The Senator’s Daughter (22 page)

“Sounds like an oxymoron to me.” Lyle stepped forward.

Jay moved behind him, eased the robe off his shoulders, and held it up as a shield. All Sylvia saw of Lyle getting into the tub was his feet along with his head and shoulders.

Sylvia let Kelly have her robe and slipped down into the smooth tub, up to her neck. The mineral bath was a little warmer than blood temperature, swirling from jets fore and aft. It felt naturally fizzy.

She risked a glance over at Lyle's tub, about four feet to her right. He was looking back. With the emotional roller coaster she was on, she found herself wishing their attendants would leave them alone.

Despite the differences in their backgrounds, notwithstanding the remark he'd just made about liking to have her father's money, he didn't act as though his motivation was gold digging. With every passing hour, she was falling more under his spell. And counting up the things they did have in common, basketball, hiking, and other athletic pursuits, a love of good food and wine, and an appreciation for high-performance sports cars.

Using a towel as a shield, Lyle got from the mineral bath over and into the tub of mud without her seeing any interesting parts and pieces. He lay back beneath a covering of thick brown, eyes closed.

Kelly gestured for Sylvia to make the move. “You'll have twelve minutes in the mud.”

Lyle must be looking. Keeping her bare back turned, she lifted a leg over the side of her tub. Inserting her foot into the mud, she winced. It must be a hundred ten degrees.

One leg, then the other, she managed to slide down into the mix of natural volcanic mud, peat, and mineral water. The earthy aroma reminded her of steaming fresh manure.

A clock on the wall faced the pair of tubs.

One minute, and Sylvia started to get used to the smell. Heat seeped into her, all the way to her bones. Three minutes and she felt like a dishrag.

Four, and the sweat ran down her brow and the back of her neck. The rest of her might sweat or not, she'd didn't know how that worked in a vat of mud.

Six minutes.

“Lyle.” There was an edge to her voice.

“I know.”

Seven.

“I don't think I can make twelve minutes in here,” she said.

Suddenly, an icy washcloth descended to drape her forehead. Sylvia couldn't see Kelly, but from the corner of her eye, she detected Jay placing an identical soothing cloth over Lyle's face.

“Ahhh.” His sigh mirrored Sylvia's.

“I was about to leap out,” she told him.

“That would make two of us.”

With the chilled cloth on her brow, she watched the clock tick off the rest of the time.

When Kelly and Jay returned to release them, Sylvia moved with alacrity to emerge from the too-hot mud. On the opposite side of his tub, Lyle loomed, looking like Bigfoot.

Kelly and Jay escorted Sylvia and Lyle to the needle shower, twisted the taps, and left them alone.

Lyle's laugh was frank and full. “I've got mud in places I didn't know I had.”

“Me, too.” Once out of the tub, the drying clay was making her itch.

The shower was at least five feet in diameter, water pulsing from all directions. “Ladies first,” Lyle gestured with a bow.

She stepped forward. Water burst from a hundred nozzles creating an invigorating spray. When she and Lyle had decided to do this, she'd imagined separate showers in addition to the separate tubs.

Sylvia's robe was God-knows-where, as was Lyle's.

Lyle moved to join her beneath the spray that transformed the clay to dark rivulets, running down to the floor and into the drain.

With Lyle and Sylvia back to back, scrubbing at the persistent coating, he tried to be discreet in his glances over his shoulder.

It was no good. She half-turned toward him, and he glimpsed her breast in profile. The nipple was not the pink he'd anticipated, but a delightful peach tone. The areola puckered in the force of the spray. And there was her belly, flat, yet with a touch of swelling flesh between her hipbones.

Discretion evaporated as blood rushed to the male part of him.

Lyle swiveled so his back was to Sylvia. He scanned the area and spotted a stack of towels about five feet away.

Though he hadn't finished getting the mud off, he made a beeline, wrapped a towel around his waist, and sat on the edge of one of the tubs.

“Lyle?”

“I think maybe we'd better take turns.” He kept his gaze on the far wall.

“Ah,” she said, still scrubbing.

A few minutes later, he heard wet footsteps on the tile and noted with relief that she was wrapped in one towel with another twisted turban-style around her head.

A few minutes' respite had done little to erase the evidence of his excitement, but he had to get clean. Without looking at Sylvia, he went back to the needle shower, dropped the towel, and proceeded to dig out the last of the stubborn mud from his armpits, the backs of his knees, and his crotch.

Just as he was finishing and reaching for a fresh towel, Jay and Kelly materialized, holding up the white terry robes. “Time for your herbal wrap.”

That was good. If Lyle were encased in layers, he wouldn't embarrass himself. Moreover, if Sylvia were covered, he might stop having these reactions.

Who was he kidding? From the first time she'd kissed him, through his tackling her on the street, to last night on the porch overlooking the Lava River … it had been clear he wanted Sylvia at an elemental level.

Today's sensual web just underlined it. From their shared wine drinking at the Montague picnic grounds to this spa game of peekaboo, being with her had him humming like a high-voltage wire. Whoever said the mud baths were for relaxing hadn't taken one with Sylvia Chatsworth.

While Jay wound steaming sheets around Lyle until he resembled a mummy, he watched Sylvia from the corner of his eye. When Kelly finished wrapping her and they were alone, he turned his head.

Sylvia's black eyes were the only part of her visible. “You look like the invisible man.” Lyle heard a muffled giggle. The skin around her eyes, crinkled from a smile, smoothed. “Are you sorry we did the coed thing?”

He decided on honesty. “It's a challenge keeping my libido under control.”

Wrapped from nose to toes in hot sheets scented with sage and citrus, Sylvia looked over into Lyle's frank blue eyes. And felt her insides do a lazy flip-flop.

“How about you?” he asked in an intimate tone that bridged the gap between the massage tables they reclined on.

She found herself smiling. “On the one hand, the heat is turning me to rubber. On the other, I've been thinking about a million volts.”

“I've been thinking about that, too.”

After the wrap and her massage, delivered by the expert hands of Kelly while Jay worked on Lyle, they were left alone to relax until they felt like donning their robes and dressing.

Sylvia lay on her stomach, breathing deeply and trying not to fall asleep. Noting how wonderfully tension-free her neck and shoulders were, she turned her head to the other side.

Lyle faced her. With his eyes closed, he looked peaceful.

Her breath escaped in a sigh, while she visualized them this close together on a bed.

He opened his eyes and studied her. “Whatever you're imagining,” he murmured, “hold that thought.”

When they exited the spa, Lyle's muscles were so warmly relaxed he could barely walk. Figuring Sylvia must be equally jelly-legged, he placed his hand under her elbow to support her.

Immediately, the state of relaxation he'd finally achieved was replaced by the electric zing of their touch.

He'd parked his Mercedes on Lincoln Avenue, Calistoga's main drag. A check of his Rolex indicated it was seven thirty. The only thing he could think of to round out a perfect day was the perfect meal. “The lunch Mrs. Montague gave us was nice, but I'm starving.”

“I could eat.”

Lyle snagged her hand, and they ambled down the street, past historic brick buildings. Seeing a place advertising California seafood, Lyle raised a brow at Sylvia. She nodded.

Their hostess greeted them and gestured toward a table by the window. Sylvia suggested they sit near the rear, using the excuse of the late sun streaming in to sit with her back to the room. After Kelly had recognized her, Lyle couldn't blame her.

He checked out the menu. “They have oysters.”

Sylvia's laugh was a clear peal. “We've been waiting weeks to eat oysters.”

Their server maintained a poker face.

“We'll have two dozen on the half shell,” Lyle ordered, along with a Napa champagne-style sparkling wine.

The oysters were perfect, slightly salty, light on the tongue. The dry bubbly cleared his palate, even as Lyle reached for more. Fresh crusty French bread completed their meal.

He swallowed the last oyster on his side of the tray and looked at Sylvia. “Think there's anything to the aphrodisiac stuff?”

She forked up another shellfish. “You never know.”

Lyle watched the oyster slide between her lips. “Because, I figure if they really work that way, I'm going to be in worse trouble this evening than I was this afternoon.”

She swallowed and sipped wine. “What trouble?” Her tone said she knew exactly what he was talking about.

“What trouble?” he pretended to muse. “Why, in spite of all that hot water and mud, the heat wrap and massage … you're getting me all tensed up again.”

“Me?” One dark brow arched. “You sure it's not the oysters?”

Lyle studied the empty shells arranged on a bed of ice. “Let's have another dozen and find out.”

A couple of hours later, after lingering over more oysters and a shared helping of creamy sweet tiramisu, Sylvia settled into the passenger seat of the Mercedes. With the convertible top down, she had a view of the sky, fading purple in the west with stars starting to appear.

After the sensual delights of the spa, the meal had been perfection.

Lyle whipped his Mercedes out of the parking space on Lincoln Avenue and followed Highway 29 out of town. With a faint squeal of tires, he rounded a sharp curve to the left, and drove along a straightaway between rows of vines. Past the intersection with Tubbs Lane, he started the climb into the dark hills.