by Wendy Wax
“There is an upside,” Deirdre said. “My phone’s been ringing all morning. Superior Pools saw all the publicity and they’re coming out in the next few days to resurface the pool and the pool deck, undoubtedly hoping to end up on camera even before the series airs. Walls of Windows has committed their entire work force to us today, which means they’ll be done in half the time.”
“Yeah, I noticed those snazzy uniforms they’re wearing,” Nicole said. “I bet you can read the company logo from all the way across the street.”
“Or at least from our sidewalk,” Madeline added.
“I also got a huge response to the call for gardeners that Kyra put out. A whole group of Miami Beach Botanical Garden volunteers are coming. I’m telling you, everybody wants to be a part of this now,” Deirdre said. “Honestly, if I’d known we’d get this kind of response, I would have danced on a table at an actor’s party sooner.”
Nicole noted her expression and knew that Deirdre wasn’t joking. Nicole’s phone rang; it took her several rings to get a hand on the power slide. She looked down at the screen and frowned.
Madeline followed her gaze. “Oh, it’s the Roman numeral. Aren’t you going to answer it?” she asked.
“No.” Nicole hit the mute button.
“But I thought he was the possible key to getting your business back on track. If you need more time off from the house to pursue things, I’m sure we can work it out.”
“No, there’s no point,” Nikki said, remembering her last meeting with Amherst. “He’s not a serious prospect. Rich people can be so strange.” A few moments later she deleted the message.
The shadow of movement out on the scaffolding drew her attention and she watched a window guy move into position at the second-floor level. A shaft of light poured through the glass transom and the chandelier glinted, shot through with gold.
“Gosh, I love that chandelier,” Maddie said, her eyes drawn by the sparkle of sunlight through the luminescent panels. “Did you hear anything from your friend in Chicago?”
“I got an e-mail this morning,” Deirdre replied. “He couldn’t find a Gentry on the current membership list, but I figure if she was about Millie’s age, she’d be what—eighty-five now—and most likely retired. He’s only been in Chicago for five or six years. He promised to ask some of the older members. And I thought maybe we should ask Max if he has any other information that might help us locate her. I just hate the thought of having to replace the whole chandelier.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The crowd that surrounded The Millicent did not disperse as the day wore on. In fact, from what Nicole could see out of her bedroom window when she finally went upstairs to shower and change, it had grown and become somewhat rowdier. She’d put on her bathing suit and was slipping shorts and a T-shirt over it when she heard shouts and looked out to see Max escorting Kyra and her stroller through the gate. A number of photographers followed Kyra on what had become a regular late-afternoon trek. Max stayed to entertain those who remained.
It had been a long day and getting out of the gate without running over a photographer proved challenging, but Nicole was so ready to get out on the boat with Giraldi that she’d decided that a certain amount of collateral damage was acceptable. She was almost disappointed when the photographers in her path managed to leap out of the Jag’s way.
On the MacArthur Causeway she followed her GPS’s prompts past Star Island with its unsettling memories of her meeting with Parker Amherst. Not for the first time she wondered if her disappointment and desperation had fueled her imagination and allowed it to get the better of her.
She was still debating this when she turned onto Palm Island then followed the GPS’s prompts across the small bridge to Hibiscus Island. Giraldi’s house was one of the smaller homes on the oval-shaped strip of land, an unpretentious one-story with stucco walls and a barrel-tile roof.
“Welcome,” he said as he ushered her into a far more contemporary interior than she’d expected.
“Thanks,” she said, stepping onto the dark wood floors and taking in the high-ceilinged, open space. The living area was to her right. A beautifully updated kitchen with concrete countertops and stainless-steel appliances bled into an equally large dining area to her left. The back wall, composed of floor-to-ceiling glass and windows provided an unimpeded view over the pool and dock to the gentle swell of Biscayne Bay.
“Wow,” Nikki said, her gaze fixed on the water and the glint of cars moving on a causeway beyond. “This is fabulous. How do you make yourself leave?”
“It’s not easy,” he said. “I was really lucky to stumble on this house when I moved down. The owner had just finished the renovation, but he was upside down on his mortgage. He just wanted out.”
She looked at the living room, which was defined by an earth-toned area rug and anchored by a tobacco-colored leather sofa and two tweedy club chairs. A flat-screen TV took up most of the only solid wall, but bookcases had been built around it and they were jam-packed with books, all of which appeared to have been read and not just placed for effect. The decor was sophisticated, with brightly colored modern art on the living-and dining-area walls, but there were cozier touches too: a hand-knit throw draped over one of the club chairs, a stack of well-thumbed magazines teetered on the coffee table.
A collection of framed photos covered the wood-and-glass sofa table and Nicole moved closer to look at them. She saw Giraldi with what she assumed were his parents and siblings at food-laden tables and with arms slung around one another. There were others taken on ski slopes and on beaches. It was the ones of Giraldi with babies cradled in his strong arms and older children smiling beside him or holding on to his pant legs that made her realize for the first time that Special Agent Joe Giraldi had a life outside his work. A life that, unlike her own, was filled with family and friends.
She picked up a photo of Giraldi holding a gap-toothed child upside down by the ankles as if he were about to drop him on his head. “One of my nephews,” Giraldi said.
She turned to another of what appeared to be a young Giraldi and an even younger little girl on a boat. He was focused on the fishing line and hook in his hands while she was staring up at him adoringly. An older version of Giraldi looked on.
“Me and my younger sister, Maria, on our dad’s boat. To this day she only fishes if someone else will bait her hook.”
Nicole thought about her own childhood, or lack thereof.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
“Of course.” She turned from the photos and smiled. “Do we have time for a tour?”
“There’s not a lot more to see,” he said. “But there’s a half bath right here off the kitchen.” He pointed to a door on the opposite wall then walked her to a bedroom that had a queen-size bed and a sofa sleeper. “I’ve crammed whole families into this space,” he said. “But it doubles as a home office.” He gestured to the simple desk, with a laptop open on it. A pair of filing cabinets and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, this one clearly dedicated to work-related reading, had been built into a corner. The space was completed by a small bathroom and closet.
The other bedroom was the master, a clean, uncluttered space done in shades of gray that were masculine without veering into macho. Like the living area, it commanded a view of the pool and the water. The king-size bed had been positioned to take advantage of that view. For just a moment Nicole allowed herself to imagine falling asleep beside the agent and waking up beside him here.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?” she said, startled out of her reverie.
“Are you ready to get out on the boat? I can show you Palm, Hibiscus, and Star Island from the water and then I thought we might anchor to watch the sunset. I’ve got a cooler on board.”
“Sounds great,” she said, following him out the French doors and past the pool to the dock, where a bright red-and-white cigarette-shaped boat was tied up.
Giraldi handed her onto the boat and sta
rted up the motors. Quickly and with no wasted movement, he untied the lines and pulled smoothly away from the dock.
The breeze was warm off the water, and when Giraldi pulled off his T-shirt, Nicole did the same, glad she’d worn her bathing suit underneath. The air and sun caressed her bare skin and teased at the ties of her bikini top. She could see her reflection in Giraldi’s sunglasses and saw her hair tossing in the wind and the smile stretched across her face. She’d been on far larger boats, ones so large they needed captains and crews, and had even cruised the Mediterranean on one famous client’s yacht. But for once she felt no need to act as if she wasn’t impressed. In fact, she felt no need to act at all. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes so that she could enjoy the weakening rays of the sun and listen to Giraldi’s commentary, his voice pitched to be heard above the boat’s powerful engines. She only opened them when he slowed to point out some of the larger and more interesting homes on Palm Island, including a Spanish-style estate that had once belonged to Al Capone. A name that he admitted was near and dear to any FBI agent’s heart.
It was only when they began their circuit of Star Island that Nikki felt her shoulders tense. “That’s your pal Parker Amherst’s home.” Giraldi gestured toward a dock and a massive expanse of seawall. She could see the tops of palm trees, the ocher-colored stucco, and the gabled roof. “At least for the moment.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Amherst’s father died a year or so ago, and I understand the son is pretty close to broke,” Giraldi replied. “Which may account for his squirrelly behavior.”
And his reluctance to pay the expected retainer. “I take it you went ahead with that background check,” she said.
He shrugged. “I didn’t dig too deep, but information is often the best weapon available. The man’s not used to being without money and I’m not sure how readily he’s going to adapt.”
“About as readily as the dinosaurs, from what I could see,” Nikki said. “I went there intending to walk out with a check and a signed contract.”
“And did you?” Giraldi was watching her carefully. And she happened to know he had a highly effective bullshit-o-meter.
“No,” she admitted. “It was clear we were the only people in that house, which was kind of creepy. When I realized he wasn’t going to be a client, I left.” This was the truth as far as it went; Giraldi did not need to know that she’d practically knocked the front door down in her haste to get out. Or that she’d already spent far more time than she should have wondering if her imagination had upped the creep factor and caused her to overreact.
She watched Giraldi’s face as he turned the boat away from the island and out into the bay. He pushed forward on the throttle and the boat began to pick up speed. After another few turns they were headed directly into the sun, which was turning a reddish gold that glinted off the skyscrapers in downtown Miami.
“At the risk of forcing you to do just the opposite, I hope you’ll keep your distance from Amherst. The guy is under a lot of pressure. Sometimes people under that kind of pressure do really bizarre things.”
“Believe me, I’m finished with Parker Amherst the Fourth,” Nicole said. Or she would be as soon as he got the message and stopped calling her.
Giraldi studied her face for a moment. She imagined the BS-o-meter clanging loudly.
“Seriously, I’m a big girl,” she said, putting the unfocused look in Amherst’s eyes out of her mind. “And I’m used to taking care of myself.”
“I get that,” he said, cutting the engine. “Believe me, I’ve noticed just how grown up you are.” His gaze lingered for a moment on the bikini top she wore. “You’re also smart and competent. But not everyone is what they seem to be.”
“Duly noted,” she said.
“Okay, then.” The boat drifted out of the channel. “There’s a bottle of white wine in the cooler down below and a corkscrew on the counter. Do you mind pouring us something to drink while I drop anchor?”
She came up on deck with two glasses of wine and joined him on the cushioned back bench, which ran the width of the boat. It was quiet out on the water. They waved to the occasional passing boat and bobbed lazily in each passing wake.
Giraldi slid an arm around her shoulders and she shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
She shook her head, not wanting to admit that it was his touch that had caused her goose bumps.
“Anything new on the search for Max’s son?” he asked.
“Not really. We haven’t even been able to find Millie’s designer friend, Pamela Gentry. Deirdre thought the woman might be able to point her to the artist who created the foyer chandelier. It got broken and needs to be repaired or replaced.” She took a sip of wine and sank further into Giraldi’s side, enjoying the warmth of him. She breathed in the air and Giraldi’s warm, musky scent. “So far we don’t look like particularly gifted sleuths.”
“You do have a lot of other fine qualities,” he said, pulling her closer.
Their gazes remained on the red ball of the sun as it inched toward the water, but they were hyperaware of each other. The sunset was spectacular and the wine first rate, but it was Joe Giraldi who created the warm glow Nicole felt deep in her belly. When he dropped his head to kiss her in the waning light, she gave herself up to it completely and the glow grew warmer. He broke the kiss to look more deeply into her eyes. Whatever he saw there had him pressing her back into the cushion and his mouth moving more insistently on hers.
The boat rocked gently beneath them as he explored her mouth with his. She heard another boat approaching and he went still for a moment as it passed. When the boat’s wake had died down, he raised his head and rose up on his elbows.
Nicole felt his absence keenly. He’d be shocked to know just how much. Or how long it had been since she’d been so eager to have sex with someone. Her life had been in shambles for so long that sex was barely a distant memory.
“I want you, Nicole,” he said simply. “And unless I’m misreading things, I think the feeling’s mutual.”
She realized with some surprise that she had no interest in arguing. If that boat hadn’t passed, they would probably be making love right now. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but she was no longer thinking “if” but “when.” A small purr of desire sounded deep in her throat.
He laughed softly, the sound an even bigger turn-on than the broad chest that had pressed against her and the warmth of his lips moving on hers.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said. “But I’m thinking I’d like some time and some privacy. Anything that takes place out here between passing boats won’t be either of those things.”
“How long will it take us to get back to your place?” she whispered.
“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going anywhere,” he said.
“And if I stop?” she asked, although she wasn’t sure she could.
“We’ll be there in ten minutes.” He’d barely finished speaking before he’d turned the key in the ignition and begun hauling the anchor into the boat. A heartbeat or two later he was standing behind the wheel, jamming the throttle down. When the boat leveled out, he reached for her and drew her up in front of him, bracing her between his body and the steering wheel, tucking the top of her head under his chin as the boat skimmed across the water, following a path of dancing moonbeams.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Maddie paced the house, glancing out each window she passed hoping for some sight of Kyra returning with Dustin from their daily walk—walks on which Maddie was no longer invited and during which she suspected Kyra was taking her son to spend time with his father. What she saw was photographers, though the number had begun to dwindle. She didn’t know how many shots of Kyra and Dustin and the rest of them would constitute “enough,” but she sincerely hoped they were close to that number.
At the moment the guys were out in the pool house. Avery and Deirdre were down in
the kitchen discussing the upcoming installation and Nicole was out. Madeline wished she were out too, but she had nowhere to go and no one to go there with. She had no reason to brave the camera-wielding loiterers alone. How pathetic was that?
She went downstairs and paced the first floor, avoiding the kitchen, where Avery and Deirdre’s discussion had taken on an argumentative tone. Maddie sighed at the irony. It was largely because of Avery and Deridre’s unique skills and their collaboration that The Millicent was now cleaner, lighter, and healthier, her deadweight removed like unneeded ballast on a ship, and yet their relationship still foundered; the mother-daughter bond could be a lifeline, but sometimes that line was too frayed to hold.
Madeline ran a hand over a living room wall and contemplated Mario Dante’s work, noting how skillfully he’d blended the new plaster with the old. Soon a new coat of paint would hide his craftsmanship, but because of all of them, The Millicent would be ready for her next voyage, whatever that might entail.
Her cell phone rang shrill in the quiet and startled Madeline out of her musings. She glanced down at the screen, but the phone number, which had an area code she didn’t recognize, was unfamiliar. Caller ID said only “private caller.” Eager for a distraction, she answered. And immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Are you there or aren’t you?” the voice, which Madeline had hoped to never hear again, demanded.
For a long moment she debated whether she could just hang up without speaking and pretend she hadn’t really answered.
“I know you’re there. I can hear you fucking breathing!”
If there had been any doubt about who was on the other end, the f-bomb eliminated it. Tonja Kay’s voice, which was so seductive on a movie screen, tended toward vile and nasty in real life.
“I’m fuckin’ pissed off, Maddie,” she said. “That is what they call you, isn’t it?”
Maddie didn’t respond. But she was starting to feel a little bit pissed off herself.