She wouldn’t get a better opportunity. She’d watched him start the Jag any number of times. It didn’t require a key. She simply had to apply the brakes, then push the “start” button on the console between the two seats. Once the engine fired, a knob popped up which controlled the gear settings. After that, matters might get a bit more dicey.
The instant David inserted his credit card in the gas pump, she moved, slinging her legs over the center console and sliding into the driver’s seat. She jammed the door release lever with her elbow, locking all the doors. Next she hit the brake with both feet and slapped the start/stop button on the console. The Jag purred to life. Just as she’d seen countless times before, the gear knob released.
Behind her, she heard David shout. Not that she listened. She turned the button from P for Park to D for Drive. Now for the tricky part. To drive a car for the second time in her entire life. Taking a deep breath, she hit the gas.
The Jag responded with a throaty roar of enthusiasm and leaped forward, careening across the cement lot toward the road. She fought to contain the power, jerking the wheel one way and then the other. The Jag responded to every movement—and then some. She attempted to compensate for her oversteer, overcorrected instead, and the back of the vehicle fishtailed, the tires screaming at her mistreatment.
Slow down, slow down!
But for some reason she couldn’t peel her foot off the accelerator. She was too desperate to escape to let up. Just before she reached the road the right side of the car hit a curb, sending it spinning. It made a half dozen 360s across the two-lane road before clipping a tree with its rear end. Metal shrieked, airbags exploded around her. Then silence descended.
The Jag had come to rest facing the gas station. She’d made her escape, all right. She’d gotten a solid two hundred yards down the road. For a split second, she and David stared at each other. Then with a shout of fury, he charged in her direction.
Gianna fought for breath. This was not going to end well.
“Calistoga?” Constantine punched the name into his GPS. “Where the hell is Calistoga?”
“This I do not know,” Vittorio Romano responded. The connection faded for a brief moment then kicked in again. “The business associate mentioned a fancy lodge that the d’Angelo boy owns near this Calistoga. He uses it to entertain clients.”
For once, the nine-hour time difference between Italy and California had worked to Constantine’s advantage. It might be after midnight for him, but it was bright and early in the morning at the Romano palazzo. “A suite at the Ritz. A mansion. A Jag. Now a lodge. I have to tell you, Babbo. All these years we’ve been doing something wrong.”
“Something right,” his father corrected. “I have been hearing rumors about the d’Angelos and their banking practices. Creative accounting is the term being thrown about. Soon, all of Firenze will be talking. It won’t be long before they are talking in San Francisco, too.”
“Too bad the rumors couldn’t have hit the States a couple of months ago,” Constantine muttered. He checked the GPS. “Okay, I’ve found Calistoga. Do you have an address?”
“No. But I am still waiting for information from another source.”
“Call me as soon as you hear anything.”
Constantine didn’t waste any more time. Once more the late hour worked to his advantage and he drove onto the Golden Gate Bridge in record time. If he broke every speed record out there, he could make it to Calistoga in under an hour. That would still put him a solid thirty minutes behind d’Angelo. Maybe longer.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. If he thought about what was happening to her, what d’Angelo might be doing right now, he’d go insane. Focus. First, he’d focus on getting to Calistoga as quickly as possible. Then he’d focus on finding Gianna. But the instant he found her and ensured her safety…David d’Angelo would regret ever touching his woman. Or any other woman, for that matter. He planned to see to that.
Personally.
Move, move, move!
Gianna thrust open the door and erupted from the Jag. At the last instant she remembered her cell phone. Flinging herself across the driver’s seat, she batted the deflated airbags out of her way and snagged her beaded handbag from the passenger side floor. Sparing a swift glance in David’s direction—heaven protect her, he was close—she darted into the forest along the side of the road.