“A wonderfully heartwarming, compelling story” ( Romantic Times Book Reviews ) about two very different brothers and the one woman who loved them both from New York Times bestselling author Fern Michaels. Handsome, rich, and adored by millions, Ricky Lam was a golden boy—with a dark side. The substance-addicted superstar had hit rock bottom, but luckily, his business manager and older brother, Philip, forced him into a rehab clinic—a move that created an irreparable rift between them. Years later, however, when tragedy strikes, Ricky dedicates himself to Philip’s dream: constructing a unique resort in South Carolina called the Crown Jewel. Stepping into his brother’s shoes, Ricky encounters unsettling surprises, one of which is an amazing woman, his sister-in-law Roxy, who leads him to the mystery at the center of his brother’s life…and into a passionate love affair. As Ricky attempts to discover the brother he loved but never truly knew, he must settle a grave injustice committed decades ago—even if it means risking his fame, his fortune, and his heart. Publishers Weekly Fern Michaels "shines!" New York Times bestselling author Fern Michaels has a passion for romance, often with a dash of suspense and drama. It stems from her other joys in life—her family, animals, and historic home. She is usually found in South Carolina, where she is either tapping out stories on her computer, rescuing or supporting animal organizations, or dabbling in some kind of historical restoration. Chapter 1 Hollywood, California Fifteen Years Later Ricky Lam, idol to millions of fans, jammed his hands into his pockets as he strolled the grounds of his palatial Hollywood estate. He looked around, appreciating the beauty of the well-pruned shrubs, the brilliant flowers, and the brick paths that led to a gazebo at the far end of the grounds. All thanks to his acting skills and his brother's wise investment strategies. He picked a delicate, crimson flower, his fingers caressing its silky petals. He shouldn't have picked it. It would die soon. He wished he had left it on the bush. He hurried into the house and stuck it into a glass of water. The house was state-of-the-art, befitting his star power in the movie industry. At forty-three, he was in top form. With two mini face-lifts under his belt, he could still hold his own with the young studs arriving in Hollywood in droves. He had a tinge of gray at his temples these days, but the studio expertly covered it up. He still had the same dark brown bedroom eyes, the same lean muscular body that had helped make him famous. He was still a hunk. Variety said he was still the Platinum Boy. They said he had it all. If they only knew. He was probably the loneliest man in all of California. He had one close friend, his stuntman, Ted Lymen. And, of course, Philly. He could never discount Philly. He was where he was today because of his brother. But Philly was not his friend. Philly wasn't even his mentor. Philly was his warden. His relationship with Philly had never been the same after he'd returned from the exclusive addiction clinic fifteen years earlier. Instead of treating him as a brother, Philly had reduced their relationship to that of business manager and client, sometimes even warden and prisoner. Oh, they still met for dinner once or twice a year, usually at some out-of-the-way restaurant. Conversation was always strained as Philly smoked and drank, and Ricky did neither. They still went to an occasional ball game together, and Philly even came on the set and watched him work when he was in town. But it wasn't the same. It would never be the same again, and they both knew it. It was an accept-it-or-reject-it relationship. Ricky chose to accept it. No matter what he did, no matter what he said, he hadn't been able to recapture the old relationship. Secretly, he thought Philly was waiting for him to screw up. And, like the stupid ass he was, Ricky wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He never wanted to see that look of disgust in his brother's face again. Never, ever. In the beginning, when he had first returned from the clinic, Ricky had blamed Roxy because he needed someone to blame. Fifteen years later, he laid the blame right where it belonged, on his own shoulders. In the dark, late at night, when no one was around, he prayed that Philly would forgive him and throw his arms around his shoulders, and say, "Let's let bygones be bygones." It hadn't happened, and it wasn't going to happen. He knew that now. Fifteen years of being a straight arrow wasn't enough to satisfy Philly. Ricky flopped down on a custom-crafted chair in the living room, his favorite, and picked up a script. It was untitled. What kind of scriptwriter doesn't give his work a title? He was supposed to read it, decide if it was worthy of his talent, then let his agent and the front office know if he was willing to negotiate. He tossed the script back onto the table. Tomorrow was the final wra