“The water’s cold!” she cried.

“Don’t get wet,” Gia told her.

They trekked up a dune and stopped at its summit to gaze at the blue expanse of Milos Dragovic’s twenty-room summer cottage. From this angle Jack could see that it was U-shaped, squatting on the sand like a wary blue crab stretching its claws toward the sea. An oblong free-form pool glistened between the arms, surrounded by a teak deck. A glass-roofed structure that was either a solarium or hothouse huddled in a corner. And all around the grounds men were setting up tables and umbrellas and scrubbing chairs and chaises.

“Looks like someone’s having a party,” Gia said. “Are you invited?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going anyway?”

Jack heard the tension in her voice, turned and saw the worry in her eyes.

“Maybe.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. He’s not a nice man, you know.”

“He says he’s an honest businessman who’s never been convicted of a single crime.”

Gia frowned. “I know the rant: everybody picks on him because he’s a Serb. But who believes that? What does he do, anyway?”

“Bad stuff, I’m told. I’m not sure of the specifics. I’m waiting for People to do an in-depth cover story.”

“What are you keeping from me?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know much about him. I don’t find flashy hoods interesting reading.”

“He was accused of murder.”

“But the charge was dropped.”

“Please don’t get on the wrong side of this man.”

“Trust me, that’s the last thing I want to do. But I do want to get a closer look at his house.”

They walked down the dune, scattering a flock of resting seagulls along the way.

“It’s even uglier close up,” Gia said.

Jack was making a mental map of the grounds. If he were going to invite himself in, he’d have to approach from the beach. He studied the wide open pool area, then looked out to sea. An idea began to form as he watched Vicky gathering shells along the waterline.

“Uh-oh,” Gia said. “Looks like we’re attracting a crowd.”

Jack turned. Two very tall, very broad-shouldered beef jerkies in wraparound shades and ill-fitting dark suits were scuffing toward them across the sand. Both had broad, flat faces and bristly military-style haircuts—one brown and one that had probably been brown once but was now a shade of orange-blond. And Jack could tell from the way their sleeves rode in their left armpits that both were armed.

“Keep moving, folks,” said the dark-haired one in a deep, thickly accented voice.

“Yeah,” said the other, with the same accent. “This is not place for sightseeing.”

“Nice house,” Jack said, trying what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Who’s the owner?”

Turnip-head smirked. “Someone who does not want you standing in his front yard.”

Jack shrugged. “OK.” He turned and took Gia’s elbow. “Let’s go, dear, and let these nice men get back to their work.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Gia said, pulling free of his hand.

Her eyes were narrowed and her lips were pulled into a thin line as she stared at the two guards. Jack knew that look and knew it meant trouble. Once she got her back up, she could be a badger.