The Senator’s Daughter (15 page)

As soon as Lyle could do so without attracting attention, he set aside his napkin. With a smile for his table companions, he sauntered to the kitchen door and through it.

Mary Kline turned from the sink, where she was running water over a plate. There was no one else in the open workspace.

“Help you?” she asked in a guarded way.

“I just wanted to say thanks for a wonderful breakfast,” Lyle tempered. “Did you do all that yourself or does your husband help?”

Looking resigned, she set the plate down, shut off the water, and settled her hip against the drain board. “Buck's latest project is building a greenhouse so we can have fresh herbs and salad vegetables year-round.”

Lyle couldn't help it; he took his focus off Mary for a look around, checking out the pantry, noting the other exit went outside.

“If you're looking for
her,
she isn't here.”

“I…”

“Sylvia, if that's her real name, which I doubt, has every right to seek asylum from anyone who hurt her.”

“Hurt her?”

“So if you're the one who beat her up and bruised her face so she ran with just the clothes on her back, you've come up against a problem, mister. She doesn't want you to find her.”

Lyle found it hard to believe Sylvia had been beaten and escaped without calling in every cop in central California. Equally difficult to imagine her cracking herself in the head and spinning a story so elaborate without changing her name to Heather or Kerry.

He reached for his wallet and brought out his business card. “Look, I'm with the San Francisco DA's office. I haven't got a wife or girlfriend to beat up, and yes, I caught a glimpse of a nice-looking woman through the door and wanted to check her out.” He passed the card over; Mary frowned at it. “Last I knew that wasn't a crime.”

“Will you be checking out this morning?” Mary suggested.

Lyle smiled, hoping to disarm her. “I have business here which may take a few days, working on a case.”

It was Mary's turn to hesitate.

“I'd like to stay over,” Lyle said, “if you'll have me.”

When she relented, he made short work of taking his leave.

Yet, as he prepared to drive up to Villa Valetti, he began to believe again the woman he'd seen was Sylvia. A bruise could have been done with makeup, and what better place to hide than this remote corner of the valley, nestled against the forest? Helping make breakfast at an inn this fancy wasn't exactly a hardship. And if she'd convinced Mary she was hiding from an abuser, it gave a good excuse to stay in the kitchen where no one would see her.

He vowed before the day was out, he'd be face to face with the mystery woman.

Sylvia walked for hours, relishing the pure air, primeval forest, and solitude. Since becoming an adult, she'd never spent much time alone except to sleep, but now she thought back on her walks in Muir Woods when she was younger. She especially savored today's ramble, because she feared her hard-won interlude was about to end.

Was it possible Lyle had come to the inn without knowing she was there? When their eyes had met, his expression had been one of curiosity rather than recognition.

What were the chances he'd checked out this morning? Unlikely on a Saturday, he wouldn't be due back at his office until Monday.

As hours passed, she savored the exertion of climbing better than a health club workout. Below, the Napa Valley stretched away miles to the south, fields of vines on the flat floor, along with those scattered on rolling slopes. Multimillion-dollar homes tucked away with only their roofs visible. She recalled her parents recently talking about a country home up here—her father had postponed it, said the time to strike would be when prices went down.

Around noon, Sylvia found a seat on a pile of volcanic boulders and broke open her lunch. A wonderful sourdough aroma rose, along with a fruity scent. When she bit into a strawberry a little fountain of juice sprayed.

A bite of cheese and she slaked her thirst with a long draw at her water bottle. If she were with someone, a man, they'd probably be having a nice glass of Napa wine.

Someone … no, not just someone.

If, as Sylvia feared, Lyle were staying for the weekend, going back to the inn would almost surely result in a meeting. If that happened under the wrong circumstances, say in front of Buck and Mary, and Lyle blurted out something revealing who she was … she'd be out of her “job” in a heartbeat. Softhearted Mary would demand she stop keeping the world in suspense and go tell her mother and father she was safe.

Sylvia thought about doing just that.

Laura Cabot Chatsworth may have carried on with her public appearances, but wouldn't any professional? Sylvia tried to tell herself her mother's work setting up the battered women's shelter was important enough for her to carry on with it.

On the other hand, deep inside, she believed if someone really cared, they would be in constant touch with the police and whatever private investigator Lawrence would have hired. They'd curtail their social and business life. If her folks had gone on a cruise and the ship went down, would she go clubbing during the search and rescue?

No way was she ready to go home.

Finished with her simple meal, she lay back in the sun, trying to recover the feeling of serenity.

Not to be. Thoughts of Lyle intruded, unsettling in a different way, but nonetheless disconcerting.

If she went back and found him at the inn, by this time tomorrow, they might share a picnic in this spot. This very evening, he might take her down into the valley to a fine restaurant.

Was that what she wanted?

Unbidden memories arose; of the way his arms felt around her, of the mastery of his mouth on hers …

Should she try to find Lyle? Take a chance he'd be willing to keep her secret? Or sneak back to her room and tell Mary she felt ill until a certain male checked out?

When Sylvia came in sight of the inn around two o'clock, she had not decided what to do. As she didn't know whether Lyle had checked out, she decided to go up to the lobby desk and peek at the room roster. If he'd gone, her dilemma was solved.

On the way upstairs, her hand sliding up the polished mahogany rail, she heard voices in the lobby.

“That you, Sylvia?” Buck called.

Crimony, why had she used her real first name? While she considered exiting the inn and hiding out until after dark, Mary added, “Come up and meet a friend.” She didn't sound too upset about being stuck with the breakfast dishes.

Sylvia most emphatically did not want to see anyone, with her hair windblown and crammed back in a messy ponytail, her sunburned cheeks without powder …

But it was certain they wouldn't identify Lyle as their “friend.” It was probably some other retiree to the valley; hopefully one who thought “On the Spot” was for young folks.

Four steps and she'd be able to see. She reached and released the band holding her hair, shook it out over her shoulders.

Three.

Every person she saw increased her risk of being unmasked.

Two.

If whoever it was remarked on her resemblance to a certain senator's daughter, she would laugh and act flattered.

One.

God, it was Andre Valetti. In a little seated tableau with the innkeepers. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

She'd met this man at half-a-dozen soirees. He'd kissed her hand ferchrissake, playing … or perhaps he really was the continental gentleman.

Probably in his early forties, Andre was a slimmer version of his missing older brother, but still broad chested and no one would ever call either man tall. A map of Italy overrode the facial features of both men.

Mary got up from the burgundy brocade sofa with crocheted doilies on the arms and back. “There she is. She's really saved us around here.”

“I apologize about leaving you with the dishes, Mary.”

“I think I understand.”

Andre rose from an opposing wing chair, his liquid dark eyes on Sylvia.

She swallowed.

Buck put his big hands on his jeans-clad knees, pushed to his feet shod in ostrich-skin boots, and made the introduction. “This is Sylvia Cabot… no relation to the New England ones.” He chuckled.

She cringed, if he only knew.

“Sylvia,” Buck went on, “our neighbor, Andre Valetti, of Villa Valetti Winery.”

Andre offered his hand.

Sylvia let her shoulders curve forward to minimize her breasts. Rather than show her teeth with her smile, she kept her lips together in a line. Instead of taking his hand and shaking it with confidence, she barely touched his fingers.

“Let us all go out on the porch,” Andre suggested.

As though he were in charge, Buck and Mary moved toward the French doors.

Sylvia considered excusing herself, but Andre slipped a hand beneath her arm and guided her outdoors. Looking around the elevated rear veranda, he inhaled deeply of the climbing roses. “I believe this is one of my favorite places.”

“Quite an honor, considering what your place is like.” Buck brushed his sandy hair back from his forehead in a self-conscious gesture.

Andre turned his focus once more upon Sylvia. At any second, she expected him to point a finger and announce her identity.

Lyle parked in front of the inn. Though Andre Valetti couldn't know he was looking for him, the man was elusive as could be. At nine a.m., the guard had reported he was still in the City, but would be back within the hour.

So Lyle had staked out the only road in to the villa. He waited the requisite hour, and another, and through anyone's definition of lunchtime. Once, he thought he heard the chop of a helicopter on the opposite side of the little mountain.

Finally, he decided to go back to the inn, cadge a snack from Mary Kline, then present himself at the gatehouse again.

Grumpy, for the excellent French toast had long since burned off, Lyle entered the main doors and started upstairs to the lobby. If nobody were about, he'd head straight for the kitchen and see whether there were any strawberries or more substantial fodder.

At this time on a Saturday, most guests would be out wine tasting … he expected to encounter nothing more than dusty sunbeams in the lobby. Instead, he heard voices on the rear porch.

Through the French doors, he saw his hosts talking with a short, dark-haired man who had his back to the inn. As Lyle drew closer, something rang familiar.

How in hell had Andre gotten here without Lyle seeing him? He must have walked down from his place but … Lyle strode over to the open door.

Andre was speaking. “You must allow me to take you on a private tour of my winery.”

Lyle stepped out onto the porch. Buck offered a mild expression for one of his guests. Mary's brows drew together as they had this morning when she thought he was a man who abused women. Andre inclined his head.

“Lyle Thomas, SFADA.”

“Scusi?”

“Sorry for the shorthand. I'm with the San Francisco district attorney's office.”