“I was a kid, Zander.”

“And I’ve been slipping you royalties on those songs for years.”

“But as it turns out,” said Devin softly, “not anywhere near my share.”

Zander turned away, searching for his glass, obviously forgetting he’d smashed it. “You wanted to be famous, you wanted to go where only I could take you,” he said irritably. Giving up on the glass, he took another toke. “Maybe legally you have a case, but morally I deserve the lion’s share of royalties. That’s why you’ve never challenged me before.”

“I never challenged you before because all I cared about was the next drink. Even sober it took a long time to believe you’d screw me over. Dammit, I trusted you.” Anguish threaded his voice. “You were my big brother.”

“I’m still your big brother,” Zander insisted. “I needed the money, Dev, or I’d never have cut back your payments.” He proffered the joint. Devin accepted it to slow Zander down. “This comeback tour is costing me a frickin’ fortune.”

“Is that why you’re considering letting our two biggest hits be used as soundtracks for commercials?”

His brother glanced over sharply. “Dimity told me,” said Devin. “‘Sweet Stuff’ and ‘Summer Daze’ will flog luxury cars and-wait, let’s savor the irony-vodka.”

“They’re my songs to do what I like with.”

“No, Zander, they’re our songs. And I want my name on them as cowriter so I can stop you destroying all we have left-our legacy. I can’t trust you anymore as a custodian.”

“And if I refuse?”

Sorry, Mom. “Then I’ll sue you and you’ll lose the deal, anyway. No one’s going to touch songs in dispute. And I’ll win, Zander, you know I will. I have original music scores, notes about suggested changes.”

“Dev,” his brother’s voice grew petulant, “if you do that then I can’t pay back what I owe you.”

Devin looked down at the joint in his hand. He wanted to stub it out, but that would only prompt Zander to light up another. The habit of looking out for his older brother would probably never die. “I’ll let you off the back payments if you commit to visiting Mom once a year. She misses you…I miss you.” I’ve missed you for ten years or more.

“Then why the hell are you trying to ruin me?”

“This isn’t about you…or me. Some of our songs are anthems-” he remembered what Rachel had called them “-the soundtrack of people’s lives. You want to be proud of something, then be proud of that. You can have Rage, you can promote the illusion that our band was all about you, but you’re not prostituting our musical legacy. I’ll fight for that, Zander. And I’ll fight for your sake as much as mine.”

Devin thought he saw a flash of comprehension, then his brother shook his head. “Still a frickin’ dreamer.” He took the joint from Devin. “Come back,” he said quietly, and Devin knew he understood all too well.

“The magic’s gone, Zand. We’re done.” He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Move on.”

“I can’t.” Zander looked out to the black horizon, the joint forgotten in his hand. “You’re right, in the end it’s not about the money. What would my life be if I never heard the roar of a full stadium screaming for me? Never again felt that loved? Some addictions can’t be cured.”

This was the first evidence of self-awareness Devin had ever seen. Even Peter Pan, it seemed, eventually had to acknowledge a world beyond Neverland. He tightened his grip on his brother’s shoulder.

Zander straightened, moved away. “I’ll get my lawyers onto it, but it’s my idea. Hell, I need the publicity if this tour’s ever going to get off the ground.”

“And Mom?”

“You weren’t the only reason I came home.”

“Good.”

Zander handed him the joint. “Now if you excuse me, my public awaits.”

Devin could see him take on the rock star’s mantle as he walked away, the shoulders back, the swagger coming into his stride. The rocker grin, the lovable rogue…the self-destructive ego.

He became aware of moisture on his cheeks; it must have started drizzling. But lifting his face, he saw the sky was still clear, brilliant with stars.

AT ELEVEN, Rachel tracked Mark to the lounge, an ostentatious space characterized by strong angles, vaulted ceilings and tubular-chrome-framed black couches, artfully placed on a pale marble floor that echoed with conversations.

He was sitting on the curved steps leading to the private quarters, eavesdropping on a couple of musicians. To her intense relief, Devin was nowhere in sight. “The cab driver’s here,” she said. “Ready to leave?”

He stood. “Let me go get Dev.”

Rachel laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sure he and Zander have a lot to finalize…and they can’t really talk with us around, can they?” As the only person at the party who didn’t want to spend time with Devin, she’d found it easy to evade him. And on the couple of occasions he’d run her to ground, she’d avoided a tête-à-tête by staying close to Mark or Katherine and her fiancé.

She might have accepted that Devin was rejoining Rage-the only topic of conversation for most of the partygoers-but Rachel wanted to perfect her happy face before he told her. From the reaction of the photographer on their arrival, that was going to take a lot more practice. And she couldn’t bear to give Devin even a hint of how much his impending departure hurt.

“Then I’ll just go tell him we’re leaving,” said Mark.

Rachel’s grip tightened on his sleeve. “It’s okay, I told Dimity to…” Her voice trailed off; she stepped closer and took another sniff, then recoiled. That smell. Acrid and unmistakable. “You’ve been smoking marijuana.”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down.” Mark pulled her up the stairs and into the corridor. “I haven’t.”

If anything, the smaller space only intensified the odor. The music faded away, the sound of conversation. Rachel’s gaze telescoped to Mark’s face, taking in each rapid blink, the guilty sideways shift of his eyes. “Who gave it to you?”

Instinctively, he glanced down the corridor toward the back of the house. “Rachel, you’re wrong-”

“Never mind.” Stalking down the hall, she wasn’t surprised to meet Zander coming the other way, a bottle of Scotch in his hand. “If it isn’t Ms. Robinson.”

He reeked of it. Rachel slammed him against the wall. “Did you give Mark a joint?”

Zander gaped at her in surprise, then flung back his head and laughed. And just like that, seventeen years of repressed maternal instincts were released in a tidal wave of anger. She lifted her fist.

Mark grabbed it. “Rachel, no.”

She’d spent the evening feeling sorry for herself when she should have been looking out for her son.

Zander read her expression and sobered. Augmenting Mark’s grip on her fist with his own, he held up his free hand to placate her. “I don’t offer drugs to children.” He gestured outside, beyond the French doors. “Ask Dev. He was with us.”

“No,” she said automatically. “He wouldn’t…” She turned in time to see Devin drop a joint on the stone patio and grind it under his boot. Inarticulate with shock, Rachel put a hand out to the wall to steady herself.

Why wouldn’t he? Because falling in love with him had blinded her to his flaws.

Zander shook his head. “Let me guess…You think you’re the woman to change him?”

Rachel pushed off the wall and he stepped behind her son. “C’mon, Mark, the grown-ups need to fight.” Half staggering, he steered the teenager back toward the party.

Devin was looking at the sky. He glanced her way when Rachel opened the French doors. “This is a nice surprise.” He sounded happy again. Not hard to figure out why. The son of a bitch hadn’t just pulled the wool over her eyes; he’d trussed her up on a spit and slow-roasted her over a burning fire.

“You smoked dope with Mark.” Her voice trembled with fury.

“Whoa, there.” He held up a hand. “Zander smoked. Mark and I were bystanders.”