The Senator’s Daughter (25 page)

She couldn't help smiling. “I have to set up the guest reception, and then I'll be free.”

Lyle flashed a grin. “I'm starting to think about dinner.”

She chuckled. “You're always interested in eating.”

He spread his hands. “I'm a big guy.”

Their eyes met, and she resisted an obviously ribald retort. The twinkle in his eye suggested he'd thought of it, too.

“I was thinking the other night on the porch was nice,” he said. “How about if I get some steaks and potatoes in town and fire up Buck's grill?”

Though Lyle could have joined the other guests for wine and cheese, he got out his laptop again. Something had been nagging at him ever since he'd learned the site of Esther Quenton's death.

He'd driven by that section of the coast, near Daly City, where real-estate developers continued to ignore the precarious geology. There, the San Andreas Fault cropped out in a cliff of twisted green and black rock and plunged out beneath the Pacific. The wound clearly showed the violent confluence of the earth's plates.

The land above the cliff was rough and rocky. Near the edge, only the hardy ice plant clung where ocean fog drifted.

In the news coverage, he uncovered a photo of Esther, taken the month before her demise, at a party in honor of her ninetieth. With the stoop-shouldered look of advanced osteoporosis, Esther was using a walker.

How had she gotten to the cliff? Did she still drive?

A check indicated she'd turned in her license the year before.

Among her house servants, was there one who drove for her?

Again, how had she gotten to the precipice?

After the other guests dispersed from the wine reception to find dinner in the valley, Lyle dragged the grill from outside the kitchen door around to the riverbank. About an hour ago, he had shut down his computer, forced his mind from Esther Quenton and her connection with David Dickerson and Tony Valetti, and gone to town for steaks and potatoes.

Impatient for Sylvia to come back from changing her clothes, he was finally rewarded by the sight of her on the porch above … dressed in a soft-looking turquoise halter, New Delhi-style with little glass mirrors, over her black jeans.

She made a pirouette, holding the silky material out from her waist like a tutu. “Another Wal-Mart special. How did I live shopping at those fancy little boutiques?”

Lyle gave a low whistle. “You look just fine.”

Sylvia came down the steps onto the grass and stood watching him pile charcoal into the grill and saturate it with starter fluid. He blinked at the pungent petroleum fumes.

She passed him a matchbox with the Lava Springs Inn logo on it. “These might come in handy.”

He struck one and held it aloft. “Bombs away.”

The tossed match landed on the charcoal, sputtered, and went out. Both he and Sylvia laughed, making it funnier than it was. It felt good, their eyes meeting and holding.

She looked so different than she had the night at Ice. Without polish, her natural nails suited Lyle's taste better. No kohl rim around her eyes or beaded mascara; it let her eyes shine through. And her lips … though he'd been aroused by the bad girl look of her former scarlet, tonight she wore just a hint of something glossy.

He had to drag himself away to light another match.

This time, he touched the small flame with care to the corner of the mound. A little blue flare licked up and spread over the briquettes. “Guess there's something to be said for the subtle approach.”

“Sometimes.” Sylvia's voice was soft. “Sometimes not.”

His breath hitched. “You're saying subtlety is situational?”

She caught his arm. Her touch was anything but subtle, while they both focused on the rising fire. “I'm saying …” He felt her stall.

“Don't go subtle on me now.” He covered her hand with his.

She raised her head. “Ever since you said it, I've been wondering what you meant about bad times in your life … you said that when we were talking about Mrs. Montague losing her husband.”

His stomach clenched; he pulled his hand back.

Sylvia kept her fingers on his bare forearm, reminding him now was not the time for subtlety, not when the intensity of her black gaze dealt a double blow to his midsection.

“I could duck this by telling you the steaks need seasoning.” He drew in a breath. “But I won't.”

He thought how to begin. “I believe your mother warned you I was raised in different circumstances than you.”

“She did mention it.”

He should leave it there. Tell her he used to pick crops while the other boys were at football practice.

But he wanted to be honest. “What you and your mother don't know … what I don't tell people … is that when I was ten years old, my mother disappeared.”

Sylvia blanched.

“One day I came home from school. It was during the onion harvest, and I was supposed to go to the fields.”

He watched Sylvia's fist go to her mouth.

“You ever pick onions?”

She shook her head.

“You ever touch an onion plant in dirt in your entire life?”

“Just the ones from the grocery store.” Her black hair fell over one of her eyes; she shoved it back.

“Mom always left me a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich before she went to work waitressing. That day, there was no sandwich. When it came time for her shift to end at eleven p.m., no Mom.” He drilled on, “She never came back. I never saw or heard from her again.”

The charcoal fire flared; he turned toward it to hide his tears.

An hour later, on the inn's rear porch, Sylvia sliced into the prime steak Lyle had grilled. The baked potato alongside steamed, dripping butter and sour cream. A balloon of Mrs. Montague's Cabernet rested beside her plate. A sampling characterized it as smoky, a good compliment to the charcoaled meat.

Lyle had been right to postpone discussing what was likely to a painful topic.

“What are the spices on the beef?” she asked.

“Coarse sea salt, black pepper, fresh garlic.”

Though she'd sampled cuisines on several continents, never had she enjoyed a meal so much as this simple, yet complex, offering from Lyle Thomas. Each time she discovered a new facet of him, she felt like a kid unwrapping a present.

Lyle wasn't turning out to be just pretty paper on the outside; he was holding up to her scrutiny.

Sylvia raised her wineglass. “You're a damned fine chef, Mr. DA. Shouldn't there be some kind of rule against that… like me not making beds?”

He gave a rogue's grin. “I think we made that bed well together.”

Warmth washed through her middle and down to soften her woman's center. The old adage about making a bed and sleeping in it … but, of course, if she and Lyle were on a bed, there would be a lot more happening than sleep.

Even so, right now her mood was less than sexy. She couldn't stop worrying about what Lyle had told her.

While they ate, Lyle could tell from Sylvia's thoughtful expression that the subject of his mother had merely been tabled.

Finally, the last of the meat and potatoes had been devoured. He took their plates into the kitchen and rinsed them under the tap, turning over what to say when she brought it up again.

When he returned, he lifted the wine bottle, poured a little more into her glass, and placed it in her hand.

“About your mother …” She turned away from the forest.

He didn't want to talk about it, but hadn't he started it? Might as well find out if telling her his story was going to drive her away. “What would you like to know?”

“Have you ever hired an investigator?”

He stepped up beside her. “I've hired people. But after twenty-two years, the trail is pretty cold.”

“Of course.” She sounded sad.

He should have kept his mouth shut. Right now, he should be lifting her dark hair, pressing his lips to the side of her neck, giving them both delicious chills …

Sylvia's troubled dark eyes found his. “I feel so guilty.”

“For what?”

“Here, I've had every comfort while you picked crops …”

He managed a shrug.

“No! Don't act like it doesn't matter. My mother as much as called you ‘poor white trash.'”

Her parents would have a stroke if they knew Lyle's plans for getting their daughter into bed.

“Thanks for sharing.” He tried to keep his voice even. “There's a difference between being poor and being trash. My mother called it pride.”

“She was right. My mother's wrong, so wrong.”

“It doesn't matter,” he tried.

“It does,” she insisted. “How dare Mother and Father presume to judge a man by how he was raised? You're fine and honest and caring because of what you went through.”

“That's not an exciting mix.”

“What about your father?” she asked in a hopeful tone.

Lyle looked away. “He lives in the house I grew up in. Out in the valley. We don't …”

“You don't get along with your father? After you both lost your mother, you didn't pull together?”

“I'm afraid not.” Not when James Thomas had claimed Lyle's childish demands had driven Maddie away. That cut would never heal.

“You should go to him. Let him know the man you've become.”

“I've seen him. Only a few months ago.” Blood pressure rising, Lyle attacked. “What if I were to order you to the nearest telephone to tell your folks you haven't been raped and killed? When your father tried to hire me, he seemed genuinely concerned.”

Her quick anger matched his. “You don't—”

“I don't have any idea about you and your parents. And you don't have a clue about my father and me. Or that when people disappear it makes me …” His voice broke.

Her eyes widened. “My God. That explains why you were—”

“Yes,” he ground out. “That's why when you took off without a trace, I went through hell.”