The Senator’s Daughter (20 page)

Sylvia watched Lyle go across the darkened lobby and heard his bedroom door close at the end of the hall.

Mechanically, she cleared the pizza plates off the rear porch and washed them in the kitchen sink along with the wineglasses. This she did in the half light from the lamp always burning in the lobby, not wanting to be jarred by a too-bright bulb.

Finally, with nothing more to occupy her, she turned toward her room in the guest wing.

Of course, Lyle had no idea where she slept, but she knew the room he occupied—only fifteen feet down and across from hers. She noted the light over the transom in the room of some honeymooners, and in Lyle's.

Her fingers curled against her palms. She'd been fantasizing about the man for weeks, in the most intimate of ways. From the way he'd talked about searching for her, she believed he had, too.

Yet, he had been the first to pull back.

Sylvia shut her door behind her and switched on a lamp with an antique glass shade. Crossing to her bed, she stripped off her plaid flannel shirt, and the dark camisole beneath. Naked from the waist up, she spied her reflection in the mirror over the dresser.

Like a cliché from a book or the movies, she looked as though something profound had changed her. Her hair was sweetly tousled from Lyle's hands in it, and, with her body once more charged at the thought of him, color rose in her cheeks.

Lifting her fingers to her lips where Lyle had kissed her, she imagined his touch … sweet, and at the same time, mysterious.

She was a woman who yearned to believe.

Tonight, she wanted to believe in Lyle Thomas.

B
efore dawn on Sunday morning, Sylvia headed for the kitchen. Though she believed she was the only person up, she found Lyle on the lobby sofa, drinking a cup of coffee he must have cadged from yesterday's supply in the urn and micro waved.

Dressed for the day in khaki trousers and a blue knit shirt, he was bent forward, staring into the coffee mug as though it contained tea leaves.

Sylvia went to him and reached for the cup.

He looked up at her. Light from the small lamp that Mary always left on in the lobby fell across his eyes in just the right way, emphasizing they were the same shade as his shirt. Locking eyes with him made Sylvia's stomach feel like she was on a roller coaster.

“Let me start some fresh coffee so you don't have to drink this swill,” she offered.

Lyle held on to the cup and her gaze. “Let me take you out today. We'll taste some wine, see what else looks fun.”

It sounded wonderful, but … “I haven't asked for the day off.”

“Tell them who you are and take the rest of your life off.”

Sylvia pressed her lips together. Not only was it unfair to Mary and Buck, but now that Lyle had arrived, it was wrong to let them think he'd abused her.

Now she tempered, “I was off yesterday morning …” Was that a faint shush of footstep somewhere downstairs?

“When you ran out on me,” he said in an even tone. “I think I failed to mention that last night.”

“I did run.” Maybe that was why he'd held back. No matter, she owed him the truth. “In the past twenty-four hours, I've changed my mind about a lot of things.”

“So talk to Mary about taking the day off.” Lyle made it sound simple.

“You could talk about it,” Mary said flatly, from the top of the lobby stairs.

Sylvia jumped and jerked the mug from Lyle, slopping coffee on both their shoes.

She didn't miss how quickly he pushed to his feet and faced the bantam woman with her fists planted on her hips. Mary's face was nearly as ruddy as her red tracksuit.

“That sounded like no,” Lyle said.

“Very astute.” Mary turned and marched through the dining room, slamming her palm against the swinging door to push into the kitchen.

Sylvia looked at Lyle. Then she followed Mary through the dining room and caught the door on its back swing. Shoving through, she grabbed the woman by the sleeve. “Wait. This isn't what you think.”

Mary gasped. Sylvia let her go. “I'm sorry. I just have to tell you …”

Lyle came through on another cycle of the moving door.

Mary looked up at him. “Buck!” she shouted.

Sylvia backed away, bumping against Lyle. He took her elbow and drew her with him around on the opposite side of the island beneath a rack of copper pots and pans. From downstairs, they heard the swift rapping of Buck climbing the stairs.

In seconds, he burst in wearing green and white striped pajamas. “What's wrong, Mary?”

Lyle answered in what Sylvia thought might be his best courtroom voice, courteous, yet carrying. “I'm glad you're here, Mr. Kline. There's something we need to straighten out.”

Buck moved behind Mary, his hands on her shoulders. A glance from Lyle ceded Sylvia the floor.

She swallowed. “My name is Sylvia Cabot … Chatsworth. My father is Lawrence Chatsworth …”

“The Senator?” A line appeared between Buck's brows.

“The same,” Lyle interjected.

Mary's eyes narrowed. “I heard some guests talking about his daughter being missing.”

Buck stared at Sylvia. “I saw the story on the Internet. You're a lot different from the pictures I saw there.”

“One's a debutante shot,” Lyle provided.

“People are thinking you might be kidnapped or murdered,” Buck said. “What are you doing here?”

Sylvia opened her mouth and closed it. How could she tell them she hated being a celebrity without it sounding shallow? How could the average person understand?

Lyle came to her rescue. “Since you folks don't seem interested in tabloid television or magazines, and don't even take the
Chronicle,
you can't know what the paparazzi have put Sylvia through since her father's campaign and election.”

Mary looked at Lyle in a guarded manner and turned to Sylvia. “Who beat you up and put you out of the car on the highway?”

“I wrecked my Jaguar. It's down in the canyon at the Highway 29 intersection.”

Mary's hand went to her throat. “You just left it there?”

“I was already running away that night. My purse with all my ID, my cell phone, and money is stuck under the dash, so when I climbed back up to the road, I tried to hide who I was.”

Lyle helped. “Imagine what reporters would have done to her over a late-night accident. She could have taken a hundred breath tests, and she still would have been tried and convicted of drunken or drugged driving in the press.”

Sylvia mouth dropped open. She hadn't thought of that; it would still happen when her location came out. Her hiding would serve to confirm she'd been DUI.

She looked at her benefactors. “I'm not ready to go back. Won't you please keep my secret, at least for a while?”

Buck gave Mary a questioning look. “I don't like it.”

Mary pointed at Lyle. “Where does he come in?”

Lyle let her field the question. Did she imagine he held his breath?

The Klines apparently hadn't seen “On the Spot” or the infamous kiss. So Sylvia kept it simple. “I … guess we're seeing each other.”

An hour later, Lyle held the rear kitchen door open for Sylvia.

With scrambled eggs accented with bacon and chives, toasted English muffin with thick-cut orange marmalade, and lots of fresh hot coffee under his belt, he was feeling as good as he had since the evening at Ice, anticipating his first date with Sylvia.

Hey, if they were “seeing each other,” then last night's shared pizza qualified for number two, and they were on their third, as they bid good-bye to Buck and Mary.

Nice people, who had not only insisted Sylvia take the day off, but who had agreed to keep her secret and let her go on working for them. Therefore, she'd helped with breakfast while Lyle watched in amazement as this new version of Sylvia continued to unfold.

Everything would be perfect, if not for his continued unease about doing the right thing. He had gone to bed without calling the Senator and had decided not to do so unless Sylvia indicated she was ready to return home.

Even as he embarked on exploring the attraction between them, he felt torn. On the one hand, even if no money had changed hands, he had agreed to let the Senator know if he found his daughter. Keeping him in the dark constituted, if not a breach of contract, then one of promise. On the other hand, the case he'd made to Buck and Mary about the wringer Sylvia had been through made calling her father seem criminal.

To be fair, Lyle ought to tell her about Chatsworth's big money offer. But he had a feeling that if he did, she'd never accept his showing up at the inn as coincidence.

A few steps ahead of him, Sylvia suddenly bent for a basketball that lay against the rear steps. She tossed it from one hand to the other with a look of challenge.

Without effort, Lyle snagged it from her and scoped out the hoop above the concrete drive. He bent his knees, raised his arms, and sent it flying.

It swooshed through the basket without touching the rim.

Sylvia exploded from watching the ball's arc, scrambled, and retrieved it on the rebound.

Lyle moved into position in front of her, arms spread. “Tough gal, huh?”

“Tougher than you can imagine.”

She dribbled in agile motions, passing from one hand to the other. When he tried to reach in and snag the ball again, he failed.

She ducked under his arm and went in for a layup.

Swoosh.

Lyle chuckled and held up a hand in a “stop” motion. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

She gave the ball an accurate kick that banked it off a barbeque grill and sent it back to where they'd found it. “I used to shoot some coed hoops. When you go to a girls' school, any opportunity to see boys is taken.” She grinned. “That's where I learned that the bigger the guy, the easier it is to get around him. If you're quick.”

He started walking and waited for her to fall in step beside him. As soon as they were out of sight of the kitchen, he sneaked his arm up around her and snugged her against his side. “How's that for quick?”

As he'd intended, Sylvia laughed and turned toward him. Keeping it light, he gave her a hard hug and dropped a fast kiss on her forehead. “Let's go have some fun.”

Sylvia settled into the leather passenger seat in Lyle's Mercedes. When he got in, she was once more aware of what a big man he was. And with the convertible top up, what an intimate space the interior of a sports car made.

If she moved her arm to the left, just a little …

Before she got caught up in fantasy, she owed Lyle thanks. “You sure helped me handle telling Buck and Mary who I am.”

“Least I could do.”

He started the engine. Feeling daring, she detained him with a hand on his sleeved upper arm. “Maybe you
could
be my Sir Galahad.”

He turned and looked into her eyes. There was that weightless roller-coaster sensation again. Sylvia slipped her hand down, skimming it along the golden hairs on his forearm.

“I won't be able to drive us anywhere unless you stop that,” he growled. “Or at least give me a rain check.”

Because she wanted to visit the wine country, she pulled back, but gave him a smile she hoped would make him feel as reckless as she did this morning. Sometime during the night, she'd given up worrying how Lyle had found her and decided to believe his version. He seemed to be a man of integrity, so she should trust him.

He took her wrist, turned her hand, and lifted it to his lips. His breath heated her skin, just before his parted lips grazed her wrist below the base of her thumb.

In a shaky voice, she got out, “We'd both better wait till later.”