“She grew up on the East Coast and attended an elite boarding school in Switzerland before returning to America to get her college degree. At some point she got engaged to a prince, then broke things off mere weeks before the wedding. That happened recently—just a few months ago. It caused a minor scandal, as you can imagine. One of many she’s created since her teen years. Glen finally had enough.”
Ike’s head snapped around. “Glen Taylor? The judge?” Audrey nodded. “What could he possibly have to do with her?”
“Believe it or not, he’s her dad.”
“The conservative Republican? I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true.”
“Where’s her mother?”
“That’s a mystery,” Audrey mused. “No one knows about her, what happened to their marriage or why Quinn was raised by her dad.”
“I’m surprised anything about her got by you, Audrey,” Warren said. “How do you know so much?”
“Mom and Mrs. Newman are sorors, and good friends. I happened to be there during their afternoon-tea chat, shortly after Quinn came to town. At any rate, the judge arrived on the West Coast as a single father and from what I hear, never mentioned Quinn’s mother or any other woman from his past. The closest she had to a mother figure was her grandmother and a nanny, who was obviously long on patience and short on discipline. The result was a spoiled brat who grew into a troublemaking teen. Shortly after his marriage to San Francisco socialite Viviana Lange, Quinn was shipped overseas. Knowing the Langes and their obsession with image, that doesn’t surprise me. The story from there is public knowledge, as it’s been largely played out in the society pages of the Chronicle.” She took a sip from her wineglass, watching Quinn’s deft handling of her admirers. “From the look of things,” Audrey finished, “she’s still a troublemaker.”
“I wonder what she’s doing here,” Ike muttered, thinking out loud.
Audrey waved at an associate, talking over her shoulder as she walked away. “If the past continues to repeat itself, we’ll no doubt find out.”
The scowl returned as Ike pondered what Andrey had shared. Glen Taylor was a successful and well-respected judge. Both avid golfers, they’d run into each other on a course or two, the first time at the country club where they were now. Ike liked Glen and respected Mrs. Newman. He doubted either feeling would apply to the woman named Quinn.
Later on, this thought gained traction. When Quinn was introduced to his family, Ike didn’t like that she addressed his mother by her first name, or her flirty nature when meeting him and his brothers. More than once during the formal dinner, the quiet was interrupted by her raucous laughter as she sat at a table surrounded by men. When he saw her leave with one of the town’s notorious playboys instead of Mrs. Newman, with whom she’d come, that bothered him, too. He told himself it didn’t. But it did.
* * *
A roaring engine mixed with a pounding bass brought Ike out of his reverie. He looked to his left, saw a driver speeding like a bat out of Hades and had just enough time to accelerate and sharply turn the steering wheel in an effort to avoid the car as it crossed the center line. The head-on collision was prevented but a crash was not. Metal crunched against metal. Ike’s car jumped the curb and struck a mailbox. The force introduced his forehead to the steering wheel, a meeting that rendered him senseless. He smelled burned rubber and shook his head to clear the cloudiness. Wrong move. Instead of clearing, his head began pounding, even as he heard voices and someone yelling to call 9-1-1. He looked over to see the car that had hit him, a fiery red Corvette with loud music still blasting. The driver’s head rested against the seat. Blood dripped from a nasty cut. It was the troublemaker Quinn Taylor, wreaking havoc again.
“Are you okay?”
When he went against the advice of the bystanders—one of whom was an off-duty EMT—and got out of his car to confront Quinn, that was not the question Ike had intended to ask. “Are you crazy?”, “What in the heck were you doing?” or “Why did you swerve into my lane?” was more like what he had in mind. But when he reached the driver’s side door, looked into frightened hazel-brown eyes partially hidden by naturally long lashes and took in the quivering lips sporting pale pink gloss, Quinn’s well-being suddenly became important than a verbal confrontation.
“I’m sorry. The dog. Did you see him? Jumped right in front of my car...” Quiet replaced chaos as she killed the engine and with it the blaring music. The movement caused blood to drip from the cut on the side of her head onto her arm. “Oh, my God, I’m bleeding!” She snatched the rearview mirror toward her and glimpsed an ugly gash on her temple just as an ambulance siren announced its approach.
“You were driving like a...” Ike managed before becoming distracted by the same tempting flesh that had stayed on his mind long after the charity ball was over, which meant far longer than he should have allowed. He assumed Quinn wore shorts, but from his position couldn’t quite tell. All he could see were bare legs that seemed to go on forever and hardened, pert nipples pressed against a ripped tee. “Way too fast,” he finished, almost as an afterthought.
“I was driving just fine,” she retorted with a pout. “It was the dog. Did you see...” She looked around, then back into Ike’s accusing gaze. “I swear, a dog ran in front of my car!”
“Blaming this on a dog, huh?” He looked around, becoming more irritated by the second. His smashed-up pride and joy being only one of several reasons. “Where is it now?”
“Good God, man! Are you all right?”
Ike turned toward the familiar voice behind him. His focus went from the look of horror on Warren’s face to where his eyes traveled after asking the question. Ike had only glanced at the Ferrari’s front end. He wasn’t ready to see the side that had taken the brunt of the collision. Didn’t want to confirm what he already knew to be true, that rare and expensive car parts had been damaged. Didn’t want to believe that his prized 250, one of only thirty-six such models ever made, driven in public fewer than two or three times a year, had crossed paths with a Corvette-driving Andretti wannabe using a street in the town square as her racetrack.
“Don’t even say it,” he warned Warren, a hand up as if to ward off the painful truth. “It’s bad, I know.”
“What happened?”
“Reckless driving,” he answered with a nod toward Quinn.
“I was not driving recklessly. I tried to dodge an animal.”
“A phantom dog,” Ike added, a heavy dose of sarcasm served on the side.
Quinn’s comeback was interrupted by EMTs rushing to her car. “Excuse me, guys,” the woman said, her tone businesslike but not unfriendly. “We need to get to her.”
The men stepped back. Ike turned toward his car. The quick movement made him dizzy. He stumbled.
“Whoa, watch out, brother.” Warren jumped to his side. “You probably shouldn’t be standing. Let me get one of those guys over here.”
Ike waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine.”
“You think you are, but there may be internal injuries.”
“There are definitely external ones,” he said through gritted teeth as he crossed back over to his wrecked car.
Steeling himself, he walked around it. The meticulous paint job that had taken months to complete now covered a misaligned and bent hood, caved-in side door and hanging fender. His jaw clenched in anger. Accidents happened, a fact of life. But this one could easily have been avoided. Even if a dog had crossed the street—an excuse that he found suspect, since he saw no dog in sight—there would have been more control and time to act if she hadn’t been speeding. Her actions