Page 85 of Ten Beach Road

“Great. Thanks.” Avery handed her a glass of iced tea and watched as Nicole drained it, then held the empty glass to her neck and cheek. Maybe theNational Enquirerwould like to run a shot of a former dating guru reduced to refinishing doors in ninety-five-degree heat with one hundred percent humidity. “We can’t really take care of the pool until we have these steam heat pipes taken care of; they run awfully close to each other.”

“I’d give everything I own and then some if that pool actually had water in it right now,” Nicole said. She was so ready to take the Nestea plunge.

“Where’s Giraldi?” Avery asked.

“He went down to the beach for a swim.”

“Smart guy. And now’s the time. In another few weeks it’ll feel like bath water.”

Giraldi came up the beach path still wet from his swim, his dark hair slicked back, water sluicing down his beautiful chest and muscled legs.

“Wow,” Avery said, waving to him before she went back to whatever she’d been doing in the pool house.

Wow was right, Nicole thought. Even compared to the social and Hollywood elite she’d dealt with over the years, Giraldi was a standout. Too bad he was only here for Malcolm. And to expose her if necessary.

“Come over here and drip on me a little,” she directed.

He obliged, not only dripping but shaking himself off like a dog.

“Ahhhh.” The droplets were cool, her skin so hot she thought she heard a slight sizzle. She smiled. Maybe if she got someone from Tim’s company down here she should get them to check out her personal thermostat. It seemed to run a little too hot whenever the FBI agent was near. “That feels good.”

“There’s a whole Gulf full of it right over there.” He motioned past the gauntlet of photographers.

Staring at them staring at her, she felt like an animal on exhibit at the zoo.

“I like salt with my margaritas,” she said. “Not in my bodies of water.”

He smiled and one of the paps aimed a camera their way. “Hey, Nicole! Who’s your friend?” he shouted.

For a fraction of a second she considered telling him who Giraldi was and why he was there. So that if Malcolm was watching he’d know to keep his distance. Except, of course, that that would expose her to far worse than just the anger of her partners.

Giraldi shot her a look. “Those people are disgusting. They’ve already gotten shots of Kyra, and the story about her and Deranian is out. I don’t know what the hell they’re still hanging around for. But they’re screwing up my surveillance.”

It seemed being thwarted didn’t agree with Giraldi. She knew exactly how he felt.

“Everybody here except you and Madeline are ‘names’ of some kind,” she said. “And I guess Maddie is the mother of a ‘name.’ I don’t think they’re going anywhere until people get tired of the story. Or Daniel Deranian actually shows up.”

“Do you think that could happen?” He didn’t sound at all happy about the prospect.

“I don’t know,” Nikki said. “My experience tells me no. But Kyra seems pretty convinced.”

Giraldi shook his head, but no water sprayed her way. In the few minutes they’d been talking all signs of his swim had evaporated. “Bottom line,” he said. “I need them out of here. If they don’t lose interest on their own, I’ll have to help them along. There’s no way in hell your brother’s going to try to make contact with you with this crowd around.”

They went back to work, Nikki hot and sticky with sweat, her hands slippery on the brush, Giraldi bare-chested and sure-handed. He couldn’t have been more certain or determined. And as it turned out, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

That night’s YouTube posting was titled “Paparazzi in Paradise.” The video, which Kyra had shot almost entirely inside Bella Flora looking out, was cut to the Jimmy Buffett song “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

There were the usual shots of the crew working on the house: Nicole and Joe side by side beneath the reclinada, stopping only long enough to study one another or to argue. Avery and Chase in the kitchen alternately glaring at each other and getting the eyebrow from Deirdre.

Umberto’s putty knife caressing Bella Flora’s thickly textured walls as he repaired them, Robby cutting an imaginary ribbon to the master bathroom, Maddie stoically working her way through crystal after crystal—the dunk in the ammonia and water bowl, the scrubbing, the bathing in clear water, the hand drying. The light fixture itself hung denuded of its crystals, the strength behind the shimmer. Like a peek into the secret mechanical tunnels at Disney World.

Each of the work shots was intercut with a shot of their personal paparazzi. The fat ones, the tall ones, the land and the sea ones. Each and every one of them had multiple cameras laced around his neck. Each and every one watched and waited. Occasionally one of them shouted in hope that something, anything, would finally happen.

When she viewed it, Nicole gave it only two stars, not at all happy with being caught staring at Giraldi’s bare chest. Avery would have given it three except that she said she had a feeling she looked like Miss Piggy, what with the fists on her hips and the way she had to stare up at Chase when they argued.

Deirdre professed to love it. But then she was in full makeup, with her hair in place, and hadn’t been caught on camera staring at anyone.

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