The Senator’s Daughter (16 page)

So focused was Lyle on the man he'd been waiting for that it took a moment to register the woman who'd retreated to the rail overlooking the burbling waters. Some tension in the way she stood caused him to glance over.

Black jeans, red plaid shirt, curling cloud of midnight hair … her knuckles white, gripping the rail, and here came the moment of truth.

“Good afternoon, miss,” Lyle offered to her stiff-shouldered back.

She turned, still holding the white-painted wood. Eyes the color of midnight glowed, pleading yet proud, begging and defying him.

Would he expose her?

S
ylvia met Lyle's piercing gaze, trying to strike a balance between communicating with him and not letting anyone else detect her desperation. The silence lengthened.

Lyle's Adam's apple bobbed; he put out his hand. She extended her own.

Their palms touched, slid alongside until the handshake was fully engaged. His skin warmed hers, her fingers barely wrapped around to the side of his big hand.

Lyle squeezed, a nice firm greeting. Sylvia strengthened her own grip.

The clash of their eyes underwent a softening and, for reasons she could not fathom, she felt the sudden sting of tears. Lyle blurred.

Their hands clasped too long for a casual greeting. Sylvia was afraid to blink or a flood would break over her bottom lid and run down. Instead, she stared at Lyle's red polo shirt.

Finally, he spoke. “A pleasure to meet you.”

In his mind's eye, a half-million dead presidents blew away on the afternoon breeze. Chatsworth would pay if Lyle delivered his daughter, not if he helped her hide.

But with only an instant's observation of her too-bright eyes, he'd known he was going to play along.

Of course, this didn't have to be final. He'd get her alone and talk her into coming back to the City. Pass go, and collect.

Right now, he concentrated on keeping his face neutral. It was tough when the simple graze of their palms made him want to pull Sylvia against him.

Mindful of their audience, he ended the contact and took a half step back. Mary must have picked up on the undercurrent, for she studied him with renewed suspicion.

Lyle turned his attention back to Andre. “When I came out, I believe I heard you mention touring your winery.”

Andre gave a reluctant-looking nod. “I was thinking of taking Miss Cabot.”

“Miss Cabot?”

“Miss Sylvia Cabot,” Buck amplified. “She works for us.”

“And you've not had the chance to tour the winery?” Lyle lifted a brow.

“I've only been here a short while,” Sylvia said.

“Really.”

Her eyes shot sparks at him.

He turned back to Andre. “I'd appreciate it if you'd let me tag along. I've been on canned tours, but the chance to look behind the scenes with a vintner of your caliber …” Shameless flattery.

Evidently effective; a smile tugged at the corners of Andre's mouth. Lyle couldn't tell whether Sylvia wanted him to go. Probably not.

“Were you thinking of going this afternoon?”

Andre continued to hesitate, looking at Sylvia as if he didn't want to share his plaything.

Lyle ignored her and kept his focus on Andre. This was a priceless opportunity to get his foot in the door at Villa Valetti. “I'm told you make the finest Chardonnay in California.”

The vintner gave a little bow. “Thank you, but I think Milenko Grgich or Jess Jackson might want to talk to you about that.”

Lyle chuckled. A moment later, he hit pay dirt.

“Shall we go?” Andre suggested.

On the way out, Andre mentioned he'd walked down from his place. Lyle reported his car carried only two adults, the tiny rear seat barely held a sack of groceries.

Sylvia said she didn't have a vehicle. Lyle wondered what she'd done with the Jag; her father had said it disappeared when she did.

On the stroll through the vineyards, Andre pointed out a plot of his famous chardonnay grapes. A little farther on, the vines heavy with green grapes gave way to some with bluish-purple clusters.

Lyle twisted off one of the globes and found it luscious. He passed another to Sylvia who met his eyes nervously.

“This is a project dear to my heart,” Andre said. “Sangiovese, the main grape used in the making of Chianti.”

“Isn't Chianti a region in Tuscany?” Lyle had done his reading while attempting to transform from farm worker to gentleman.

“Quite right. I will be making a Chianti-style wine. Only the members of the association of the Gallo Nero, the black rooster in Chianti, can use that appellation.”

“Like Bordeaux,” Sylvia supplied.

This was crazy. Walking not three feet from Sylvia, tossing off small talk as though they had just met, they climbed steadily between the rows of vines. From the Lava Springs Inn next to the river, there was at least a five-hundred-foot elevation gain to Andre's mountaintop.

When they stepped out of the fields near the guardhouse, the man inside stared. Lyle grinned and waved.

“Luigi has been with me for years.” Andre acknowledged his security precautions. “I have a tasting room, but no regular hours. It is all by appointment, as almost everything I make sells out before it is bottled.”

“I've had your wine,” Lyle challenged.

“I said almost,” Andre volleyed.

Villa Valetti was reached by a winding brick drive, which made a half circle in front of the main entrance. Bronze sculptures graced the landscaped curve and a magnificent porte cochere flanked a glass-walled conservatory.

Andre held the door for Lyle and Sylvia.

Inside, the gentle splash of stone fountains made music in the original garden room Andre said had been built by Aldo Valetti for his bride, Antonia Cavilli. Aldo had fled Italy in 1938 ahead of the war in Europe, married the San Francisco daughter of an Italian family in the import business, and transplanted his family's wine-making tradition to the Napa Valley.

The gamble had paid off. Aldo built the villa in the style of his family home in Italy and was poised to participate in the postwar rejuvenation of a wine industry crippled by Prohibition.

“Our father always expected Tony to be the winemaker. When he chose real estate … The only thing that has redeemed him is staying married to Janine.”

“You sound as though that's pretty dull,” Sylvia observed.

“Not at all. Tony and I are different.”

Lyle suspected there was more to that statement than met the eye. If Andre took such pride in being a winemaker, was he glad his brother had chosen to compete in another arena?

Andre leaned toward Sylvia as though Lyle wasn't there. “I married three times, foolishly, to young women of society. The bishop is heartily tired of procuring annulments and tells me I should have waited for a woman with depth, intelligence, and strength.”

Andre's dark eyes bored into Sylvia's and made her uncomfortable. If he knew who she was, he'd say so.

Wouldn't he?

Lyle clearly knew.

Why would Andre not call her out if he recognized her? Perhaps without her makeup and wardrobe, her disguise was better than she imagined.

They moved on through the house. In the great room, with a fireplace twenty men could stand in, the walls were festooned with hunting trophies and racks containing hunting rifles. As they passed through an archway, Sylvia came face to face with a giraffe that had been cut off at the neck. Its glass eyes, fringed by inch-long lashes, gazed at her.

“That trophy was taken by my man Luigi, on my last safari in Botswana.”

She noted that though some men would have admired the mounted animals and weapons, Lyle did not.

“Let me show you the cellars.” Andre led the way.

In a cave hollowed out of the hillside, cool darkness reigned. Barrels that Andre said were Nevers oak from France lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The mingled aroma of wine and wood made Sylvia's mouth water.

Andre pulled the bung from the top of a barrel, applied a glass tube with a suction device, and withdrew a pale, almost greenish liquid. From his pants pocket, he produced a small silver tasting cup, filled it, and offered it to Sylvia.

She sipped, and while she swished the sample of wine around her mouth, Andre gauged her reaction with alert eyes. Trained at her parents' table, as well as attending events like Wilson McMillan's house party where nothing but the best was served, she knew her way around wine.

“It's more nutty than the usual Chardonnay, an interesting touch,” she observed.

Andre appeared to recall that Lyle was with them and offered him some.

“Another to try.” Andre tapped another sample from a barrel that bore a different numbered code and date. He sampled first, and Sylvia thought he looked the quintessential winemaker, closing his eyes while he tasted. She'd heard that professionals spit out the wine, but Andre swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing.

She tasted the second variety and found it to be an even smoother blend of fruit and buttery oak than the first.

“The character comes from adding a bacteria that coverts the natural grape malic acid to lactic acid. It has a smoother mouthfeel.” Andre drew a measure for Lyle. As she stood between the two men, it fell to her to pass the silver taster across.

When Lyle put it to his lips, she wondered if the rim was still warm from the touch of hers. “A complex finish,” he said.

Andre acknowledged their praise with an unhappy shrug. “Unfortunately, we will not see any more wine from those vines.”

“Why not?” Lyle frowned. “If they produce a vintage this delightful …”

“They are dying of
phylloxera
damage. A common parasite.” Andre sounded sad. “In the past four years, we went from getting twenty-five tons of grapes per acre to below ten tons.”

“How many cases of wine come from a ton of grapes?” Sylvia inquired.

“Maybe seventy-five.” Andre led the way out of the cellar into sunlight.

The threesome looked down at the rounded hills planted in hundreds of broad curves. Andre pointed to an area where the vines had been pulled out. “We will be replanting down there.”

He frowned at the beautiful view. “This kind of financial setback, along with rising property taxes and fuel costs, makes things difficult, as it is for farmers all over the country.”

Sylvia made a sympathetic sound and caught a sharp look from Lyle.

Andre went on, “I need more acreage, and the price of land in this valley runs well over fifty thousand an acre.” His voice rose a little. “But did you know that the economics of wine making really only allow a profit on much cheaper land?”

“You mean only the grape growers and vintners who bought their land when the prices were lower are really making money?” She'd thought everything in the Napa Valley automatically turned to gold.

“All the weekend winemakers moving in have been paying a premium for the beauty of the valley. I would sell my soul to the devil if he could roll back land prices for a month!”