The Senator’s Daughter (23 page)

Into third gear and he dropped his hand onto Sylvia's thigh. He stroked, sliding his hand higher while he drove expertly on the winding road toward Lava Springs.

Sylvia sighed, almost a moan.

“I'm resisting the impulse to pull off at an overlook and drag you onto my lap,” Lyle teased.

Oysters or not, there was no question in her mind she wanted Lyle. Beginning with last night's gentle press of his lips on hers, his restraint had been a huge part of the allure. A silly one on one at basketball, sampling wine and cheese—imagining the rich appreciation Lyle had for drink and food focused on pleasing a woman—tantalizing glimpses of his athletic body at the spa, sexy repartee about what oysters might or might not do …

Though each skirmish had resulted in a corresponding retreat, now they rose through the darkness toward the inn. When they arrived, would they go in together, wordlessly accepting their game had advanced to the next level?

The hallway at the Lava Springs Inn was lit at intervals by small nightlights. Neither Lyle nor Sylvia spoke, as if their silence erased the necessity of discussing what might happen next.

As he'd told her over oysters, he was in trouble. He wanted more. He wanted them on a bed. He wanted all night.

His room was the one at the end of the hall, but about halfway down, Sylvia stopped. “I'm here.” She nodded at a door.

“I guess I thought your room was downstairs.”

“No.”

Her room would be fine.

Lyle raised his hand and placed it between Sylvia's shoulder blades. He felt her skin's warmth through her tank top and the shirt over it.

She looked up, her dark eyes shining in the dim light.

“I can't tell you when I've had a better day.” He stroked over her back, keeping it light.

“I've been on fancy trips,” she said, “but the things we did today seemed different.”

Lyle, who hadn't been on fancy trips, withdrew his hand. “The spa and dinner weren't cheap.”

She shook her head. “That's not what I meant. But the mud bath was really… old-fashioned, the way things used to be when people took the waters.”

He nodded. “Not a thing like the faux atmosphere at so many hot spots in the City.”

“Speaking of San Francisco, are you going back to work after you meet Andre Valetti tomorrow?”

Lyle's muscles tightened. She didn't know about his “leave of absence.” Nor how his interest in Andre, or rather Tony, stemmed from his hot button about people who disappeared. “I can stay over tomorrow night.”

She smiled up at him, and he shared her relief that they need not yet part.

The other thing she didn't know was about her father and his reward money.

Tell her, demanded his inner voice. Before …

His libido argued if he destroyed the mood, there would be no bed.

Putting a hand on the wall above her head, he cleared his throat. “You know, there's something I need to tell you.”

She put a finger to his lips. “Your tone is far too serious. You said this morning we were going to have fun.”

He grabbed her hand and lowered it, holding the contact. “I am serious. It's about your father …”

Black brows made a vee. “Whatever you've got to say about him has nothing to do with our experiment on the effect of oysters on libido.”

That ought to be clear enough, even for a confirmed nice guy. None of the men he knew, except possibly Cliff, would fail to get her message. The one shining in her eager eyes and saying, “Shut up and kiss me.”

He tried again. “You father came to my office when you went missing.”

“He thought you would know where I was because of the kiss.” She showed no surprise.

“Actually, he wanted to hire me to find you.”

Sylvia laughed and hooked both her hands around the back of his neck. “You found me. Somehow I don't think you've told him.”

“Of course, I haven't.”

“Well, then …” Her voice was like silk, inviting …

She tugged at his neck, and Lyle slowly lowered his head. His pulse pounded in his ears and in the swelling ache at his groin. “All day … no, not just all day …” He brushed his lips across Sylvia's cheekbone. “Ever since I met you …” His kiss grazed her temple. “You've been making me crazy.”

A chuckle emerged, low and throaty. “Me?” Her hand lifted and barely brushed the back of his neck.

Goose bumps ran down his back and arms. “Yeah,” he growled, “doing things like that.”

She twined her fingers in his hair and drew him down. “And like this?”

Their lips met, instant heat melding them. Tonight, there were no cameras. And no more “Mr. Nice Guy,” unless keeping Sylvia's secret from her father counted.

Sylvia had grasped at Ice how Lyle hated being taunted by Julio Castillo for being a nice guy. She'd surmised he sometimes held back in order not to intimidate people with his size.

This evening, he seemed freed of his former restraint.

She let her head fall back and gave herself to the moment. The combination of Lyle's magnificent strength and essential vulnerability combined to create a hunger for more.

He deepened the kiss. His tongue plumbed inside her mouth, mimicking the act of love he clearly wanted. Everything said he had no question as to whether or when.

Her knees went weak, as they had on the porch last night. Lyle moved to cup her breast; her nipple beaded beneath his touch.

To do more in the hallway was to invite a charge of indecency. Her breath came faster, and she imagined bearing his weight upon her. How her hands would slide over his strong bare back … and there was the desire, no, the need to know what made Lyle tick. Had his mother made him peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches? Did he ever have a new puppy? How much had he burned the midnight oil in first-year law school?

How she yearned to give in to what had felt inevitable since the evening at Ice.

But that would be the outcome “On the Spot” expected of Sylvia Chatsworth. Lyle's boss had called her a she-cat, a tramp.

“I …” she whispered.

He slid his hand down from her breast to the juncture of her thighs. At his touch, a new shaft of desire pierced her. Her hips jerked; she pressed against his palm.

“Baby,” he groaned, grinding the base of his thumb against the seam between her legs. “You want me.”

She couldn't deny it.

But she hadn't expected his touch would bring both joy and pain. His mention of her father reminded her of the loss of him their disparate lives might bring.

One thing Lawrence Chatsworth had taught her was to be true to herself. And she couldn't go to bed with Lyle when there was still doubt whether she would wind up inside a cliché, that is, hating herself in the morning.

This was nuts. She was putty in powerful hands, sagging against him, and she was going to say no? There'd been a word for that at her exclusive girls' school—
cocktease.

“Lyle…”

He tensed.

And drew back.

“You want me,” he said in a low voice, “but…?”

“I want you,” she bit out, “yet…”

Lyle took his hands off her and straightened. “I get the idea ‘yet' isn't any different from ‘but.'”

It wasn't. It meant Lyle walking away and Sylvia leaning against the back of her closed bedroom door, her palms pressed to smooth wood.

She stood for a long while, deep breathing. It helped, and it didn't.

Sylvia was still aglow from Lyle's touch. She did want him, with every cell in her body.

But…

Was she crazy? The man was beautiful, strong, caring. He was the real deal, and she was in her room and he in his. Right now, she was supposed to be in his arms, fulfilling all the promises they had made each time their gazes collided and held. Exploring what turned him on, and she imagined he would be equally as devoted to her pleasure.

In all her life, Sylvia could not remember feeling like this. She was on fire for Lyle, but she was afraid of something this powerful. What if she gave herself to him, body and soul, and found out he wasn't who she believed he was? What if they made love here in Lava Springs, with all the promises it implied, at least in her mind, and when they got back to the City it wasn't the same?

How could she be sure? How could she know anything?

She banged her fist against the door. Then recoiled because Lyle's room wasn't far and he might have heard.

“That went well,” Lyle told his reflection in the dresser mirror in his room.

Shaking his head, he went to the window overlooking the river. He'd left it open this morning and the curtain stirred in the breeze. Outside, the Lava River chattered over the rocks.

He pulled down the roller blind.

If only he hadn't let his frustration make him leave Sylvia in the hallway with a curt, “Good night, then.” He should have tried to find out what she meant by “but” and “yet.”

Now, he was going to spend the night wondering what had made her pull back. And imagining all kinds of things.

Had he pushed too much or not enough? Had his mention of her father made her recall the difference between their backgrounds? Had she decided he was only good enough to tease?

Or had she divined he hadn't been entirely level with her?

He should go down the hall right now and tell her about the Senator's half-million-dollar offer. Let her know that even though financial security was another of his hot buttons, he'd been sitting on her secret at considerable expense.

He started toward the door and stopped. His desire for her had not subsided. If he knocked at her door, she'd think he was back for another try at seduction.

With a sigh, Lyle decided his best option was a cold shower.

M
onday morning, Lyle presented himself to Luigi at the Villa Valetti gate. “I have an appointment.”

“Yes, sir.” Though Luigi was polite, he wore a holstered Glock Lyle had failed to notice before. Of course, this was the man who had killed the giraffe mounted in Andre's trophy room. “Mr. Valetti is in the Sangiovese, if you'd care to park and walk down.” He gestured at an empty gravel lot beyond his kiosk.