The Senator’s Daughter (41 page)

Her indrawn breath was a sob. “Lyle, thank God.”

His recording wound up telling the caller to leave a message. “What's happened? Where are you?”

“Andre …”

“What about him?”

“He … he drugged me at the villa … brought me …”

“Where are you now?”

“A little Indian grocery at the base of Telegraph Hill…”

“I know it,” Lyle clipped out. “I'll be there in five minutes.”

Despite their audience, when Lyle appeared in the grocery doorway wearing a black jogging outfit, Sylvia ran and threw her arms around him. He was only a little damp from the mist, and though she hated to get him wet, she hugged so hard she wondered why he didn't ask her to stop.

“Baby,” he murmured. “You're all wet.”

“I ran … through the streets…”

“Shhh,” Lyle soothed. “Tell me about it in the car.” His Mercedes sat at the curb, its exhaust making a cloud.

He turned her so one arm draped over her shoulders and reached for the door. Sylvia ducked under his arm to look back at the Indian couple. “Thank you …”

Mitra lifted a hand, her silk sari falling back to reveal her slim brown arm.

Lyle ushered Sylvia out onto the sidewalk. Once she was in the leather bucket seat on the passenger side and he behind the wheel, he burst out, “The bastard drugged you?”

Sylvia looked up and down the block. No one was in sight, but she half-expected Andre to show up with a lump on his head and another gun. “I'll tell you … just drive.”

Lyle met her eyes, nodded, and slipped the car into gear. “Do you need a doctor? I can go to an ER.”

“No!”

“What about the police? Cliff phoned a detective and told him you'd been seen with Andre. They're looking for him now to find you.”

She hesitated on an indrawn breath. “Hear what happened before you decide.”

“I'm listening.” Lyle shot her an appraising look.

She met it. “This afternoon when my car was found, I decided to come clean with my folks. Like I promised you. I asked Andre to let me call …”

Ten minutes later they were still cruising the largely deserted midnight streets. She finally finished, “He claimed the National Guard had evacuated up around his place because of the mercury. I … hit him over the head with a wall clock and ran.”

“Good for you,” Lyle said grimly. “And his claim is true. My friend Cliff and I drove up to get you out of Andre's place and ran into a roadblock.”

Hearing he'd come after her, like the proverbial Sir Galahad, helped calm her after her wild flight. “I thought he … or someone … was following me so I ducked into the grocery and called you.”

“Why didn't you call your father?”

Sylvia blinked and realized the warm air from the Mercedes' heating vents was drying her eyes.

“That was what you wanted earlier?” Lyle went on.

“Yes, but…”

“Do you want me to take you to Sausalito now?”

“I…” Did she? “When I was in Andre's bedroom, I wondered if Father knew he had me locked up … oh, this sounds crazy.”

“Go on,” Lyle said evenly.

“It must have been drug paranoia, but I thought maybe it was some kind of punishment for running away. I know I promised you …”

“I think you are probably overreacting, but I'm not going to try to talk you into going home at this hour.” His tone said he wanted her to himself.

She looked over her shoulder. “Isn't your place down by the water?” That was where she wanted to go, where she wanted to stay.

“It is, but we'd better keep away from there. We can probably assume that Andre doesn't want the law in his business and won't call the police about your beaning him. But when he wakes up, all hell will break loose. My loft will be the first place he or his thug, Luigi, will look.”

A
few minutes later, Sylvia and Lyle left his car with a valet at the rate of thirty dollars a night and entered the lobby of a traditional hotel in Japantown. She checked out the moon gate in marble opposite the entry, the lighted waterfall, and a koi pond with lava rocks in a courtyard beyond a wall of glass. A vase of hothouse orchids graced a round table in front of the reception desk.

A sense of stillness about the place at this late hour made her feel safe. Even better when the valet moved Lyle's car out of view of the street.

The man behind the desk let his glance touch Lyle's duffel bag, slide off Sylvia's damply crumpled clothes and curling wet hair. He informed them the only accommodation open was their traditional Japanese suite.

At top dollar.

Lyle brought up his wallet and paid with hundred dollar bills.

Behind the black lacquered suite door was a comfortable living room, floored with crimson carpet. Silk prints on the walls portrayed the uniquely rounded mountains of Japan. At the rear was a peace garden of live bamboo, floored with sand raked into curved patterns.

When Lyle slipped off his running shoes and set them side by side, Sylvia bent to follow suit and felt the pistol in her pocket. Though it was warm in here, she shivered.

Lyle went to the bedroom, where the floor was elevated a few inches and covered with beige tatamis. The bed consisted of a cushioned queen futon laid out on the woven mat. He shoved back the folding closet door to reveal a pair of kimono robes.

“You're to get right into a hot bath,” he instructed, turning on a bronze floor lamp.

Stepping onto the smooth rushes, Sylvia brought out the small gun. “That's not why I shivered, though I am chilled. This is Andre's.”

“Whoa.” Lyle took it, holding it with the muzzle pointed down. “Smith and Wesson Chief Special.” With obvious expertise, he released the revolver's cylinder, swung it to the side, and tapped the five bullets out onto his palm. “We'd better hang onto it.”

Sylvia watched him replace the cartridges and put the pistol onto the closet shelf.

“Now get to that bath,” Lyle said. “I'll order some food and we can talk out what to do next.” He started toward the living room and turned back. “Are you sure you don't need a doctor?”

Sylvia shook her head. “I'm lucky I only took a few sips of the wine.”

Lyle lifted his hand and captured a strand of her dark hair. “Lucky for you … and for me.” He bent and brushed his lips across her forehead, then moved away.

Stripping off her wet clothes and placing them on hangers to dry, she donned a kimono and headed for the bath. In front of the peace garden's rice-paper screens, a deep slate-lined tub sat flush with the floor. Beside it sat a short-legged wooden stool and a matching bucket with a ladle.

Sylvia turned the taps and added an envelope of emerald green bath salts in a jasmine scent.

Lyle appeared in the doorway in the matching kimono, yet the robe swathing her ankles stopped at his knees.

Their eyes met and held. How precious to be with him when she'd feared she might never see him again. All the tension of being separated, all the uncertainty about whom to trust… Andre had failed … how would her father fare?

Everything came down to what she had done on instinct when dark footsteps stalked her.

She'd called Lyle.

Lyle gazed at Sylvia. Despite Andre Valetti's assault on her and the cloud of suspicion over her father, he wanted to forget all that. At this shining instant, before she went back to the world, he had Sylvia all to himself. Sheltered against the wet night, behind closed doors.

He leaned his shoulder against the tiled opening to the bath and mentally thanked the desk clerk who had, rightly or wrongly, stated this was the only open accommodation. “You know,” he told Sylvia, “in Japan the women wash the men …”

One of her brows lifted.

“But I think in San Francisco, it should be tit for tat.”

The tub was full; Sylvia closed the taps. The smoky aura of her rain-wet hair took him back to the night he'd tackled her on a sidewalk ahead of pursuing paparazzi. How trivial it now seemed; they had believed their biggest hurdle was keeping off the front page.

Sylvia moved toward him, skimming the robe off her shoulders. “You're going to bathe me?”

Lyle straightened from his comfortable slouch. “And vice versa.”

The corners of her mouth curved up. He helped her robe go south and tried to control his reaction at the sight of her always-magnificent breasts. Shrugging off his wrap, he placed them both on wall hooks.

When he turned back, Sylvia was looking at him like she was considering a banquet. Her luscious lips were parted.

Lyle reached and turned on the wall shower. “I'm told that in Japan one scrubs off,” he nodded toward the stool and bucket, “then enters the bath.”

Together, they stepped beneath the spray.

After her rush through the wet streets, Sylvia reveled in the warmth. Not even the heater in Lyle's car or being inside the hotel had thawed her deep chill.

More than the water, her rising heat came from being with Lyle.

He selected a small bottle of shampoo from a wall rack and opened it. “Turn around.”

She obeyed.

First, she smelled citrus scent and then his fingers moved over her scalp, creating a luxurious lather.

“Ever think about being a hairdresser?”

“Ever think about being a maid in a country inn?”

“I'll take it under advisement.”

They both laughed, the sound echoing in the tile-walled bath.

Sylvia turned, and his soapy hands found her breasts. She inhaled sharply and felt the tug in her womb his touch always produced. Facing him, she noted his appreciation becoming more evident by the moment.

Yet, they each made a show of ignoring the sexual aspect of washing one another, he kneeling and placing her foot atop his thigh and washing between every toe, she sliding her palms over the planes of his chest and back.

Lyle pointed her toward the wooden stool. She sat, and he applied the brush to her back, arms, and legs, making her skin glow. Afterward, he dipped the bucket into the bath and, ladle by warm ladle, poured rinse water over her. Then it was his turn to be ministered to in a like manner.

The slate-lined bath was at least three feet deep with room enough for two. They sat with their backs at opposite ends, smiling at one another through the steam as though they had no cares. The salts had turned the water silky.

“I love you, Lyle.” It just slipped out.

And hung on the air while his smile evaporated.

Oh, dear, had she blown it? Would her declaration frighten away a man who'd been hurt in the past? Despite his obvious desire, was he ready to accept the risk of loving?