Joe topped off their coffees. She watched the subtle play of muscle across his bare chest and arm as he set down the carafe.

“My family’s coming down for the Fourth of July.” He buttered a piece of toast, added jelly. “Everyone’s hoping you’ll be there.” His tone was casual, but she saw the slight tightening of his jaw, the “tell” that this mattered to him. He tried, but she knew he didn’t understand how alien she found it in the bosom of his gregarious Italian family.

“I’m not sure we’ll be off that weekend.” She reached for a piece of toast she had no interest in eating so that she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“They’re not axe murderers, you know,” he said quietly. “They really like you.”

“And I like them. They’re lovely people.” She carefully buttered the toast. “They couldn’t be nicer. But your mother asked me when I’m going to make an honest man of you.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing the answer to that one myself.” His tone was wry.

“Then your grandmother plucked a hair from my head to use in an ancient family love potion. And your sister threatened to make me a pair of cement overshoes if I hurt you.”

There was a flash of white teeth. “Deena’s watched one too many episodes of The Sopranos. We’re Italian but I’m pretty sure the FBI background check confirmed that we’re not ‘connected.’” He took the sagging piece of toast from her hand and set it on her plate. “I’d watch out for Nonna Sofia, though. Her potions are pretty powerful. Now that she’s pushing ninety she sometimes gets confused. I think she once accidentally brought two distant male cousins in Sicily together. Which is something neither of their mothers appreciated.”

His dry delivery made her laugh. “I’m just not a spend-the-weekend-with-a-man’s-family kind of person.”

“Is that right?” he asked. His tone said he didn’t believe her. But then, the FBI didn’t train its agents to fold at the first sign of resistance. Or even the second.

Eager to change the subject, she added cream and sugar to her coffee and then told him that she was thinking about contacting the publisher who’d asked her to write her account of her and Malcolm’s childhood and how it might have led to his crime.

Giraldi didn’t respond.

She looked up. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

“I saw Malcolm. He, um, sent his regards.”

“Did he?” She hadn’t seen her brother since she’d helped Joe put him behind bars in a correctional facility for the criminally selfish. Where he belonged.

“He’s been offered a significant advance to write his own account. He’s already started.”

She shook her head. He’d stolen everything else. Was he planning to steal this last opportunity to make enough money to get back on her feet? “But I thought criminals weren’t allowed to profit from their crimes.”

“They’re not. But he’s claiming that the advance and any royalties will go to pay back his victims.”

Jesus. Nicole could only imagine the pittance she, Avery, Maddie, and the hundreds of other victims would end up with. She didn’t believe for a second that his reasons for writing what would certainly be an unflattering portrayal of everyone but him could be remotely altruistic. “You don’t believe that, do you? You don’t believe that his intentions are honorable.”

“No.” Giraldi’s face hardened. In his quest to bring Malcolm to justice he’d seen firsthand the hundreds of families and charitable institutions devastated by Malcolm’s Ponzi scheme. “But there’s no telling what a judge might believe. Or, more to the point, how it might look to a parole review board.”

Chapter Twenty

Avery paced the beach, the phone pressed to her ear, on hold with the network yet again. This time she was not going to hang up until she had Lisa Hogan on the line.

Behind her, roofers clambered up the scaffolding and across the pitched metal roof with the sure-footed grace of mountain goats, wide-brimmed straw hats covering their heads. The roofing company had been referred by Enrico Dante, who had handled Bella Flora’s roof.

The crew had been barged in along with the necessary materials at sunrise, startling an indignant squawk out of their time-challenged rooster. They stage-whispered in accents from countries and islands Avery had never visited; as if anyone might have actually slept through their arrival and deployment.

According to their foreman they would knock off shortly after lunch when the reflective properties of the metal roof would make it possible to fry an egg and any uncovered body parts that came in contact with it. The garage and boathouse roofs would be tackled next—all in all a week’s worth of repairs. As soon as she found and retained a lead carpenter, interior demolition would begin in the main house.

The sun was already beating down mercilessly at nine fifteen A.M. as she watched a trio of wading birds, presumably in search of breakfast, duck their bills beneath water so shallow that it would have barely topped their ankles had they had any. She’d lost track of how long she’d been on hold, but she was beginning to wonder if she’d lost the connection.

“The budget is way too high. I can approve maybe half of that.”

Avery felt the rush of adrenaline at the sound of Lisa Hogan’s voice. “This is a network television program,” she said. “The word ‘shoestring’ is nowhere in the title. I can’t possibly renovate three separate structures, a pool with a pavilion, and the grounds on half of what is necessary.” She strode across the beach to the northernmost spit of sand in an effort to lose the shouts of the roofers and the clatter of tools on metal.

“Anyone can throw a lot of money at a project,” Lisa Hogan replied.

Anyone, Avery thought, but them.

“Viewers want to see you all getting your hands dirty. And being inventive. They don’t want to see you standing around while a bunch of subcontractors do everything. If I give you too much money it won’t be anywhere near as interesting.”

“So you don’t think stranding us on an island and cramming us into a houseboat with a single bathroom is interesting enough?”

“If it’s too much for you, Avery, maybe you should get that hunky boyfriend of yours to come down and help.”

Avery bit back the retort that came to mind. Even if Chase were available she was not going to fall into that trap. Calling Lisa Hogan a coldhearted bitch would make Avery feel better, but there was always the chance that it might be construed as a compliment.

“This is not a question of an inability to handle the job,” Avery replied. “Only that the job can’t be done without a realistic amount of money.”

“Well, I’m afraid your contracts don’t include any mention of budget size or veto power. And I wouldn’t want you to forget that you are all under contract to this network.” She paused to let the threat sink in.

The woman had way more ammunition at her disposal than Avery did and she knew it. Avery couldn’t threaten a walkout again; not without approval from the others. Her gaze fixed on the lighthouse that shimmered out in the Atlantic, she drew in a deep breath in an effort to calm down. “So how would you suggest I make up the ridiculous shortfall?”

“I have no idea,” Hogan replied blithely. “Perhaps you could panhandle. Or enter one of those charity fishing tournaments with the big winner’s purse. Or you could go out and rob a bank.” Her tone had turned saccharine sweet. “As long as my crew is there to get the footage, I really don’t care how you manage it.

“And speaking of footage, I want more shots of Dustin Deranian and William Hightower. He looks pretty good for a guy who’s been rehabbed that many times. I especially like the shots of him without his shirt.”

There were shouts out in the channel. A boat slowed as it passed and she saw the glint of camera lenses aimed at the island. She could just make out someone tall and lanky next to someone shorter and rounder. It seemed that Nigel and some of his paparazzi “friends” had chipped in on a boat.

“You’ll have to take that up with your crew.” Avery turned her back on the paparazzi and looked up at the men scampering across the roof. “I’m not in charge of who or what gets shot.” The boat horn sounded, but Avery ignored it. “My concern is the renovation.”

“We’re all concerned with the renovation,” Hogan said. “Particularly completing it on time while providing compelling video. I expect Mermaid Point B and B to be up and running by Labor Day weekend. In fact, I want the series to end with William Hightower greeting and escorting his first guests to their rooms.”

“And the fact that there appears to be an ordinance prohibiting bed-and-breakfasts?” she asked Lisa Hogan.

“I’ve got the network attorneys on it,” she said. “Apparently the fact that Mermaid Point is no longer connected to the mainland puts us in a potentially strong position. And if that fails, William Hightower’s Native American blood could come in handy.”

Avery drew in another deep breath, but she felt a lot closer to hyperventilation than relaxation. “So just to recap, you’re telling me that there’s plenty of money in the budget for attorneys, but not for renovation.” She paused and forged ahead. “And you intentionally chose a location that’s difficult to reach, and where there’s a freeze on new construction and an ordinance against the very thing we’re supposed to be creating.”

“Yes, I believe that sums it up.” Hogan’s voice was tart with amusement. “All you have to do is refurbish those buildings. It’s up to me to keep things interesting.”

* * *

Not yet ready to share the bad news, Avery continued to pace the beach, thinking out her next steps. The previous day she’d spoken to Mario Dante, who had been such a big help the summer before when they’d restored the South Beach house for season one of Do Over, which was to begin airing the following night.