Carla Cassidy is an award-winning author who has written more than fifty books. Carla believes the only thing better than curling up with a good book to read is sitting down at the computer with a good story to write. She’s looking forward to writing many more books and bringing hours of pleasure to readers.

Prologue

      He stood on the curb across the street from the casino with its glittering lights and flashy marquee, and the ball of hatred inside him expanded to make him half-breathless.

      Harold Rothchild owned this casino, the same Harold Rothchild who had built his fortune on the destruction and blood of others, the same Harold who had destroyed his life.

      A small smile curved his lips. Poor Harold’s life had taken a turn for the worse. “And it’s all because of me,” he whispered to himself.

      He’d killed Harold’s daughter and he now had in his possession the invaluable Tears of the Quetzal diamond ring. He’d done everything he’d set out to do, but as he started at the grand entrance of the casino, he realized it wasn’t enough.

      That was the funny thing about revenge—just when you thought you’d achieved it, that gnawing hunger for more rose inside you.

      He felt it now, burgeoning in his chest, and he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Rage. It roared through him like a hot wind, stirring his need to inflict more pain, more heartache.

      He wasn’t through with the Rothchilds, not yet, not by a long shot. He wouldn’t be through until Harold Rothchild and his family fell to their knees and wept for all they had lost.

Chapter 1

      The evening began with such promise. The house was in order, the kids had been bathed and dressed in matching outfits and Jack Cortland was looking forward to his date.

      He’d met Heidi Gray in the grocery store on one of his rare trips into town. The sophisticated, attractive blonde had smiled at him, and before they’d left the produce section, they’d made a date. Since that time they’d been out three times, and tonight was the first time she would meet his children.

      Ten minutes before she was set to arrive, he sat down with his two sons on the sofa. Four-year-old Mick sat on one side of him and three-year-old David was on the other.

      “Now, boys, this is a really important night. I want you both to be on your best behavior and be nice to Miss Heidi when she gets here,” he said.

      “Heidi tighty whitey,” Mick exclaimed.

      “Heidi tighty whitey,” David echoed, and the two broke into gales of laughter.

      “Now, now, boys,” Jack said in an effort to gain control, but it was too late. Their giggles increased in volume, and Jack sat and waited until finally they’d worn their giggles out.

      “I do not want to hear you say that again,” Jack said as firmly as possible.

      David frowned at him. “Bad Jack,” he said. “No yelling.”

      “I wasn’t yelling,” Jack protested, and then sighed. “Why don’t the two of you go play in your room until our guest arrives.”

      He watched as they raced out of the living room and down the hallway toward the bedroom. When they disappeared out of sight, he released a sigh of exhaustion.

      The boys had been in his custody for a little over four months, ever since their mother, his ex-wife, Candace, had been murdered. And in those months he’d realized they were undisciplined, wild and had absolutely zero respect for him.

      Jack knew how to beat a rhythm on the drums to stir the blood. He could sing the rock and roll that was in his soul. He knew how to entertain a stadium of fans with his music. There had been a time not so long ago when he’d also known how to drink and drug himself into oblivion, but he didn’t know anything about parenting.

      He pulled himself up from the sofa and went into the kitchen, where the delicious scents of pot roast wafted in the air. Betty, his cook, stood before the sink, washing the last of the dishes before she left for the day.

      “Everything is done and in the oven waiting to go on the table,” she said as she turned away from the sink and dried her hands on a towel.

      “Sure you don’t want to stick around?” Jack asked hopefully.

      She gave him one of her dour gazes. “I told you when you hired me that I cook and that’s it. I don’t serve, I don’t clean house and I definitely don’t babysit.” She grabbed her purse from the top of the counter. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Cortland.”

      As she headed for the back door, Jack squashed the panic that threatened to rise in his chest. He told himself that the night was going to be a rousing success.

      He wandered into the dining room, where Betty had set the table with