It wasn’t the single glass of white wine that Jewel had had with lunch that made her miscalculate the distance between her car and the utility van that suddenly stopped in front of her. She stomped on the brakes and held her breath as the mind-fog fueled by thoughts of Taye Elliott broke apart and dissolved.
“Damn!” she cursed as her front bumper connected with the spare tire riding on the back of the van—thankfully, the hunk of rubber cushioned what could have been a major impact. Jewel slumped back in her seat, angry with herself for losing control and allowing this to happen. She was a good driver with a spotless record, and the last thing she needed was a moving violation or an angry driver screaming in her face.
Through her windshield, she saw the driver of the van—a wiry Asian man in a white jumpsuit—hop out and go to the rear of his vehicle. While he inspected the damage, three more men, who looked as if they could have been the driver’s brothers, emerged from the passenger side of the van and joined him. They began chattering away in a language that Jewel did not understand. However, she could certainly tell by the tone of their voices and their hand gestures that they were upset about the accident.
“Oh, hell, I gotta deal with this,” Jewel muttered, flipping open the storage compartment in the dash to retrieve a card with insurance information on it. Grabbing her purse and flinging her car door open, she jumped out and looked around.
Luckily, she had turned off busy Wilshire Boulevard to take Windsor to West Eighth, and was on a side street dotted with small shops, a gas station and a huge abandoned warehouse.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she began, hurrying toward the front of her car, thankful that no one was around who might recognize her and initiate a paparazzi frenzy.
“You hit me, lady!” the driver shouted, pointing to the back of his van. “You hit me hard.”
“I know, I know. It was all my fault. I’ll take care of any damage.” Jewel offered him her insurance information, which he snatched out of her hand, glowering more hatefully at her. Jewel sucked in a deep breath, stepped over to inspect the damage and was pleasantly surprised to see that the only vehicle injured was hers—a deep scrape that ran the length of her bumper. The spare tire on the back of the van had protected the other vehicle from damage.
“Well, that’s good,” she said with an audible sigh of relief, using hand signals to demonstrate to the man that hers was the only vehicle with a problem. “My insurance will cover my car. No reason to call the police,” she said, raising her voice. “No damage to you, thank God. No problem, right?”
The man rolled his eyes and glanced, three times, from the dent in her bumper to his unscarred van while his fellow passengers crowded around. Immediately, a rapid exchange of conversation erupted—short guttural bursts thrown back and forth, sounding very angry to Jewel, who stepped away in alarm.
Easing back toward her car, she began to worry. What were they talking about? Why were they waving their arms and screaming? Deciding that she’d better call the police after all, Jewel leaned into the open car door to get her cell phone, but when she raised her head, the driver of the van was standing in her face, screaming. He clutched his left shoulder with his right hand and bent over. “Problem, lady. Big problem. Hurt. Hurt real bad.” He kept rubbing his hand back and forth over his shoulder and groaning low in his throat. His companions patted his back in sympathy making pointed frowns at Jewel.
Jewel felt her mouth go dry and the muscles in her throat clamp shut. Was this some kind of a scam? Had she been drawn into a situation that was about to turn ugly? As the realization settled in, she made a quick decision: no way was she going to fall for whatever con job or sting these men planned to pull.
Revising her approach, she turned to the driver and, using her most intimidating voice, yelled, “What in hell are you talking about?” A pause long enough for him to understand that he’d chosen the wrong sister to tangle with today. “You’re hurt?” she snapped. “I did not hit you hard enough to hurt you and you sure as hell didn’t have any trouble jumpin’ outta your van.” She almost spat the words at the man. “I hit the spare tire. I was going only twenty miles an hour, at most!”
“Bad. Hurt bad,” the driver insisted in a more urgent groan, eyes swiveling toward his fellow passengers, who nodded their agreement.
Determined to maintain control over the situation, Jewel sniffed and then squinted suspiciously at the moaning man. “Fine. If you’re really injured, I’d better call an ambulance. And the police, too.” She whipped out her cell phone and held it up, almost like a gun, thumb poised, ready to launch a 911 call. Taking care to enunciate slowly and clearly, she told him, “I am calling the police. Police? Hospital? Okay?”
The driver’s eyes widened in apprehension. He let go of his shoulder and waved both hands back and forth. “No. No police, lady. No hospital. You pay me cash money, okay?”
Infuriated, Jewel laughed in his face, unable to believe this brazen demand. How dare he try to shake her down? In broad daylight? She snorted in disgust and jabbed the air with her cell phone. “Pay you cash money? I don’t think so. You gotta be out of your mind. I have insurance. If you’re really injured, my insurance will take care of you. I’m gonna call 911 and we’re gonna stay right here until the ambulance and the police arrive, then we’ll see how hurt you are.”
The man shouted something at his companions, who scurried back into the van. The driver spat on the pavement, hurled sharp words at Jewel and then returned to his van, taking off in a squeal of hot rubber.
Shaking with outrage, Jewel got back into her car and started the engine. Driving slowly, she paid better attention to the road and did not let her mind drift back to Taye Elliott, who’d already caused enough drama for one day.
Chapter 6
Early Saturday morning Jewel awakened feeling ravenous, so she ditched her usual wheat toast and herbal tea breakfast regime and whipped up a batch of cinnamon butter sweet rolls. The impulsive indulgence seemed perfectly logical to her, considering how much stress she was under.
Setting down her fork, Jewel crossed her arms over the silky soft fabric of her pale peach shirt, her stomach in knots and her appetite rapidly fading. Her car was wrecked. Taye was coming for dinner and she hadn’t heard back from Sonny.
Why did I agree to meet with Taye tonight? she fretted. What had she been thinking, inviting him to her house? They could have met at the studio, or in a private room in a restaurant, or at Fred Warner’s business office in downtown L.A. Anyplace less intimate than her home.
Jewel shoved aside her icing-laced sweet roll when the telephone rang. She snatched it up and scowled into the receiver as Sonny told her he could not make it to her meeting with Taye tonight. Family commitment. He’d catch up with her Monday.
Frustrated, Jewel jabbed the button to end the call and focused on the back door as it suddenly opened.
The woman who entered the kitchen was humming, an iPod device plugged into her ears.
“Hello, Carmie,” Jewel called over to her assistant, who removed her ear plugs, made three quick turns to wrap the black wires around her music player and then acknowledged Jewel with a short half wave as she pocketed her keys and shut the door.
Carmie Lewis was the woman who took care of both the mundane and the extravagant details that made up Jewel Blaine’s life. She was Jewel’s go-to person, secretary, trusted friend and her conscience, too, when the situation required.
Carmie was petite, almost as short as Jewel, but heavier in the hips and thighs. She had butter-cream skin, textured copperred hair that dangled in tight curls around a wise face, cheekbones that any professional model would kill for and wide-set brown eyes that drew attention away from the sprinkling of freckles that marched across the bridge of her upturned nose. At forty-three, she was as hip, sassy and attractive as a woman ten years younger.
“Thanks for coming over so fast,” Jewel