The Senator’s Daughter (19 page)

She turned on him. “It's not about being fake. No matter what I wear on the outside, on the inside I'm just me. What about the you who dresses up for court, or for golf, versus the man you are right now?”

“All those guys are me,” he admitted.

“But do you want to be the man the DA ordered you to be on the phone? Mr. Conservative, someone who should be embarrassed at kissing me in public?”

Lyle's cheeks heated. “Do you want to be the gal who grabbed the bikers on TV?”

“I don't even know those guys. I did that pose because Castillo was hounding me. I was fed up.”

“That's no reason to disappear. You ever think maybe I'm sick of being labeled a schmuck? The idiot that Sylvia Chatsworth can make a fool of because he's too nice…”

“Lyle,” she said, “I'm sorry.”

Sylvia couldn't recall the last time she'd apologized for anything. Not in a serious way. But Lyle's anger and the way his voice had broken with emotion sent a thrill down all her nerves.

She conceded, “I guess I shouldn't have run off without warning you.”

Lyle's look was wary. “You could have phoned and said, ‘I'm going nuts with all this TV. I need to get away.' I'd have—”

“Tried to talk me out of it.”

“Well—”

“You'd have said, ‘Ignore those people. Hold your head high.' Admit it.”

“Touché.” Yet, he countered, “You know, I have to ignore what people say, too. People like my boss.”

“Look,” she said coldly. This apology business wasn't all it was made out to be. “I'm sorry I kissed you and got you in trouble. I'd take it back if I could.”

“The hell you will.”

“What?”

Lyle took hold of Sylvia's shoulders. “I said, the hell you'll take back a single instant of that kiss.”

When Lyle touched Sylvia, her knees turned to jelly.

Maybe she should have called him instead of leaving town. Then she wouldn't have spent the last few weeks imagining what was happening now.

She looked up into his eyes, midnight in the glow from a single lamp that spilled through the French doors. From the intensity of his expression, she expected his mouth to descend on hers, his arms to crush her.

Instead, he lifted a hand from her shoulder and caressed her hair. From the corner of her eye, she noted that her natural curl sent tendrils twining around his fingers.

“Tell me about that kiss,” he urged.

Her lips half-open and ready for the next one, she sighed in hopes he would take the hint.

“What were you thinking?” Lyle insisted.

Right now, she was thinking he talked too much.

Because he looked truly concerned, she tried, “At the time, I thought it was just hype for the press, and because those gossips made me feel like no one would want me, but …”

“But …” Lyle prompted, spearing his hand more firmly into her hair so she was forced to keep looking up at him.

“Partly because you are a nice guy, and I thought you'd be a good sport.”

He frowned and she rushed on, “I'd been thinking, ever since I met you at Wilson McMillan's, that you were one of the only people there who didn't laugh at me when you found out Rory and I weren't going to get married.”

“Why would I laugh? You got a bum rap and deserved better.”

“Lots of folks didn't see it that way.”

“The kiss,” he prompted.

“I guess it was to show the whole world who laughed at me for getting dumped that I had a shot at Lyle Thomas. The rest is history.”

“Not yet. How did it feel?”

Rather than fight the compelling look in his eyes, she gave up evasion. “I felt like I'd been hit by a million volts. I believed I had the power to do anything, until that creep Castillo spoiled it with his big mouth.”

“Forget about him.” His fingers moved against her scalp, sending shivers down her spine. “Just think about a million volts.”

Slowly, he lowered his head, keeping his eyes open and on hers. No doubt watching for her to telegraph either hesitation or approval.

Sylvia closed her eyes, his mouth only inches from hers. Though impulse pushed her to close the distance, she'd been the one to do that last time. This was Lyle's move.

He made it.

If the Klines were inside watching, they probably thought he was going to hurt Sylvia. If the DA knew, he'd have an apoplexy. If Julio Castillo found out, he'd have a field day …

Lyle was through worrying what people thought.

When he placed his lips on Sylvia's, the cool of evening heated up. Unprecedented that the mere graze of skin on skin had him feeling crazy. With his hands still behind her head, buried in dark satin, his imagination ran wild.

In spite of it, he kept his kiss light, barely brushing back and forth. No need to rush; they should take time to know each other's scent before tasting.

Yet, they had tasted before, in front of the cameras. Enough for Lyle to know he wanted more. Much more.

He touched the tip of his tongue to the seam of her lips. She kept them closed, but a hint of her tongue flickered out to tease his.

Suddenly, Sylvia sat down on the porch rail; he guessed her knees had given out. Lyle wasn't feeling too strong himself, wishing they had at least a couch nearby.

To steady himself, he took his hands from behind Sylvia's head and placed them on the rail, one on either side of her. How easily this could turn into the kind of wildfire that had blazed during their first kiss.

Still, he hesitated. He might not care what others thought, but he did have a sense of right and wrong. If there was any chance, no matter how small, that he was going back to his room and phone the Senator, he had no right to do this.

Sylvia expected Lyle to bend down and take up where they left off, but though he bracketed her with a hand on either side, she felt his retreat. And knew that, much as her hormones might demand she get this man into a prone position, this wasn't going any farther.

At least, not tonight.

She didn't know Lyle's reason for pulling back. But given time to think, she knew she had lingering doubts about whether his finding her was the coincidence he maintained. And should she and Lyle wind up in the same room, Mary and Buck might detect it by the subtle creaking of the floorboards or a brass bed frame. They would worry, fearing she had taken up again with the man who'd bruised her face and cut her leg.

And if they didn't think that, they'd wonder what kind of tramp they'd taken in, who would bed a man she met this afternoon. One of the guests, at that.

Yet, a battle still raged in her, and she believed she saw it in Lyle's features, a war between uncertainty and the bedroom.

Moments later, when Lyle entered his inn room, the ornate antique clock said nine thirty p.m. So why was he as tired as he'd been in years?

Partly because saying good night to Sylvia had been so difficult.

He wanted to go back and ask her straight out to go to bed with him. This fascination he'd had since their first kiss was surely composed mostly of sexual frustration.

On the other hand, the phone on the walnut stand invited him to stop being Lyle Thomas, Mr. Too-Nice Guy, and take the money.

Neither of those solutions sounded like they would come from a man of integrity.

What did integrity demand of him in this situation?

Was reuniting the wayward Sylvia, who'd made a misjudgment in running away, with her family, the right thing? He had indicated to the Senator that he would pursue finding his daughter. Or was that the pure rationalization of a man who never wanted to wonder where his next paycheck was coming from?

Since he had not taken the money offered for his efforts to date, did that make him a free agent?

He looked down at his belt, where he kept his cell phone holstered. The Senator had asked for the number, and Lyle had given it to him. The coverage up here was spotty at best, but he didn't want to have the phone ring when he was with Sylvia and have it be her father.

Though she hadn't asked him to keep her secret in so many words, it was implicit.

Pulling the phone off his belt, Lyle slipped it into a pocket of his duffel.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and bowed his head. Shoving his hands into his hair, he tugged.

Earlier, he'd thought that finding Sylvia represented some kind of resolution.

It looked more like Pandora's box.