She had no idea which way to go. Where the garages were. How to orientate herself underground.
It took her nearly twenty minutes to find the tunnel that ran out to where the fleet of cars was, and when she surfaced in the ten-bay facility, she felt like she’d not just run a marathon, but won it.
Except no car keys. Not in the Bentley. Not in the Drophead. And she wasn’t taking the Porsche GTS or the Ferrari thingy or that ancient Jaguar that was like Samuel T.’s—because they were all stick shifts that she couldn’t drive. Same with the 911s and the Spyker.
And the Mercedes sedans weren’t good enough for her.
“Damn it!” As she stamped her foot, one of her rolling cases fell over like it had fainted. “Where are the keys?”
Abandoning the luggage, she marched down toward the office space. Which was locked. As were the garage doors.
This was totally unacceptable.
Taking out her cell phone, she was about to dial—well, she didn’t know who, but someone—when the lockbox over against the wall caught her eye. Going across to the three-foot-by-one-foot metal door, she pulled at the toggle, and was unsurprised when it didn’t budge.
The good news? She really felt like hitting something.
Looking around, she saw nothing out of place. From car covers, to spare tires, to cleaning supplies, everything was arranged down the wall with military precision in shelving, on hooks, under container lids.
Except for the crowbar she found leaning against a neat stack of chamois cloths that were monogrammed with the family crest.
Gin smiled as she clip-clip-clipped her way over and hefted the hunk of metal up. Back at the lockbox, she swung the thing above her head and had at the key storage like it was her father’s head, hitting, hitting, hitting, the sharp ringing sounds stinging her ears.
Even though she had almost no nail tips left by the time she was finished, that cover was hanging open from its one remaining hinge.
The Bentley, she decided.
No, the Rolls. It cost more.
Taking her luggage to the Phantom Drophead, she opened the suicide door, shoved the suitcases into the back seat and got behind the wheel. Then she punched her high-heeled shoe into the brake, hit the start/stop button, and the engine flared to life with a latent growl.
Reaching up to the rearview mirror, she pushed every button there was until the door in front of her rose up.
And she was off.
The bitch in her made her want to take the front road down so that she passed by the house’s family rooms, but it was more important for her to get off the property without anyone knowing—so she settled for flipping her middle finger off at Easterly in that rearview mirror as she used the staff lane.
When she got to River Road, she hung a left, checked the clock and got out her phone. Rosalinda had to be in by now, and she could finally make the arrangements for a jet—which wouldn’t be a problem. Gin called for a plane once a week or more.
Voice mail. Again.
The damn brunch. She forgot. All the staff were distracted.
But she had needs.
Gin dialed another number, one that was just a single digit different from Rosalinda’s. On the third ring, she was about to give up when the unmistakable British accent of that butler came over the connection.
“Mr. Harris speaking, how may I help you?”
“I need a plane and I can’t reach Rosalinda. You’re going to have to arrange it now—leaving ASAP going to LAX.”
The butler cleared his throat. “Miss Baldwine, forgive me—”
“Do not tell me you’re too busy. You can make the phone call to the pilots directly, you’ve done it before, and then you can go back to whatever brunch-related stupidity—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Baldwine, but there will not be a plane available for you.”
“Are you kidding me.” No doubt because of all the corporate guests coming in for the Derby. But she was family, for godsakes. “Fine, just delay someone else and I’ll—”
“That will not be possible.”
“I am first priority!” The Phantom picked up speed as she stomped on the accelerator—at least until she nearly rammed the car in front of her. “This is unacceptable. You call that control tower, or that list of pilots or … whatever you need to do and get me a fucking plane to the West Coast!”
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry, Miss Baldwine, but I will not be able to provide that service to you.”
A cold warning tightened the back of her neck. “What about later this morning.”
“That will not be possible.”
“This afternoon.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Baldwine.”
“What did my father tell you?”
“It is not my place to comment on—”
“What the fuck did he tell you!” she screamed into her phone.
The exhale the man released was as close as he was going to come to cursing out loud. “This morning, I received a memo addressed to the controller and myself, indicating that the resources of the family would no longer be made available to you.”