The House on Mermaid Point (3 page)

In the kitchen Deirdre was arranging crackers around a mound of pâté. Jeff Hardin sat at the kitchen table, his walker within easy reach. A bowl of fancy nuts and an opened bottle of red wine sat breathing on the counter.

“There.” Deirdre slid the plate of hors d’oeuvres closer to Jeff and untied her apron. She wore a periwinkle blue silk pantsuit that looked as if it had been dyed to match her eyes. She was built just as small and big-breasted as Avery, but the cut of her tunic top downplayed the D cup that dwelt beneath it. A pair of strappy sandals gave her an extra couple of inches.

Avery wore a pair of Daisy Dukes, a chopped-off
Do Over
T-shirt, and an ancient pair of Keds. Which just went to prove that the apple could fall far from the tree if it tried hard enough.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Deirdre said, giving Avery the once-over. “But there’s time if you want to shower and change.”

That had been Avery’s plan until Deirdre brought it up. “I’m good. Thanks.”

With a snort of laughter Chase reached in the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “Dad?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Chase handed his father a beer, then opened one for himself. He slathered pâté on a fancy cracker and popped it in his mouth. “Mm-mm.”

Deirdre beamed at him. Avery gritted her teeth and went to the pantry.

“Where are the Cheez Doodles?” she asked, scanning the shelves.

Deirdre raised an elegant eyebrow. “I believe we’re out.” She said this with a regretful tone that was no more convincing than Avery’s French accent. “But if you put them on the shopping list I’ll—”

“Forget to buy them. Again.”

“They turn everything they touch orange. There’s no telling what they do to your internal organs,” Deirdre said.

“I’m thirty-six years old. My internal organs belong to me. And you showed up on the scene way too late to influence my taste in food.”

Deirdre rubbed her arm where the bullet had gone in.

Avery rolled her eyes. “She does that every time I even think about disagreeing with her.”

“Which is pretty much all the time,” Deirdre said.

“My Cheez Doodle habit is my own business,” Avery pointed out.

“That’s true. But I think ‘habit’ is the operative word.” Deirdre’s chin jutted forward. Her hands fisted on her hips.

It was like looking in a freakin’ mirror.

There was a strangled laugh and Avery turned her attention to Jeff and Chase.

“Sorry,” Jeff said, smothering his smile. “I just never can get over how much you resemble each other when you square off like that.”

“Well, I think orange dye on a woman is kind of sexy,” Chase said. “Add a little sawdust and . . .” He managed to shrug and leer simultaneously. “I’m a goner.”

Jeff guffawed.

“Fine. Laugh all you want.” Avery settled on a bag of mini pretzels. Which was a poor substitute for the air-filled cheesiness of her favorite snack. She was munching the little twists when the doorbell rang. “I’ve got it.” She strode to the front door and pulled it open. Kyra stood on the front porch with Dustin in her arms. Maddie stood beside them. She was already hugging Maddie when she spotted movement on the sidewalk.

“Hallo, Avery!” The voice was loud. The accent British. The tone overly familiar. The tabloids had gone crazy over Kyra from the moment they’d discovered she was pregnant with Daniel Deranian’s child. It had only grown worse since Dustin was born. “Are Deirdre and Chase inside?”

The photographer was tall and lanky. A pack of paparazzi jostled one another behind him. They looked completely out of place on the modest, tree-lined street. Like a pack of wolves hunting sheep in a grocery store.

A digital flash went off. Avery fell back a step.

“Come on, Kyra, luv!” the Brit coaxed. “Just one clean shot and we’ll be on our way.”

“That’s Nigel and he’s lying,” Kyra said with a shake of her head. “Last week in Atlanta I was at a drive-through waiting for Dustin’s Happy Meal when I heard his voice on the speaker. I hesitated for just a second, because you don’t hear all that many English accents at a fast-food place and I’d already paid for our food. A whole herd of them jumped out from a bush right next to the cashier’s window.”

Another flash erupted. Avery looked up and the flash went off again. She had a brief vision of what she was—and wasn’t—wearing.

“Avery. Darlin’,” Nigel urged. “If you can just get her to turn around for . . .”

Avery grabbed Kyra’s free hand and pulled her the rest of the way into the foyer. Maddie tumbled in after her. Avery shoved the door closed behind them.

“I’m so sorry,” Kyra said. “I don’t even know where they came from. I didn’t see anybody tailing us down from Atlanta. Although there was this really homely woman wearing what looked like size-thirteen shoes in the stall next to me at the rest stop.” Kyra sighed. “That’s how bad it’s gotten. I’ve been reduced to checking out feet in stalls! But I thought we were safe. I didn’t even think about wearing a disguise. Plus there was no way I was making an eight-hour drive in a burqa.”

Dustin rubbed his eye sleepily. One side of his face showed signs of contact with what must have been a corduroy car seat. His dark curls looked smashed from sleep.

Chase and Deirdre came into the foyer. Maddie set down their overnight bags. “I need to get Dustin’s booster seat and Pack ’n Play out of the car.” She squared her shoulders and turned back to the door with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner about to face the firing squad.

“I’ll get them.” Chase took the minivan keys and offered a mock salute. “Cover me! If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, send reinforcements.”

“If I had a gun I’d gladly cover you,” Kyra said. “I don’t know how to get rid of them. I just keep praying that a real celebrity will show up to distract them.” She propped Dustin up in the crook of her arm. “I mean, where are Kim Kardashian and Lindsay Lohan when you really need them?”

In the kitchen Kyra set Dustin in Jeff’s lap, and the little boy stared gravely up at him. Dustin had his father’s Armenian coloring and movie star looks but a solemnity that was all his own. Chase made it back intact, set up the Pack ’n Play in the guest room, and joined them at the kitchen table, where wine had already been poured and plates were being dished up.

Deirdre stood next to her chair eating up the praise for her pompano, which had emerged from its paper bag moist and delicious. Avery nibbled at hers tentatively, reluctant to admit just how good it was. It was impossible to sit at a dinner table with Deirdre and not think about all the meals she and her father had soldiered through after Deirdre had left. She could still remember how careful they’d been not to look at Deirdre’s empty seat at the table; the echoing silence without Deirdre’s tales of the days spent on the interiors of the spec homes her father and Jeff Hardin were building at the time; how much she’d missed the tidbits from the Hollywood gossip magazines that Deirdre practically inhaled—a form of forewarning neither Avery nor her father had recognized until after Deirdre had emptied her closet and drawers, stuffed it all into her car, and left without a backward glance.

“Do you have any idea who the Florida Keys house belongs to?” Chase asked.

“No. And I still can’t believe they won’t even give us an address until we get down there,” Avery said.

“Believe it,” Kyra said. “Lisa Hogan and her crew are all about injecting as much angst as possible into the proceedings.”

“We’re lucky they even told us we were going to be in the Keys,” Maddie said. “We’re supposed to rendezvous at Mile Marker 82 tomorrow at four
P.M.
to get the rest of the instructions.”

They ate for a while in silence. Even Dustin seemed to love the fish, which he ate both scooped on his plastic spoon and with his fingers.

“Have you been back to Bella Flora?” Maddie asked Avery.

Avery set down her fork as all eyes turned to her.

They’d arrived for a final Christmas together at Bella Flora knowing only that the house had sold. On Christmas Day they’d discovered that their mystery buyer was Dustin’s movie star father and his equally famous—and very pissed-off—movie star wife, Tonja Kay.

“We went by when we were out on the boat once or twice,” Avery said.

“If Tonja Kay lays a hand on Bella Flora I won’t be responsible for my actions,” Kyra promised. The movie star had threatened to rip apart the first floor of the 1920s beauty to put in an indoor pool. An idea that was tantamount to putting a McDonald’s in the Taj Mahal. Or ripping out the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and replacing it with mirrors.

“I’m sure she was just joking,” Maddie said, although none of them had seen any evidence that Tonja Kay actually possessed a sense of humor.

Kyra shook her head. “Nothing that woman does would surprise me. She thinks that just because she’s a movie star she can get away with anything.”

“Lots of celebrities do,” Maddie said. “But I’m sure there are some less ‘entitled’ celebrities out there. It’s probably like how no one bothers to do stories about teenagers who help little old ladies across the street or volunteer in soup kitchens. The vandalism and acting badly make much better copy.”

“Right.” Kyra’s tone was skeptical. But then, she’d been thrown off her first movie set at Tonja Kay’s insistence. And they’d almost lost
Do Over
when Kyra had refused to let the movie star add Dustin to the Deranian-Kay menagerie permanently.

“Did everything look . . . okay?” Maddie asked.

“There were No Trespassing signs all over the place, and I think they’ve installed a security system. But there’s no way to protect that perimeter without screwing with the view. I can’t picture even Tonja Kay walling off one hundred fifty feet of prime waterfront,” Avery replied. “I didn’t see any signs that anyone had moved in.”

“Had they made any . . . changes?” Maddie asked.

“Nothing I could see from outside,” Avery said.

“It wasn’t from lack of trying,” Chase said. “She had her face pressed up so tight to the glass that if they could dust for nose prints, Avery would already be in custody.”

“Well, if she changes more than a paint color or two, she’ll have to answer to me,” Deirdre said.

“We could maybe slip in and see for sure,” Kyra said.

“I know you’re not suggesting breaking and entering,” Maddie said. “The last thing any of us needs is for the police or Kyra’s paparazzi to catch us at it.”

“Are you kidding? Lisa Hogan would cream her pants over that kind of press,” Deirdre said.

“Maybe Nicole could get Joe to help us,” Kyra suggested.

Nicole Grant had stayed in Miami with Joe Giraldi, the FBI agent who just over a year before had tried to use her to capture her felonious, Ponzi-perpetrating brother, Malcolm Dyer.

Avery perked up. “Joe’s a professional. He could get in and out without leaving a trace. They’d never know who did it.”

“Yes, I’m sure there’s a huge pool of potential suspects,” Chase said drily. “Hundreds of people who would break into Bella Flora seeking retribution for vengeful redecorating.”

“We could just drain the pool. Or fill it with shaving cream,” Kyra said, wiping Dustin’s face and fingers. “Maybe hang toilet paper or condoms from the reclinata palm in the backyard.” Her eyes were bright with mischief.

Maddie looked at her daughter. “We gave Bella Flora a new lease on life and she did the same for us. We’re not going to lift even a figurative finger against her. I won’t believe even Tonja Kay is petty enough to abuse her.”

Avery didn’t argue, though they all knew that Maddie viewed almost every glass as half-full. Avery also set her jaw and managed not to comment when Deirdre received a round of applause for the meal she’d prepared, but it wasn’t easy.

As a group, they cleared the table and did the dishes. One by one they headed off to pack or to sleep. A peek out the front window confirmed that Nigel and the other photographers had given up for the evening. If they were lucky they’d be on the road the next morning before any of the wolves came back.

Chase walked her outside to the stairs that led up to the garage apartment. The night sky was awash with stars. “I’ll miss you,” Chase said. “Given Dad’s condition I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to get down.”

“I know.” This was the thing about being involved with a single father and conscientious son who ran his own business. She was filled with admiration for all he juggled, but she suspected that once she moved out of his operational area she could easily become one juggling pin too many.

“We can Skype,” Chase said. “And, well, you know if you need me to consult I can . . .”

“I have my Florida contractor’s license now,” she reminded him, attempting to move the conversation from the personal to the professional. “I may want to run a few things by you now and again. But it’s crucial that the network understand who’s running the do-over.” Avery didn’t intend to hide behind baggy clothing this time. But she wasn’t going to give the network an opportunity to treat her like an airhead, either.

“There’s no weakness in getting another opinion or talking through a building plan. Our fathers did it for years,” Chase replied.

“That’s because neither of them were barely five feet tall or had blond hair, blue eyes, and a D chest. There are a whole lot of people, including Lisa Hogan, who can’t see past those things.”

“They’re morons,” Chase said. “But your face and your body are a part of you. A very attractive part.” He reached around and cupped her buttocks, pulling her close. “It’s difficult not to admire them.”

For a few moments she gave herself up to his admiration. But it was hard to stay in the present when tomorrow would be the beginning of yet another great unknown.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Deirdre,” she said, though this was only partially true.

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Mm-hm. I’m thinking about all the things she’ll try to cram in the Mini Cooper tomorrow morning. And the way she complained about her hair blowing all the way down to South Beach just because I had the convertible top down. The drive to that mile marker is a lot longer.”

“If that’s what you’re thinking about I’m definitely going to have to try harder.” He leaned down and kissed her with exaggerated thoroughness and sound effects. “
Now
what are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking that maybe Deirdre will decide she’d rather have the legroom in the minivan. I’m sure there’s room for her to go with Maddie and Kyra and Dustin.”

He shook his head. “And miss out on all that warmth and charm you shower on her? I don’t think so.”

“Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?”

Chase buried his face in the crook of her neck. His breath was warm against her skin. “Of course she can,” he said as his lips moved up her neck. “As long as at least a few of those dreams include me.”

•   •   •

Nicole Grant’s dreams that night were more like nightmares. Which was kind of amazing given how pleasant the evening had been. She and Joe had eaten dinner on the pool deck overlooking Biscayne Bay with the lights of South Beach shimmering in the background. They’d made love, and afterward she’d drifted off in his arms, content that after close to a year together Joe Giraldi continued to not only satisfy, but surprise her.

None of these pleasing realities had obliterated what apparently lurked in the Bates Motel of her subconscious. That night’s dream began, as it often did, with her making an entrance at some A-list party armored in vintage Valentino or classic Chanel. Walking through an expensive restaurant or football-field-sized living room, she nodded regally and smiled warmly at people who lived in the society columns or on the pages of
Variety
. Shoulders thrown back, head high, she strode through the bejeweled women and expensively tailored men, ignoring the whoosh of blood in her veins, the too-rapid beat of her heart, the yawning pit of insecurity in her stomach. People did not pay you a fortune to find them a mate, or even a date, if you looked or acted as if you needed the money.

For years she’d gotten away with the fictional past she’d created and the personal mystique she’d maintained. As the founder and owner of Heart Inc., she’d brokered matches that would make a leverage-buyout king weep with envy and delivered on requested personal attributes (and potential DNA), from IQ to bust size, that would have done a Nobel Prize–winning geneticist proud.

Her clients had been Greek grocery tycoons well beyond their prime who wanted young, firm flesh still well within its sell-by date, captains of industry looking for smart, but not
too
smart, blondes, brunettes, or redheads who possessed a laundry list of physical attributes, personality traits, and other intangibles, which Nicole had cataloged in her database and managed to provide.

In the process she’d built a name and a fortune. Both of which she’d lost when her brother’s Ponzi scheme had caused her to be plucked from the A-list party circuit like a tick from a pedigreed poodle.

The dream mirrored real life as the partygoers’ expressions slid from genial to knowing. Their greetings became barbed. Their eyebrows arched upward and the eyes beneath them narrowed. Their shoulders turned as cold as the peaks of the Himalayas.

Suddenly she was naked before her dream audience. Her vintage gown puddled in a heap at her feet. She shivered. Her bare flesh goose-bumped with embarrassment and shame. Every inch of her was exposed.

Nicole awoke naked but not cold. A soft breeze skimmed over her. Slowly she opened her eyes and saw the sheer bedroom curtains billow gently like sails filled with warm air and morning sunlight.

The whine of a Jet Ski and the more insistent buzz of a motorboat floated in on a salty breeze. Her eyes drifted closed. She did not want to get up. Or pack her things and load her car for the drive down to the Keys.

She could, in fact, lie here forever in Joe Giraldi’s bed.

That thought had her eyes flying open, her feet hitting the floor. She found her robe and pulled it on, then washed her face and brushed her teeth, careful not to look too closely in the mirror lest she see a glimmer of neediness reflected back at her.

It wouldn’t do to get too close or too comfortable.

There was the scrape of metal on the pool deck. Nicole poked her head outside.

Special Agent Joe Giraldi sat at the table they’d dined on the night before. His dark hair was still wet from the shower, but he was dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. A tie she’d bought him was knotted at his neck. FBI-issue sunglasses covered his probing brown eyes.

She could see her own reflection in the mirrored lenses as she approached.

“Good morning.” He smiled as she sat and tucked her bare feet up underneath her. Without asking he poured her a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table.

“I thought you’d already be gone,” she said. He was a financial crimes profiler and traveled often. “Didn’t you have an early flight out?”

“I got a later one.”