“Don’t mind if we do,” Quinn said. “What’s cookin’, Jack?”
“Plenty of things are cooking.” He walked back to the bar.
Jack was no nonsense, with a strong face and silver hair, stylishly combed back from a high forehead. Jet- black eyebrows that slanted downward toward the bridge of his nose gave him the look of an erudite devil.
“My esteemed business partner has gone to the airport to pick up his latest girlfriend.” The eyebrows arched with the resigned look of a parent lamenting a child’s behavior. “Sunny and I’ve decided that Shane needs a wife. Too much time being the playboy. Left me here to handle a tasting for a temperamental caterer handling a wedding reception in Upperville next spring. Couldn’t make up her mind about anything.”
“That’s women for you,” Quinn said. I elbowed him.
Jack set out two glasses. “Try this Cab from a vineyard near Charlottesville. Give it a moment to open.”
I drank my wine. “Lovely. Good nose, nice long finish. I like the pepper.”
“A bit young for me,” Quinn said.
“He’s such a critic when he’s thinking about our blend,” I said. “Ignore him.”
Jack smiled. “So what’s cooking with you?”
Quinn concentrated on his nice, young wine. He wasn’t going to help me ask about the Margaux.
“I was hoping you could tell us more about the provenance of the Washington bottle,” I said. “Ryan’s writing the notes for the auction catalog and that bottle is now the star of the show.”
“I know it is,” Jack said. “I’ve been getting calls from all over the world. People want to know if I’ve got another bottle, or even if they can buy a case.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger. “You wonder, sometimes.”
“Not me,” Quinn said. “We get people who want to know if we put real apples in the Riesling when we say it tastes like apple. Or how much pepper we put in the Pinot when we talk about the peppery taste. Do we grind it or put in whole peppercorns?”
Jack laughed. “Good thing you don’t tell them it tastes like leather.”
“So how did it come into your possession?” I asked. We’d veered away from the Margaux.
With some difficulty, he recorked the wine we’d just tasted. Quinn and I both noticed.
Jack looked rueful. “Arthritis acting up again. Don’t get old. To answer your question, Lucie, my family was in the wine trade in Germany from the mid-1700s until just after the Second World War. Then my father moved here and started again in America. In Germany we used to have close ties to every major producer in Europe, especially the French. I found the bottle in the cave at my family’s old warehouse in Freiburg after my father passed away. Someone could have given it to us, or it could have been there for a century.”
“Your father never mentioned that Bordeaux to you?” I asked. “Ever?”
“He did not. When I found it, it was not in good condition which makes me suspect that we acquired it after a previous owner kept it poorly cellared. Or else it was badly transported. Possibly both. I told you it’s probably vinegar by now. But I know you will get a lot of money for it. Some people will pay a small fortune for the thrill of owning a wine once destined for George Washington.”
The last line sounded like a mild rebuke. It was Quinn’s turn to do the elbowing. “We know that, Jack,” he said. “And we’re grateful for your donation. It was extremely generous of you, right, Lucie?”
“It was,” I said. “But if you think of anything between now and the auction—”
“My dear, I’ve already told you everything.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Everything.”
“We should be going,” Quinn said. “Thanks for the wine.”
When we got outside Quinn said, “You can thank me now for saving your bacon. He was getting pretty pissed at you playing Spanish Inquisitor with him. If you’d pushed any harder I bet you he would have asked you to return the bottle.”
“I just asked where it came from. That’s all.”
“He didn’t like it.”
“I know,” I said. “I wonder why.”
“Don’t go there, Lucie. I mean it.”
A gunmetal-colored Porsche pulled up and parked behind Quinn’s El Camino. “That’s Shane,” I said, “and his new friend.”
We watched him help a stunning brunette from the car. “She’s lovely,” I said.
“Goddamn.” Quinn sucked in his breath. “What the hell is
“You know her?” I asked.
The raw pain in his voice gave away he not only knew her, but she’d broken his heart when he did.
“Yes,” he said, “she’s my wife.”
Chapter 8
He was married.
How had he managed to keep that a secret? To keep
“What’s she doing with Shane,” I asked, “if she’s married to you?”
“Ex-wife, I meant.” He was curt. “We’re divorced.”
I watched Shane and the brunette cross the street and saw recognition dawn in her eyes. Her step faltered and Shane, unaware of the lightning arcing between his girlfriend and my winemaker, slid his arm around her slim waist.
Quinn’s eyes never left her face.
When they joined us, he said, “Hello, Nicole. Long time no see.”
It was clear they hadn’t parted amicably. And that she still got to him. Hard to tell what was going through her mind other than the shock of seeing him again.
She wore a russet suit that set off her dark hair, brown-black eyes, and honey-colored skin. Short, fitted skirt and flared jacket. Silk blouse unbuttoned just low enough to tantalize. Lace bra showing through the sheer fabric. The suit was either Armani or Versace. Quite the contrast to the classic outfit I had on. Levi’s and the Gap. Torn, dirty, and stained.
“Quinn—” She spoke his name like a caress. “What a surprise. What are you doing here?”
“I live here. What about you, Nic?” His voice was like cold steel.
“You two know each other?” Shane’s eyes roved between Nicole and Quinn. Though Shane was always pleasant to me, I thought there was something a little too beautiful and preening about him that came across as what the French call
“We know each other,” Quinn said, “don’t we, Nicole?”
She blushed. I watched as she put her arm through Shane’s and twined her fingers with his. “Quinn is my… that is, we used to be married. A long time ago.”
Shane pulled Nicole closer and kissed her hair, his eyes on Quinn. “Then you’re divorced. Nikki and I met in Vegas a few months ago. We’ve been together ever since.” He still looked taken aback by the news.
“Good for you.” I recognized Quinn’s go-to-hell voice. It seemed like Nicole did too, judging by the way her expression turned cold. “See you ’round some time.”
Quinn laid his hand on my shoulder and started to propel me across the street.
“You’re not going to introduce me to your friend?” Nicole called after us. It sounded like a taunt.
Quinn stopped and we both turned around. “Lucie Montgomery meet Nicole…what name are you going by these days, sweetheart? It was hard to keep track for a while.”
“My maiden name.” Her eyes flashed. “Martin.” Then she looked at me, taking in the cane and my limp. “Where have I heard of you?”
“I have no idea.” The sooner we got out of here, the better. She kept staring, like she was trying to recall some forgotten piece of information. “I’m sure we’ve never met,” I said for emphasis.
