'No, I wasn't,' said Meg. 'But before I get involved with this thing I want to know what it's all about. If I'd known it was some screwy fund-raiser for a bunch of gold diggers, I would have stayed home.'
Dr. Bittern cocked his head with a faraway expression, as though he was listening to a strain of music only he could hear. He crossed his hands over his paunch- a gesture Quill was beginning to recognize as very characteristic - and beamed impartially at the three of them. 'Ms. Quilliam' s objections are familiar to me - if somewhat infelicitously stated.' He looked at Tiffany. 'This is the sort of question we must anticipate from the press. I am, of course, prepared to answer.'
'Good,' said Meg. 'I am prepared to listen.'
A scuffling sound came from the patio outside. Quill turned her head. Three figures loomed against the glass. One of them was very tall. Quill had seen that face before - not fifteen minutes ago on the TV screen in the kitchen.
'Oh my God!' Tiffany shrieked. 'It's Verger!'
The French door banged open. Verger Taylor stamped arrogantly into the room. With him were two young men. He came to a full stop and thrust his head forward. His fierce blue eyes raked over Meg and Quill, then rested on Dr. Bittern with the intensity of a mongoose after a snake. 'You!' he said. He whirled on the balls of his feet. 'Goddammit, Tiffany. I've had about enough of this. You're gonna cancel the whole goddamn thing - or you'll regret it. You got that?'
'How did you get in here?' Tiffany hunched back into the couch. 'Who let you in here? I had the locks changed! Luis? Was it Luis? I'll kill him!'
'Not as much control as you thought you had, Tif? Told you it'd be different out there after being married to the Verbster.' Taylor grinned nastily. He was tall - three or four inches over six feet - with the neck, shoulders, and belly of a defensive tackle who'd been benched too long. He was dressed in part of a three-piece suit in banker's gray; the vest hung open over a rumpled white shirt and his trousers belled over a low-slung belt. The suit coat was nowhere in evidence. He clutched a balled-up newspaper in one fist. 'Verger Taylor,' he grunted finally to Meg. 'You this celebrity chef, or what?'
Tiffany's voice rose several decibels. 'Isn't that just like you, Verger? She is not an 'or what.' She is not a thing. She is a woman. This is Margaret Quilliam, Verger, one of the few female three-star chefs - '
'Two star,' Meg corrected with glum punctilio.
' - whatever - in the country. And I will not, I repeat, will not have you demeaning her with your macho, sexist, piggish attitudes.'
Keeping his eyes on Meg, Verger swung his head rather like a bull that's been bitten in the ear. 'What the hell, Tiffany.'
'What the hell yourself.' She hissed like a snake. 'And you look at me when you talk to me, you bastard.'
Verger's eyes flickered over Meg's dark head then took in her shorts and the newest in her T-shirt collection. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and shook his head. 'It's taken Tif a while to get over the divorce, you see?' He gave Meg a grin meant to be complicit. 'She's discovering what I told her - it's impossible to replace the Verbster. Lotta women'll tell you that.' He hooked both thumbs through the buckle of his alligator belt and hitched up his trousers.
Tiffany screamed, 'If you're not out of here in two seconds, I'm calling the cops!'
Verger sneered. 'Ask for Captain Phillips. Old buddy of mine.'
Tiffany spat, 'Tell me what you want, then, and get out.' Her face crumpled. Her eyes teared. 'Can't you just leave me alone? I'm having a nice, quiet time with my friends...'
'Bullshit.' His eyes flickered over Dr. Bittern. 'Goddammit, Tiffany. This guy's a phony.' His face reddened underneath the leather of a Florida tan. 'I've warned you about this shitface before.'
'Goddammit yourself,' said Tiffany icily. 'You leave Dr. Bob alone. He's a far, far better man than you will ever be.'
Quill looked at Dr. Bittern, who seemed quite unperturbed by Verger's venom. Perhaps, like Sydney Carton, he was into self-sacrifice, but Quill doubted it.
Tiffany squalled suddenly, 'What are you doing here, anyhow? How did you get a goddamn key? This condo's mine. Get out of here. And take those two little bastards with you.'
'Who are these two guys?' Meg interrupted in an overly casual tone. 'I know who you are - Verger Taylor. Anybody who watches CNN knows who you are. But who are they?'
Verger swung his head; his head and shoulders moved together, as though his neck were nonexistent. He used his height and weight like a club, Quill thought. Not a nice guy at all. She moved closer to Meg. 'Can I get anyone anything to drink?' she asked brightly. 'Would you like some planter's punch, Mr. Taylor? And what about your friends?'
'Those two aren't his friends,' Tiffany said sulkily. 'They're his sons. That's Corrigan' - she jerked her chin in the direction of a slight, blond boy of nineteen or so - 'and the other one's Evan. And they're not staying long enough to have a drink.'
Evan resembled his father in height-but the paternal genetics stopped there. He was dark, probably in his mid-twenties, and casually elegant. His voice was a pleasant baritone. 'Sorry to barge in like this, but Dad has a couple of questions.' He clapped his hand on his father's shoulder. 'Take five, Dad. We'll get this sorted out. And I think a drink's a good idea.'
'Yeah?' Verger's glower darkened.
'I do.' Evan smiled at Quill. 'We just need to talk a little bit. You're Sarah Quilliam?'
Quill nodded.
'I'm glad to meet you. My brother's glad, too. Aren't you, Cor?'
Corrigan blushed attractively, hunched his shoulders, and nodded.
Evan sighed and shook his head. 'Graceless as Dad, bro. Believe it or not, Ms. Quilliam, we're here to talk
