The Senator’s Daughter (48 page)

Sylvia started to protest again, but closed her mouth. Thinking of Lyle waiting and wondering if she were dead, the way she had when he dove into the springs, told her everything she needed to know.

Sylvia went to her room and closed the door.

The telephone sat on the table by the bed. The clock radio said it was coming up on four p.m. Lyle wasn't working, so perhaps he'd be home, doing résumé work.

Sitting on the bed, she cleared her throat a couple of times. Tried to think with her pulse racing. What to say when he answered?

She'd figure that out as she went along.

Sylvia lifted the cordless unit. And dialed from memory the number she'd gotten from directory assistance at the Indian grocery.

Lyle's phone rang. It seemed as though time stood still between rings. If he answered, would he hang up on her? A man as proud as Lyle might turn stubborn … as stubborn as she'd been about her parents when she disappeared, and had been about Lyle until Daddy said love was the only thing that mattered.

Finally, Lyle's answering machine came on. Yet, she waited, hoping he might pick up as he had the night she fled from Andre's.

The message ended with the tone. Should she leave a message?

Panicked, she clicked off the phone and slammed it into the charging unit.

“Mom,” she said to Laura, who was in the master bedroom changing out her closet from summer to winter.

“Did you get him on the phone, dear?”

“He doesn't answer. Listen, would you and Daddy be terribly upset if I went over to my place in town? Lyle's place isn't far and that way …”

Laura set down a cashmere sweater trimmed with pearls. “Of course, you should go. The sooner you get this settled, the better. For all of us.”

“There's something else. I know I said I wouldn't frequent places like Ice anymore, but I think Lyle and his friends might be Friday night regulars. So if I can't get him on the phone, I was thinking —”

“You should go wherever you think he might be.”

Sylvia glanced toward her mother's closet. “I was wondering. None of my clothes seem right for the image I want.”

“Let me see.” Laura looked her daughter over. “You've always been fuller in the bust, but …” She went to her rack and pulled out something in black.

Sylvia watched her lay the dress out on the bed—black velvet, knee length, no sequins or beads. The garment's ornamentation was its simplicity. Cut on the bias, it produced a swirling effect from the short-sleeved V-neck top to the scalloped hem.

“That's it,” Sylvia said.

F
og was creeping into the Bay, its tendrils reaching toward the City. By the time Lyle entered his loft, just before eight, and went out onto the terrace, he couldn't see the lights of the Bay Bridge.

His brain felt equally fogged. All mixed up with the risk of losing this wonderful place was the challenge of how to approach Sylvia. If his life were to have any kind of meaning, he had to get her back.

Beads of moisture formed and ran down his French doors, reflecting the red glow of the blinking light on his answering machine. His heart rate accelerated. Perhaps Sylvia had called, and his dilemma was solved.

Lyle closed the space between him and the phone with swift strides. There was a single message.

Pulling up a bar stool, he decided to sit. He pushed the button.

“You have one new message,” chanted the synthetic male voice.

Lyle pushed again to listen.

“Friday, October 13…”

Would it be Lyle's lucky day?

“Two ten p.m.” The machine tones finished, and a human took over. “Lyle? John Gordon.”

Not Sylvia. Damn.

But John Gordon was highly placed in the DA's office.

“Listen, this is kind of awkward. I know Dickerson fired you the other morning. Well, after he was taken in for questioning yesterday … Hell, the long and the short of it is, he resigned this morning …”

Lyle broke into a grin.

“…leaving me in the position of acting DA. If we don't connect today, I'll see you back at your desk Monday. We've got work to do.”

“All right!” Lyle pumped his fist in the air. “There is justice in the world.”

As to whether he wanted to go back, his elation answered for him. After his experience of the past week, he wanted to keep on putting the bad guys behind bars.

Sylvia put the finishing touches on her makeup. Subtle, a touch of foundation to smooth, no blush, and her natural color was enough. A little taupe shadow in her crease to contour, and a bare swipe of mascara in the softer color of black-brown. On her lips, she spread a clear gloss that she had once worn over the scarlet.

The place she still chose to titillate was her lingerie. For Lyle, Sylvia put on matching thong and front-close bra in crimson silk with black lace trim.

She went to the phone. She'd last tried Lyle five minutes ago and it was eight now. He was probably at Ice.

Imagining the Friday evening crowd warming up, couples starting to dance, singles beginning to pair, a clutch of fear went through her. Though she now believed with all her heart that Lyle loved her, she couldn't rule out the fact that he was probably enraged at her. An angry man looking for an outlet for his testosterone overload might not be above a rebound hookup.

God, she needed to hurry.

Phone in hand, she called a cab.

Lyle sat at his kitchen counter and looked around at his loft. Relief suffused him. He'd be able to stay here. He'd talk Pop into bringing Martha into the City. Lyle had an idea that this time he might come.

There was only one other thing the place needed. With its roomy closets, double sinks, huge shower, and broad lonely bed, it needed Sylvia Chatsworth. Now and forever.

He picked up the phone, fully expecting the Chatsworths number to be unlisted. It was not.

Guess the politician wanted to be available to the People.

This was going to be touch and go. Likely, he'd get Laura or Lawrence even if Sylvia were home. It was their phone. Would either of them turn it over to their daughter once they found out it was Lyle?

The Senator answered. “Lawrence Chatsworth.”

Lyle's heart started glitching. “This is Lyle Thomas.” He tried to keep his voice from quavering like a kid's. “May I speak with Sylvia, please?”

“I'm sorry, son.”

Son?

“She isn't here. She's gone back to her place in town.”

Lyle suppressed a curse. “All right, then. Thank you.” On the other hand, he wouldn't have to plead his case in front of her parents.

“No problem. And, Lyle?”

“Sir?”

“Call me Larry.”

Feeling as though hell had just frozen over, Lyle replied, “Okay … Larry.”

“Good luck.”

“That was Lyle?” Laura looked over at Larry from her armchair. She was embroidering a hand towel with a pattern of daisies and violets she'd designed herself.

Larry settled back in his big leather recliner, feet up, the latest best-selling book slamming the extremes of both the Right and the Left open in his lap. “That was Lyle, all right.”

“Why didn't you tell him Sylvia was looking for him?”

Larry grinned. “Why spoil the surprise? I think it will mean a lot more if he hears it from her.”

Laura returned his smile. “Ah expect you're right, dear.” She pushed her needle through the soft material.

Then looked up and met her husband's eyes. “You know, I'll have to start putting up some linens for the grandchildren.”

Lyle called Sylvia's town house. He'd memorized the number early in the summer.

Once again, he went through the anxious moments waiting for her to pick up. Why couldn't he just find her and have it over with? This Friday the thirteenth definitely wasn't turning out lucky.

Her answering machine came on, false bright, she asked him to leave a message.

Too tricky. He took a pass.

If she wasn't home, where could she be?

He'd seen on the Internet news about Sylvia's statement to the press yesterday afternoon. That seemed to indicate she wouldn't be found at Ice.