The Senator’s Daughter (4 page)

“Dammit, Sylvia.” Lyle sounded closer.

Only a block to her place.

“Will you stop?” he groused.

She looked back. Half-turned, she felt something give beneath her right foot. Did her heel break and her ankle twist, or did she turn her leg and snap the heel? Who knew, the result was the same.

A shriek burst from her. Her arms went out to break her fall, then she remembered not to do that or you might break a wrist.

The sidewalk came up fast, her knees about to impact, when she suddenly felt as if a truck had hit her.

For an instant, her fall continued unchecked, then forward momentum took over. It happened in slow motion; Lyle's chest slammed into her back, and his arms went around her.

They went down together, he turning in midair so they landed with him on the bottom. He took the impact on his upper back and shoulder, skidded a foot more, and stopped.

“The eagle has landed.” Lyle's breath at her ear felt warm despite the chill rain.

She started to struggle.

His arms tightened, holding her in check against him. “Hang on. Be sure there's nothing broken or sprained before you get up.”

Sensible. Also treacherous. Even with his wool suit soaked, Lyle's heat radiated into her back.

A moan escaped her.

“You're hurt,” he said. “I was afraid of that.”

Headlights reflected off inches-deep runoff, a car slowed at the curb, a curious face at the passenger window.

In a minute, she'd get up, but the thought of leaving the shelter of enfolding arms and a big warm chest seemed a cold proposition. And there was the fact that, lying on Lyle, she couldn't miss her profound effect upon a certain part of his anatomy.

Breathless, she confessed, “I don't think I am hurt.”

Out of nowhere, lights illuminated the sidewalk where they lay. “Look out!” she cried.

Lyle's muscles bunched; she appreciated their power through her sudden terror.

Power aside, neither of them would be able to move fast enough to avoid being run over.

The next milliseconds lasted an eternity. Sylvia cringed, every muscle taut. But no car jumped the curb and crushed them beneath the wheels. Instead, there was a camera strobe in the open door of a white van bearing the logo “On the Spot.”

Lyle cursed.

He'd always found the supermarket tabloids amusing, movie stars caught without their makeup, exuberant headlines with just enough veracity to keep most victims from wasting money on lawyers. This evening, none of it struck him as funny. Not when he and a trembling Sylvia had just been frightened within an inch of their lives.

Getting cold lying on wet cement, and embarrassed by the physical effect Sylvia had on him, he pushed up. Half-carrying her, he got them both on their feet.

She lived nearby; he'd looked up the address before asking her out, only to have her suggest they meet at Ice. With his arm raised to shield them, Lyle placed himself between Sylvia and the cameras and headed for her place.

She went along, limping on her broken sandal. At least now she wasn't fleeing him.

There was her number, pale stucco façade, high stairs, and potted geraniums on the stoop getting a good soaking. “Your key?”

Sylvia dug into her rain-darkened leather bag and brought out the ring. Lyle took it and hustled her up the steps. With a twist of his wrist and the knob, he got the door open. Both of them slipped inside, and he slammed the portal just as the press van pulled in at the curb.

In the filtered glow through the entry sidelights, Lyle looked down at Sylvia. The part of him that had been terrified by the prospect of being run down on the sidewalk urged him to take her in his arms.

However, he gazed upon a far different version of the sultry siren who had kissed him on camera. One that looked a lot like a drowned rat.

The little rat beamed. “Sir Galahad, I presume?”

L
yle's laugh started down deep and came out big. What a departure from his careful plans; he'd even decided on their dinner menu, oysters and Chilean sea bass, followed by tiramisu, and the wine, a dry Monterey Riesling.

Never would he have thought he'd end up tackling Sylvia on the sidewalk.

“Castillo called me Sir Galahad,” Lyle managed between chuckles. “We all
know
he's the expert.” Casual, his hand came up to smooth Sylvia's hair, which had erupted into unruly curls. He must be a sight, too. His jacket fit loosely at the shoulder where he'd ripped a seam sliding along the pavement.

“This suit is a wash,” he declared.

“So to speak.” He saw her grin before Sylvia walked into the kitchen.

She turned on a light, giving Lyle his first look at the famous pleasure palace by the fluorescent glow of the over-the-stove bulb. The kitchen boasted high-tech appliances with sleek black glass, black again in the stone countertops sporting gold crystals in the dark rock … he had a flash of lifting Sylvia to the counter in that short number of a dress and stepping between her thighs …

He tamped it down so he wouldn't get carried away.

Nice peach wallpaper, but whoa. A stain that could only be red wine, as though someone had thrown a full goblet at the wall.

“Looks like somebody spilled their drink,” he commented, snapping on more lights.

Sylvia turned from rummaging in a kitchen drawer and made a disgusted face. “I let Rory Campbell get me mad one night. Threw it after he went out the door.”

Lyle slipped out of his shoes and padded in wet socks onto the kitchen tiles. “Remind me not to rile you.”

But didn't Sylvia have a right to be upset? She'd been treated shabbily, a bargaining chip in some modern-day medieval matchmaking. Thank God Rory had stood up to parental tyranny and married the woman he really loved or Lyle wouldn't be standing here.

He very much liked being where he was.

Sylvia came up with a red terry dish towel and tossed it to him. He used it to dry his face and ruffled it through his dripping hair.

She wiped her arms and chest with another, drawing his focus to her cleavage. Moving closer, he looked down into her vibrant eyes. “Would you say you're over Campbell?”

Sylvia brushed back her damp hair that had fallen over her forehead, reached into the drawer for another towel, and approached him. “Did you know you have lipstick all over?”

Lyle shook his head.

Gently, she wiped his mouth and gave his cheek a light scrub.

Everything in him went on alert. Though she stood without brushing her body against his, her musky rain-drenched aroma set off another flashbulb. In this vivid image, he dragged her against him and she came along, giving him a press of full breasts against his chest the way she had at Ice. He'd splay his hand across her bare back, locate the zipper …

Mind you, he only wanted to help her out of that wet outfit so she didn't get a chill.

Lord, how fantastic that would be. Even better than their public embrace, for there was nobody here to interrupt what this might lead to. As she had no doubt intended, he dropped getting an answer to his question about Rory.

While he was getting up his nerve to carry out his fantasy, she drew back. “There. You look like the proper DA again.”

Lyle sighed. He'd always relished his untarnished reputation, but the way she said it made him feel dull.

“You're still wet, though,” she went on.

The kitchen towels having done little to dry him, he got to thinking about hot water and getting his back scrubbed. Too bad the proper DA wasn't the kind of guy who brought up something like that on the first date.

Setting the lipstick-stained towel on the counter, Sylvia murmured, “Why don't I draw a bath?”

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. All she had intended to offer was a chance for Lyle to warm up … privately … but the sudden darkening of his blue eyes told her he'd taken it wrong.

Sylvia wanted to stamp her foot or sit down on the floor and cry. Playing provocative, her stock in trade that had served in the past, had gone sour in a single season. First, she had realized it was wrong for Rory, and now with Lyle it seemed even worse. On the other hand, how could she break her habit of flirting, which she'd developed to an art?

Casting about for a way to change the subject, she looked at the wall clock. “Almost eleven. Maybe we ought to put on the tube and see what those bozos do to us.”

The light in Lyle's eyes subsided.

Though she'd wanted his sensual expression subdued, her first reaction was disappointment. The way he'd looked at her had been obvious, but she'd detected nothing cheap in it.

Confusing images of stripping this man down and getting them both beneath a steaming shower warred with knowing he would find it one more reason to think her a tramp.

Going to her living room, she located the remote, pointed it at her big-screen TV, and zapped it on.

Lyle followed. She noted that, rather than sit on her beige leather couches in his wet clothes, he stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

The “On the Spot” logo came up, and the theme music swelled. Sylvia gave Lyle a nervous glance. He wasn't looking at her.

To her relief, they weren't on first. The lead story showcased the shocking disappearance of well-known developer Tony Valetti. Over a week now and no one could account for the man who had driven to work downtown one morning and never come home. His calendar had been full in the a.m.; he'd made all his meetings. After lunch he had been in his private office, at least his administrative assistant had thought so. Around seven p.m., after a call from his wife, Janine, who had expected to meet him at a dinner party, his staff opened the closed door.

An alien spaceship might have beamed him up.

Next, the spotlight fell upon Tony's vintner brother Andre, whose Villa Valetti was considered one of the best boutique wineries in the northern Napa Valley. The feature, true to the show's form, was not about his medal-winning vintages, or his stunning estate north of Calistoga. Rather, the speculation was that if Tony had angered someone and met with foul play, his brother might be next.

“What a bunch of bunk,” Sylvia said. “Do they think they're Mafia?”

Lyle made a neutral sound, and it was their turn in the spotlight.

Over footage of them kissing, the voice-over, “Party girl Sylvia Chatsworth is at it again. On the rebound from Rory Campbell, she sets her sights on Lyle Thomas. But we can't help wondering how brief a candle burns for these two.”

They switched to Castillo's soundtrack recorded at Ice. “Looks like Sylvia's found a new
amour …
”

Her face heated while Lyle watched their embrace with an impassive expression. When they did a cut to him with his livid face smeared with lipstick, he didn't look as collected.

With the reporter's verbal taunt edited out, all the City saw was Lyle bring up his fist and then let his arm drop. “It's not worth it.”

“Sylvia Chatsworth isn't worth it,” Julio Castillo finished.