He took a moment to think it through. “If Romano has the diamond, he wouldn’t be here, sniffing after you. And despite what my sources say, you don’t just lose a fire diamond as valuable as Brimstone. Which means…” His focus returned to her. “Does your family still have the diamond? Is that why Romano’s here? That’s it, isn’t it? He’s hoping to romance it out from under you by marrying into the family.”
“Never heard of Brimstone,” she mumbled.
And she hadn’t. But she sure as hell intended to ask about it the minute she got herself out of her current predicament. She shuddered. Assuming she could. Please, God, let someone come.
His gaze pinned her in place, sharp and ruthless. “Fine. Pretend you don’t know. It won’t change a thing. Once I’ve married into the family, it won’t matter, anyway.”
“‘Kay.” She closed her eyes and slumped in her seat.
“Gia?”
She didn’t so much as twitch.
“Gianna!”
She kept her breathing slow and deep. She never realized how much effort it took to feign sleep when her heart galloped like a racehorse and panic threatened to consume her. She must have convinced David, though. She heard him push a button near the steering wheel which she gathered released the gas tank cover, then he opened the car door and exited. Peeking from beneath her lashes, she held her breath while he circled to stand at the rear of the car with his back to her and removed his wallet from his pocket, extracting a credit card.
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?”