The Senator’s Daughter (14 page)

He could have sought out a resort, found some golfing partners in the bar this evening, and been on the links by eight a.m.

To his surprise, it didn't interest him. There was something about this place, an aura suggesting infinite possibility.

Sylvia walked through the vineyards toward the inn. With the main harvest only days away, she pulled a bluish-purple grape that looked like a globe of frosted glass. Biting in, with the sweet explosion in her mouth and juice running down her chin, she burst out laughing.

She couldn't recall the last time she'd been amused. Unless it was when she'd been with Lyle, the way he'd quipped about his rain-ruined suit being “a wash,” … he seemed like the kind of man who laughed a lot.

What if she gave in to instinct and called him? Told him where she was and why she was hiding out. It would be a relief to have someone on her side when she was either recognized or decided to go public.

But she knew she would not. She wasn't ready to risk having her cover blown.

This morning she'd found a copy of the
San Francisco Chronicle
on the lobby sofa. It must have belonged to a guest, for Buck and Mary did not subscribe. The paper had been folded open to a story about Sylvia, complete with photo, or perhaps the reader had been interested in the side ad for Mikimoto pearls.

She'd snagged the copy, taken it to her room, and studied it. No mention of anyone finding her car, just speculation about whether she was dead or alive. And as she started thinking about her folks and beginning to soften, a mention that even with her daughter's disappearance Laura Chatsworth had not curtailed her public appearances.

Lyle enjoyed the guest wine-and-cheese reception on the porch overlooking the Lava River. Having a glass of vintage Villa Valetti, he broke off in mid-sentence his opinion on the vagaries of the stock market, leaving an investment banker and his dermatologist wife waiting for him to finish.

Even on the other side of the river, in dappled evening shadow, Lyle imagined he saw clearly. She was the same size; the generous curve of hips swelled a pair of black jeans. It was hard to judge the breasts with the oversized flannel shirt. Her hair, black and cloudy, floated around her head and over her shoulders, where Sylvia's had always been a sleek and silken fall. Her walk, unencumbered by red stilettos, was athletic.

“Guys,” Lyle managed. “See the woman over there?”

The couple peered through the twilight.

“Think she looks like that missing senator's daughter?”

“You mean Sylvia Chatsworth?” The woman squinted.

Her husband shook his head. “I've seen her on TV, and that's not her.”

“Definitely not,” said his wife. “No style.”

Lyle wished he were as sure, but the Sylvia doppelganger was out of sight.

N
ext morning Lyle awakened in his room at the inn, expecting to feel refreshed. Instead, he had a sense of unease.

Stretching his naked body between soft sheets, he blinked in the sun streaming over the bed and ran his mental traps.

Of course, he had nothing to do at work.

On the issue of Tony Valetti, first thing after breakfast, he'd drive back up to Villa Valetti and take on Andre's rent-a-cop again. As for Sylvia, that woman walking among the trees last night couldn't have been her. This wasn't her kind of place; too peaceful for the speed at which she lived life.

So what was this dark undercurrent plaguing his morning?

Whoa, now it was coming. Flashes of dream. One in which he and Sylvia shared this big comfy bed. Together, a vision of bare skin … what would she look like under her clothes? She seemed fit, yet there was lushness to her figure. One he'd felt through her leather dress and wanted to feel without anything between them except fresh air.

Belay the air, he wanted her up tight against him the way he now remembered they'd been in the dream. Skin on skin; she smelled of flowers and the sun-washed freshness that came after a rain. He held back as long as he could, looking into her black eyes for assent before he moved on top of her. She opened her thighs, and when they joined, he felt the separateness of self slip away.

Without warning, Lyle's stomach bottomed out as though he'd plummeted off a precipice. From the exquisite pain of having her at last, he transported into a nightmare.

The deep redwood forest could have been peaceful, but he and Sylvia ran for their lives, dodging and ducking, tripping over deadfalls, scrambling. He reached for her hand.

A bullet slammed into a pine, the reek of resin rose. Too close.

Someone wanted him and Sylvia dead.

In the inn kitchen, Sylvia made vanilla French toast topped with fresh strawberries in honor of the weekend. As time passed, her confidence and sense of accomplishment had grown.

Today, every room was occupied by couples, except 2B with a single, noted on Mary's whiteboard. Accordingly, Sylvia set the places with seven at the big table, leaving the seat at one end empty.

While she worked, she took time to set aside the makings of a picnic lunch. Some of the berries, a chunk of the sourdough she'd made the French toast with, a few slices of sharp cheese from yesterday's omelets. She put in a couple of bottles of Palisades Pure Water. As soon as breakfast was over, she planned on hiking out and not returning until afternoon.

Mary came in and leaned against the doorjamb. Sylvia followed her focus to the dining-room table, set with antique silverware, Wedgewood china with painted flowers on a bone background, and crisp linen napkins folded restaurant-style. A silver urn was set up on the sideboard to hold coffee throughout the day.

“What's left for me to do?” Mary asked.

“Juice. There's cranberry in the fridge.”

Mary remained motionless. “When Buck retired from the oil business and we bought this place, we were manic. Fixing up, painting up, doing all the work ourselves. Now that we have you, I wonder how we ever managed.”

“Thank you,” Sylvia replied.

She couldn't recall the last time her mother had complimented her.

Trying to shrug off his nightmare, Lyle rose, showered, and dressed in khakis with a red polo shirt. By the time he was ready, the delightful aromas filtering in over the open transom above his door … fresh ground coffee, sausage, and something strawberry … had him ravenous.

In the dining room, sunlight poured through the casement, making rainbows where it struck cut-crystal glasses. He noted the investment banker and his wife at the end of a table with a single place setting between them. Figuring out where the singleton belonged in this bevy of twosomes, he pulled out the chair and greeted everyone.

The woman who had checked him in yesterday, Mary Kline, came through the swinging door from the kitchen with a glass coffeepot in hand. Her white apron bore a bunch of purple grapes and the salutation, “We only serve fine wines. Did you bring any?”

Lyle laughed and asked one of his tablemates to pass the cream and sugar.

Mary started bringing plates. On her third trip, the portal stayed open long enough for Lyle to glimpse someone in the kitchen—a female someone with dark hair and a red plaid shirt. Turned away, spatula in hand, doling French toast onto platters.

Lyle almost shoved back his chair. He thought better of it when Mary seemed to note his interest, and a line formed between her brows.

But he kept watching and on another trip, Lyle caught the mystery woman's profile. With black hair curling over her brow, skin sun-bronzed but devoid of makeup, she might have been Sylvia's country cousin.

As soon as Lyle finished the delicious meal, he'd go into the kitchen, casual-like, to compliment the help.

When Mary went out to serve a top-up of cranberry juice, Sylvia glanced through the doorway.

Straight into the eyes of Lyle Thomas.

A hard ache seized the back of her throat. What was he doing here? How had he tracked her down? And, having done so, why hadn't he come into the kitchen and confronted her before breakfast?

She tried to maintain an aloof expression while the door swung closed, but how could she keep the shock off her face?

Ever since she'd noticed him at Wilson McMillan's house party, all during the summer, between the time when he'd asked her out early in the summer and when she'd accepted … hadn't she been waiting, anticipating something between them?

She'd run. Now he was here.

The mere sight of him at the Klines' table, his shower-damp hair tracked with comb marks, his cobalt eyes even bluer than she recalled, made her weak.

But there was no time for hesitation. Expecting Lyle to burst through any second, she grabbed her knapsack with trembling hands and jerked the strap over her shoulder.

She'd planned to be off after doing the dishes, leaving Mary with today's bed making. When she had requested several hours off for a long hike, it had been their arrangement.

Sylvia was breaking the deal on the dishes.