was always the golden child.”

She nods. “Yeah, that kind of sounds like my sister.”

I turn off the engine and get out of the car. Coming around to the passenger side, I open the door and hold it for her as she slips out. I know better than to ask for her bag, so I let her carry it up the steps. As we go, she's looking around at the house and grounds in stunned disbelief.

The house is beautiful, I can't deny that. It really does look like a medieval castle complete with turrets and spires. Ivy clings to the walls and the grounds are flush with bushes, trees, and flowers. There's even a hedge maze out on the back grounds.

This house is the most extravagant purchase my parents ever made. They have as much money as Bill Gates, but they actually live pretty frugally, all things considered. They don't believe in a lot of opulence or ridiculous displays of wealth – you'll find no gold-plated toilets here.

The door opens before we reach it and Harold, the house manager, is standing there with a warm smile. Harold has been running the house since I was a teenager. He's tall, with thinning hair on the top of his head, but a thick, bushy mustache that nearly covers his mouth – as if he's compensating for what he's missing on top. He's a good man and has always done right by my mom.

“Good evening Mr. Churchill,” he says, his tone formal.

Around guests, it's always Mr. Churchill and never Miles. I've all but given up of trying to break him of this habit at this point. He believes in formality and tradition. And to him, being formal around guests is only proper.

“Good evening Harold,” I say. “May I present Miss Alice Donnelly? She'll be staying with us through Thanksgiving.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Donnelly,” he says. “May I take your bag, please?”

“No, I've got it,” she replies meekly. “But, thank you.”

He gives me a frown and a questioning look, but I just shrug my shoulders. What can I say or do? If she doesn't want to give up her bag, I'm not about to wrestle it out of her hands. I can tell it’s messing with his sense of duty and propriety.

“It's okay, Alice,” I say. “Harold isn't going to go running off with it. And if he does, I know where he works.”

She gives me an uneasy smile, but slowly and hesitantly hands it over to Harold. He looks relieved as he accepts her bag and gives her a nod.

“Very good, Miss,” he says, then turns to me. “I've had your room made up, but if either of you need anything, please –”

“Oh, she's not staying with me, Harold,” I say. “This is Christopher's girlfriend and she'll be staying with him.”

A long moment of awkward silence descends over us as Harold's eyes flit between me and Alice. Her cheeks are bright red and she looks like she wants to disappear into a hole somewhere. I chuckle and run a hand through my hair as Harold clears his throat and gives us both a nod.

“Apologies,” he says. “I've obviously made an incorrect assumption.”

“Don't worry about it,” I say and give Alice a wink to try and set her at ease. “We get that all the time, don't we?”

Harold's smile is still uneasy, but he's not as tense as he was a moment ago. “I'll have your brother's room made up immediately,” he says, then turns and disappears quickly.

Alice and I both let out a nervous chuckle and shake our heads. I have to admit, the idea of slipping upstairs with her isn't without its appeal.

Alice turns and catches me looking at her, and I see the color in her cheeks deepen. I quickly avert my gaze and clear my throat. Tension fills the air again, but this time it's joined by a sense of expectation I find strange. This is my brother's girlfriend and I would never consider sleeping with her – as tempting as it might be.

I silently kick my own ass for even entertaining those thoughts. I can't entertain them. I won't. Regardless of how alluring she is, Alice is off limits. The way she looks at me, with a flicker of desire in her eyes, makes me even more tempted.

“Anyway,” I say, just to break the spell of silence and tension enveloping us, “Harold will show you to your room. Just go have a seat in the parlor and he'll escort you in a moment. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“No, I'm fine, thank you,” she says.

“Great,” I say, and motion to the doorway to our right. “Just – go have a seat in there. Make yourself at home.”

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I'm going to bed,” I say. “It's been a long day.”

Harold arrives a moment later and gives us both a smile. “The room is ready for you, Miss Donnelly,” he says. “If you'd be so good as to follow me?”

“Goodnight,” I say.

Her gaze lingers upon me for a moment before she turns and follows Harold to the staircase. As she ascends, she looks over her shoulder at me again and flashes me a small smile. When they reach the top landing and disappear down the corridor, I let out a long breath, immediately feeling the tension drain from my shoulders.

It's going to be a long few days until my brother gets here.