by Wendy Wax
“Dustin?”
There was muffled female laughter in the background. A rustle of movement. Then Daniel was on the phone. “I don’t think that was an accurate description of what’s going on.”
“Oh? And what is going on there?” Kyra asked.
“First of all, the woman rubbing me is a masseuse. I pulled a muscle doing a stunt yesterday and I’m having a massage. Purely medicinal.”
There was more female laughter. Kyra felt a quick stab of jealousy, which she pushed aside. “Well, as long as everyone’s clothed and behaving themselves, I hope your muscle recovers. But I’m not okay with Dustin performing on camera. And I know you know that.”
“It was just a small cameo,” he rushed to reassure her. “They added a flashback sequence of my character as a small child and you have to admit he’s a dead ringer.”
“Still not okay. I’m serious, Daniel. We agreed that would never happen without a discussion.”
The doorbell rang downstairs.
“Won’t happen again,” he said way too smoothly as she turned to head for the stairs. “We’re having a great time together. I’ll deliver him back to you all in one piece before you know it.”
The doorbell sounded again; she hung up as she reached it and tucked the phone in her pocket. A UPS truck idled in the drive. The deliveryman held out an envelope addressed to her. He handed her a pen and asked for her signature.
Her mind still on the conversation with Daniel, she opened the envelope and stared down at the letter. Which was from the network legal department. It had been sent, it said, to inform them that they were in breach of contract. That they were not allowed to “quit” the series. And that if they did not come back to work, they would face legal action.
Kyra couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The words blurred and then came back into focus. Her head pounded in fury as she continued reading the document. Which claimed that the title Do Over did not belong to them. That they had all signed enforceable noncompetes. And that if they attempted to produce a renovation television show and sell it to another network, Kyra Singer, Madeline Singer, Avery Lawford, and Nicole Grant would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
Chapter Forty-two
Joe practically marched Nikki into Tampa FBI headquarters, signed them both in without comment, then deposited her in a chair in the first hallway they came to.
“What?” she snapped. “You’re not going to handcuff me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he growled. “And stay where you are. Do not move.” He turned his back, knocked on a closed office door, and disappeared inside.
As soon as he was out of sight, Nikki got up and went in search of a ladies’ room, glad Joe wasn’t there to comment. When he’d complained about the frequent stops during their interminable “road trip,” she’d informed him that she wouldn’t have to go to the bathroom so frequently if it weren’t for him. She’d then swept into the truck stop bathroom as regally as one could when one urgently needed to pee. Putting his angry face behind her had become almost as important as emptying her bladder.
The FBI bathroom would never be called lavish but it beat out most of the fast-food and truck stop bathrooms she’d visited over the last three days and afforded her a few minutes of much-needed privacy. Not to mention a brief respite from Joe Giraldi and his anger, which she’d countered with her own again and again until they’d built a wall of it between them as hard and unforgiving as stone. Whatever happened next, it was clear there would be no going back to what had been. Trust had been broken on both sides. She couldn’t imagine how they could possibly get beyond that.
She washed her hands and splashed water on her face. After a brief internal debate she pulled out her makeup bag and went to work on her face. Not because Joe would notice or even look at her, but because she suspected that when turning in $3.2 million in stolen cash to a government agency, a woman might want to don armor.
“There.” Her face still looked pale despite the foundation and blush, and the cover stick hadn’t completely eradicated the dark circles under her eyes, but the Visine had helped and so had the liner and mascara. A quick French braid hid her hair’s lack of sheen. She felt nothing like herself, but at least she resembled her.
“Nicole Grant?”
Nikki looked up and met the woman’s gaze in the bathroom mirror. She had short dark hair and a pixieish face. The black pantsuit and crisp white blouse identified her as a special agent.
“Guilty,” Nikki said. “On second thought, maybe I should clarify that.”
The woman smiled slightly. “No need. I’m Maura Hastings. I was sent by Agent Giraldi to make sure you hadn’t escaped.”
“Still here,” Nikki said. The knot of dread remained, but she was almost eager for this whole thing to be over. These past three days had been an agony. She’d understood Joe’s hurt and anger and knew that she deserved it. She even got the strategy—she’d been crazy to think she could just go retrieve the money and then either keep it, hand it over to Malcolm, or waltz into FBI headquarters to turn it in without coming under suspicion. Especially now that she knew the FBI and Joe had been aware of her visit with Malcolm and of what he’d asked her to do almost from the beginning. And yet he’d betrayed her equally in sneaking around, knowing things about her that he shouldn’t, that she wasn’t ready to share.
She’d clung to her anger and tried to give as good as she got. Still, she’d been unprepared for how much his distance would hurt. How awful it would feel not to share the same bed or even the same hotel room. How lonely it would be to sit so close to him in the confines of the Jag and be worlds apart.
“Without honesty and trust we have nothing,” was the only thing he’d said on the subject, and only after he’d finished berating her. “But I think those things go together.” He’d said this as if she were the only one who’d behaved badly. As if he weren’t the very definition of the pot calling the kettle black.
She came out of the ladies’ room to find him glowering at her. She glowered back.
“I’ve handed over the money to the special agent in charge,” he said, motioning to the office he’d disappeared into earlier. “You’re going to have to make a statement. I suggest you try to stick with the truth since all of your conversations and texts with Malcolm were recorded.” His words were razor sharp. His jaw and eyes hard. Nonetheless he’d managed to warn her.
The formal statement was nothing compared to the road trip she’d survived. When she’d finished she’d asked, “You’re sure that Malcolm’s life was not being threatened?”
Joe’s eyes glittered with anger, but he’d remained silent.
“We’re certain,” the agent in charge said. “He concocted the threat to get you to act. We have made certain that he won’t be accessing a cell phone again for a very long time. And he’s been moved to a somewhat less cushy location.”
Joe smiled with what she recognized as grim satisfaction. When the interview was over he walked her to her car, retrieved his bag, and handed her the keys. “Are you all right to drive?” he asked curtly. “If not, I can get someone to drive you to Bella Flora.”
“I’m fine. Thanks.” She looked up into his face, searching it for some sign of warmth, for a remnant of the love that had always seemed to shine out of his eyes and that she’d stupidly taken for granted.
Her eyes filled with tears. Again. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was and knew she should at least attempt to explain. But he’d rejected every one of her ill-formed apologies and she had no idea how to explain her fears let alone her actions. She barely understood them herself. She felt incredibly pathetic and tired as she got into the driver’s seat and lowered the window. God, she was tired. “So,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”
She put the car in gear. He didn’t step back and he hadn’t stopped glaring at her. “What?” she snapped. “Whatever you’re thi
nking just say it for heaven’s sake. I feel bad enough without all this silent condemnation.” Tears threatened again. She’d really had it with the tears.
“You feel bad?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “I’ve been trying to figure out how you could be pregnant and not tell me.” It was not a question. “Which led me to wonder if the reason you didn’t tell me is because I’m not the father.”
She blinked in surprise.
“I mean why else would a woman I love and have asked to marry me not share that information?” He put his hands on the edge of the car and leaned in. “Are the babies mine? Or did you sleep with someone else?”
The tears evaporated. Incinerated by the anger that flashed through her. “How can you ask that?”
His eyes blazed hot. He’d always been so calm and controlled, his emotions strong but held in check. “How can I not?” he snapped back. “I mean, I keep trying to understand how you could have not told me. And the only thing that comes anywhere close to explaining it is if I’m not the father.”
She clenched the wheel. She’d never wanted to slap someone as much as she wanted to slap his face now. “You can’t actually think I slept with someone else!”
“I don’t know,” he said. “The idea never occurred to me until I found out about your pregnancy on my own. Because you see, I never thought you were the kind of woman who would carry a man’s child and not tell him. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I find it a little challenging to know what you would and wouldn’t do.”
She turned the key in the ignition, gave it gas. The engine sprang to life. “They’re yours, all right, you sanctimonious asshole!” she shouted. “Courtesy of you and your gold-medal sperm!” She revved the engine, threw the car into gear. “I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a cheater. But if you want a paternity test, be my guest!”
A crowd of dark-suited, white-shirted agents had stopped to watch the altercation but Nikki didn’t care. They could all go to hell. Nikki mashed her foot down on the accelerator and felt the Jag surge away from the curb. It was her fondest hope that she’d managed to run over at least a few of Joe Giraldi’s toes in the process.
Avery paced Bella Flora. Then she paced the grounds that surrounded it. When more space was required, she paced the beach, covering it in long sweeping arcs and loops that she did not choose but which seemed to choose her. They had lost the Sunshine Hotel. They’d not only failed to complete it, they’d failed to save it. Soon it would be torn down. Bulldozed. Obliterated from the face of the earth. She felt its loss deep in the pit of her stomach and, oddly, in her heart. Because she had seen what it could be and she had believed that she could bring that vision to life. And she had failed.
As she paced and fretted, she imagined her parents turning over in their graves. She saw them shaking their heads in dismay, wondering where they’d gone wrong. Chase had stopped arguing with her, had given up trying to talk “sense” into her. Even Jeff, who had sat her down and tried to explain that not every building or structure was meant to be saved or even rehabilitated and that no one and nothing lasted forever, had thrown up his hands in frustration.
Intellectually, she understood that what they both said was true. Knew that she was being childish. And still she railed at the unfairness of it. The Sunshine Hotel had been their only opportunity, a perfect one at that, and she had let it slip through her fingers. Now they’d lost Do Over. The list of losses and mistakes tormented her. Kept her awake at night. A dozen times a day she decided to go to the Franklins and ask to present their case once more. Half a dozen times she picked up the phone. But she never made the call.
Because Annelise and Renée were entitled to change their mind. Entitled to tear it all down if they wanted to. And she needed to come to grips with the fact that there wasn’t a damned thing she could, or even should, do about it.
Maddie intercepted her as she paced past the jetty. “We’re going to do sunset out here on the beach. Can you help me get things set up?”
Avery looked up at the sky in surprise. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“No, you seem to be missing a lot of things. Chase called. He tried to reach you but he said your cell phone kept going to voice mail.”
Avery patted her pockets.
“It’s on the kitchen counter. I actually found it in the hamper. You might want to call and tell him you’re okay.”
Her eyes met Maddie’s.
“Lie if you have to. The man is worried about you.”
“Right.”
“Bring the pitcher of margaritas and the Cheez Doodles with you when you come.” Maddie gave her a gentle push. “Kyra and I will set up the chairs and a couple of small tables. And you might as well start trying to come up with a good thing or two.”
Nikki got stuck in rush-hour traffic on the Howard Frankland Bridge. She tried not to look at the faces of the other drivers who seemed so intent on getting back to homes and families and people who loved them.
Her eyes got damp. Again. Jesus.
Shortly after she’d sped away from FBI headquarters, her anger, which she had clung so tightly to, had begun to dissipate. She tried to reinflate it but she was too tired to do it justice. By the time she neared the Pinellas County side of the bridge, she felt needy and pathetic and as flat and rubbery as a spent balloon.
She took the Fourth Street exit off the interstate and went into a McDonald’s to use the bathroom. No longer eager to get back to Bella Flora, where there would undoubtedly be questions she did not want to answer, she ordered fries and an ice cream sundae for dinner, then took her time eating them. When traffic had died down she got back on the road but stayed on Fourth Street rather than getting back on I-75. Which meant she drove at a snail’s pace and stopped at every light.
By the time she got to Pass-a-Grille the sun was in full flight and beach traffic had dwindled. Those bent on watching the sunset were either already on the beach or headed there on foot.
Maddie’s and Avery’s cars were in the drive but when she dragged herself inside, the house felt empty. Dropping her bag at the foot of the stairs, she headed toward the kitchen. There she found Steve Singer with his hands in a wooden bowl and a book open on the counter in front of him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Kneading bread.”
“Why?” she asked without heat or real interest. “Tired of shrinking irreplaceable expensive clothing?”
He glared at her but it was child’s play after Joe’s steely looks.
“Where is everybody?”
“They’re out on the beach,” he said.
Too restless to go upstairs, she wandered outside and followed the sandy path toward the jetty. Maddie, Kyra, and Avery sat near a stand of dunes staring out over the Gulf.
“Well, look who finally decided to come back,” Avery said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Hello to you, too!” Nikki replied.
“Now, now,” Maddie said, offering Nikki a smile and getting up to give Nikki her seat. “Is everybody doing okay?” she asked quietly with a pointed look at Nikki’s stomach.
“Fit as a fiddle,” Nikki said as Maddie sat down on the cooler.
“I’m glad.” Maddie’s smile was tinged with relief, which made Nikki wonder just what Maddie thought she’d been up to. “Are you sure?”
“I think I’ll survive,” she said wearily before turning back to Avery. “What gives? Something crawl up your ass and die?”
“Maybe I’m wondering what makes you think you can just take off and disappear without telling anyone where you were going or when you’d be back.”
“And maybe I don’t remember signing articles of indenture. Or being put under house arrest.” Though God knew if Joe Giraldi had his way she’d probably be sharing a cell with her brother right now.
“You agreed to help,” Avery persisted.
“And I have. But I had something I had to take care of. Now I’m back. I don’t really need to take your shit,” Nikki said, her store of anger having apparently replenished itself. “Why don’t you just tell me what I missed?”
Maddie grimaced but didn’t intervene. Kyra sipped on a frothy red drink, but looked miles away. Which was beginning to look like an enviable location.
“Let me give you the short version,” Avery said. “We dug up a skeleton underneath one of the patios. It was Annelise’s mother. Annelise and Renée have decided to bulldoze the hotel. We will not be renovating.” She waved her half-empty glass for emphasis as she spoke. “And the network lawyers have informed us that we’re in breach of contract and that unless we come back and do the show the way they want it for the pittance we originally agreed to, they’re going to sue.”
“You’re joking,” Nikki said.
“Afraid not.” Avery drained the remainder of her drink.
“Here.” Kyra refilled Avery’s glass, then poured one for Nikki. “Strawberry margaritas,” she said as she placed the glass in Nikki’s hand. “I suggest you drink it quickly. You’re behind. But there’s another pitcher where that came from.”
Nikki looked down at the icy red mixture. Her mouth actually watered. “Thanks,” she said, reluctantly handing it back. “I can’t.”
“Now who’s joking?” Avery asked.
Nikki shifted in the chair trying to get comfortable. Her waistband was too tight and her bra no longer fit. She was in desperate need of a shower and possibly a new life. “Not me. Is there a bottled water in that cooler?”
“Since when?” Avery demanded, apparently seeing this as a personal affront.
“Nikki can’t drink alcohol right now,” Maddie said.
“Why not?” Avery’s tone was indignant; Kyra’s curious.
“Because I’m pregnant.”
Nikki’s admission was met with silence. Avery was the first to recover. For some reason she looked to Maddie for confirmation. “Is she serious?”