CHAPTER ONE

      STACEY JACKSON WAS nobody’s plaything. She reminded herself of that as she pressed a knuckle to the corner of her left eye and stopped dead the spring of hot, fat tears that swelled there. She was nobody’s plaything and she was nobody’s fool. And she was not going to apologise to any man—best customer included—for saying so.

      So she’d lose her job. Again. But she was getting tired of Decker’s Casino anyway. The late nights, the long shifts, the Perma-smile—being a croupier was exhausting.

      And if that wasn’t bad enough, being made to wear this stupid dress was the last straw.

      If you could even call it that. Some strips of fabric held together by luck and pulled apart by filthy imaginations.

      It made her look more like a hooker than Bruce’s private dancers—which she’d told him as soon as she’d seen it. He’d told her to shut her mouth and get on with it. Which she had—she needed the money. But the minute she’d leaned across the roulette wheel, right in front of him and his sleazy customers, she’d seen their hungry glances and felt a prickle of anger race up her spine. And then her mouth had gone into gear.

      Didn’t it always? And it always ended the same way.

      Stacey lifted her finger and saw that her cats’ eye liquid eyeliner was blurred now. She fished in the purse that dangled from her wrist, pulled out the pencil and slicked it back into place like the expert she was. Lipstick next—and then she stared at her face. The one that had got her into so much trouble over the years. She was twenty-six, and the hard times still weren’t showing, but how much longer could she really expect to cash in on it? It had got her the job here at Decker’s—and every other job before that. It wasn’t that she wanted to look bad! But would it hurt for people to take her a little more seriously and see more than just a piece of ass and a pair of double Ds?

      Her blue eyes flashed defiantly. Her father’s eyes.

      ‘You have to love yourself before anyone else will love you,’ he had said. Easy for him. His last act of love had been to ruffle her hair, hop up into his trailer and take the interstate to As Far Away from Here as Possible.

      Stacey bit down on her lip to scorch the memory. The last thing she could afford was any sentimentality. She was going to clear out right now. She wouldn’t wait around to be fired. Bruce could roll his own damn dice. She’d walk out, collect her stuff from that crummy apartment and get a bus to New York City.

      Why not? She’d tried her hand at Atlantic City, and she’d tried her hand on the cruise ships. There had to be somewhere in this world she’d fit in. Because one thing was for sure—there was no way she was going back to the End of the World, Long Island, until she’d done something to put the gossips in their place.

      She pressed her lips together and checked her teeth for lipstick.

      Yep, when she rolled back into Montauk she was going to be settled, sorted and sane. She was going to have a great job and a nice apartment. And a boyfriend, maybe. A nice, ordinary guy who worked hard and had good values. Dependable and decent. A man who would cherish her and look after her. No big car, no big money. No hotshot, no over-achiever. Definitely no high-roller.

      But first she needed to get out of here.

      She rubbed her teeth with her finger, smoothed and patted her hair, and readjusted the straps across her chest. She opened the door and took five steps across the dark cabaret floor.

      Glasses were piled up at the corner of the bar, the gantry was lit from below, and the stark scent of booze and despair was all around. It seemed so rancid now, but she’d be the first to admit that she’d ignored the truth about Bruce running things in ‘a certain way’. To him, everything and everyone was a commodity. Nobody and nothing mattered. There had to be more to life than rolling dice for a man like him.

      She tiptoed past the door of the private casino, where he was waiting, and caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored doors. At least the dress had a designer label—she would be able to sell it in a heartbeat. And she would—as soon as she got to New York. It would make up for some of the back pay and pooled tips she was owed, because she sure wasn’t going to get any of that now.

      Ahead was the sunken black mat that declared its seedy welcome to Decker’s Casino. She stepped on it and consciously ground the ball of her foot into his name. The automatic doors slid open and she slipped out and down the short flight of steps onto the street.

      It had been a crisp, cold night when she’d entered and now it was a hot, clear day. She held a hand up to shield her eyes and felt sunbeams dance on her skin. The sensation of heat warmed more than just her bare arms—being out in the air, in the light, felt...free. But she wasn’t dumb enough to imagine she was anywhere close to being in the clear. Not with no job and a twenty grand debt to pay off, courtesy of one Marilyn Jane Jackson—her mother.

      She couldn’t criticise her—not in a million years. Her mother was proud. She’d never ask for help. And Stacey knew all she’d have been trying to do was put on a show for ‘those mean-mouthed gossips’. New curtains and new clothes. Stacey knew exactly where all those crazy ideas had come from. With no man in her life her mother had lost sight of the important things. She didn’t judge her. God knew there were enough judges sitting on their porches in Montauk.

      ‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’

      Damn, her five-minute window of opportunity was closed. She glanced back and there was Bruce himself, like a raging pink-faced bull, standing at the top of the steps.

      She spun round.

      ‘Get back here now—you’ve got to earn that dress.’

      Despite all her big talk, Stacey felt her heart thunder. Bruce was a scary guy, and no one ever spoke back to him—least of all a woman. She’d given him both barrels in front of everybody before she’d run off to the bathroom. Staff. Customers. His horrible henchmen. No, this was not good at all.

      She didn’t need to look to know that he had started down the steps. The pedestrian light flashed its Don’t Walk warning, but what else could she do?

      She ran.

      Horns sounded and cries went up. Her heel caught in the black jersey of the gown. Fleetingly she wondered how much she’d lose off the resale value, but then the gleaming black hood of a limousine seared her vision and the sense of impact crashed like cymbals in her mind.

      Her thigh... Her knee... But miraculously as she slid down to the ground nothing else seemed to have been hit. She stumbled forward through more horns and cries and lines of cars revving and moving, and only then did she see the man.

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