She took his car. That was the part of it that seemed so very funny as she sped away from his villa, top down, with her red hair waving like a banner. She’d left his Kiton suits shredded in the closet, his Porthault Jours sheets burning in a heap in the driveway, and every single bottle of his collection shattered in the wine cellar. But she’d taken his car, the thing he loved more than life itself. Well, at least he loved it more than her. Probably not more than Emilie.
Her mouth went bitter at the thought of the woman—her one-time trusted friend. Her confidant.
She bumped the volume and stomped the gas pedal to erase the thought. She’d take the next switchback faster—go full throttle on straightaway. The speedometer crept to 80, then 100. When she got to the next turn, she wouldn’t use the brakes.