Meet Me in Venice by Elizabeth Adler Page A

and the castle had gone to her. Nevertheless, the day after the will was read, Grizelda had packed her bags, including her wedding dress and her dog—a pale pug named Jolly—and departed for warmer and more exciting climes. With the fading memory of those long dull years with irascible Oscar, she had never returned to the Schloss.
    Today the morning was blue and clear, the way it so often was in the South of France at the end of October, and without the heavy summer traffic it was a pleasure to drive the Corniche road, high above the coast with the sea stretching into infinity to meet the sky. Grizelda knew that road like the back of her hand. It was carved from the side of the mountain and she’d been driving it foryears. It held no terrors for her, though she knew it did for tourists. Even though Princess Grace had not been killed on this particular stretch, many people worried that the same fate might happen to them; a second’s lack of attention, a slight loss of control, was all it would take to end up in the rocky gorge to her left.
    She idled along in the big silver Bentley, taking her time, thinking over the arrangements. Mimi was in charge of the music and so far she had organized a string quartet to play at the prewed-ding party at the Palazzo, and an organist for the church. Now she was at home, on the phone in the midst of negotiations for a dance band to play at the reception. Meanwhile Sylvie Verlaine was in charge of the menu. Grizelda was sure it would all work out satisfactorily, but she still wished Preshy had given her a month or two more notice. With a little more time she could have done it all so much better.
    The road began to descend, winding around curves. It was quiet. There was no one in front of her and only a couple of cars had passed on the other side. Switching on the radio, she was searching for a station that played “oldies but goodies” when, glancing in her rearview mirror, she noticed a white truck behind her. She thought that it was traveling too fast, and frowning, she honked her horn. The driver took no notice. She flashed her lights in warning and put her foot to the metal, taking the curves faster than she liked in an attempt to get out of his way. But still he did not slow down. Now he was right behind her.
    She slammed her hand on the horn and left it there. He was almost upon her, close enough that had the truck’s windows not been so dark she would have been able to see the driver’s face.Sweat filmed the back of her neck as fear hit her.
He was trying to run her off the road . . .
    She felt the thud as the truck grazed her bumper . . .
he was crazy . . .
oh Christ, what was happening . . . she couldn’t drive at this speed . . . she would die . . .
but she couldn’t die yet . . .
she couldn’t miss Preshy’s wedding . . . . She had to use her head . . . .
Think,
she told herself,
think!
She knew the road well . . . . There was an emergency lay-by carved from the rock on the other side just around the bend . . .
    Praying there was nothing coming the other way, she swung the Bentley across the road, simultaneously slamming on the brakes. The car slid sideways, it swung round once, twice, three times before hitting the rock face, hard. The air bags exploded and she was slammed back in her seat, shaking and screaming her head off. But she was alive. And the madman in the white truck had flown past her and was gone.
    Still shaking, she sat with the air bag in her face, telling herself not to panic. The car ticked and groaned; steam surged from under the hood and a thin trail of smoke escaped from the back. She knew she had to get out; it might burst into flames any minute.
    To her surprise the door opened easily and then she was standing out on the road, cursing the mad bastard who had done this to her—and to her beautiful silver-gray Bentley.
    Staring forlornly at the wreckage of her car, she asked herself, bewildered, what the hell that was all about.
    Later, when she