The Senator’s Daughter Read online

  Sylvia thought about doing just that.

  Laura Cabot Chatsworth may have carried on with her public appearances, but wouldn’t any professional? Sylvia tried to tell herself her mother’s work setting up the battered women’s shelter was important enough for her to carry on with it.

  On the other hand, deep inside, she believed if someone really cared, they would be in constant touch with the police and whatever private investigator Lawrence would have hired. They’d curtail their social and business life. If her folks had gone on a cruise and the ship went down, would she go clubbing during the search and rescue?

  No way was she ready to go home.

  Finished with her simple meal, she lay back in the sun, trying to recover the feeling of serenity.

  Not to be. Thoughts of Lyle intruded, unsettling in a different way, but nonetheless disconcerting.

  If she went back and found him at the inn, by this time tomorrow, they might share a picnic in this spot. This very evening, he might take her down into the valley to a fine restaurant.

  Was that what she wanted?

  Unbidden memories arose; of the way his arms felt around her, of the mastery of his mouth on hers …

  Should she try to find Lyle? Take a chance he’d be willing to keep her secret? Or sneak back to her room and tell Mary she felt ill until a certain male checked out?

  When Sylvia came in sight of the inn around two o’clock, she had not decided what to do. As she didn’t know whether Lyle had checked out, she decided to go up to the lobby desk and peek at the room roster. If he’d gone, her dilemma was solved.

  On the way upstairs, her hand sliding up the polished mahogany rail, she heard voices in the lobby.

  “That you, Sylvia?” Buck called.

  Crimony, why had she used her real first name? While she considered exiting the inn and hiding out until after dark, Mary added, “Come up and meet a friend.” She didn’t sound too upset about being stuck with the breakfast dishes.

  Sylvia most emphatically did not want to see anyone, with her hair windblown and crammed back in a messy ponytail, her sunburned cheeks without powder …

  But it was certain they wouldn’t identify Lyle as their “friend.” It was probably some other retiree to the valley; hopefully one who thought “On the Spot” was for young folks.

  Four steps and she’d be able to see. She reached and released the band holding her hair, shook it out over her shoulders.

  Three.

  Every person she saw increased her risk of being unmasked.

  Two.

  If whoever it was remarked on her resemblance to a certain senator’s daughter, she would laugh and act flattered.

  One.

  God, it was Andre Valetti. In a little seated tableau with the innkeepers. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

  She’d met this man at half-a-dozen soirees. He’d kissed her hand ferchrissake, playing … or perhaps he really was the continental gentleman.

  Probably in his early forties, Andre was a slimmer version of his missing older brother, but still broad chested and no one would ever call either man tall. A map of Italy overrode the facial features of both men.

  Mary got up from the burgundy brocade sofa with crocheted doilies on the arms and back. “There she is. She’s really saved us around here.”

  “I apologize about leaving you with the dishes, Mary.”

  “I think I understand.”

  Andre rose from an opposing wing chair, his liquid dark eyes on Sylvia.

  She swallowed.

  Buck put his big hands on his jeans-clad knees, pushed to his feet shod in ostrich-skin boots, and made the introduction. “This is Sylvia Cabot… no relation to the New England ones.” He chuckled.

  She cringed, if he only knew.

  “Sylvia,” Buck went on, “our neighbor, Andre Valetti, of Villa Valetti Winery.”

  Andre offered his hand.

  Sylvia let her shoulders curve forward to minimize her breasts. Rather than show her teeth with her smile, she kept her lips together in a line. Instead of taking his hand and shaking it with confidence, she barely touched his fingers.

  “Let us all go out on the porch,” Andre suggested.

  As though he were in charge, Buck and Mary moved toward the French doors.

  Sylvia considered excusing herself, but Andre slipped a hand beneath her arm and guided her outdoors. Looking around the elevated rear veranda, he inhaled deeply of the climbing roses. “I believe this is one of my favorite places.”

  “Quite an honor, considering what your place is like.” Buck brushed his sandy hair back from his forehead in a self-conscious gesture.

  Andre turned his focus once more upon Sylvia. At any second, she expected him to point a finger and announce her identity.

  Lyle parked in front of the inn. Though Andre Valetti couldn’t know he was looking for him, the man was elusive as could be. At nine a.m., the guard had reported he was still in the City, but would be back within the hour.

  So Lyle had staked out the only road in to the villa. He waited the requisite hour, and another, and through anyone’s definition of lunchtime. Once, he thought he heard the chop of a helicopter on the opposite side of the little mountain.

  Finally, he decided to go back to the inn, cadge a snack from Mary Kline, then present himself at the gatehouse again.

  Grumpy, for the excellent French toast had long since burned off, Lyle entered the main doors and started upstairs to the lobby. If nobody were about, he’d head straight for the kitchen and see whether there were any strawberries or more substantial fodder.

  At this time on a Saturday, most guests would be out wine tasting … he expected to encounter nothing more than dusty sunbeams in the lobby. Instead, he heard voices on the rear porch.

  Through the French doors, he saw his hosts talking with a short, dark-haired man who had his back to the inn. As Lyle drew closer, something rang familiar.

  How in hell had Andre gotten here without Lyle seeing him? He must have walked down from his place but … Lyle strode over to the open door.

  Andre was speaking. “You must allow me to take you on a private tour of my winery.”

  Lyle stepped out onto the porch. Buck offered a mild expression for one of his guests. Mary’s brows drew together as they had this morning when she thought he was a man who abused women. Andre inclined his head.

  “Lyle Thomas, SFADA.”

  “Scusi?”

  “Sorry for the shorthand. I’m with the San Francisco district attorney’s office.”

  So focused was Lyle on the man he’d been waiting for that it took a moment to register the woman who’d retreated to the rail overlooking the burbling waters. Some tension in the way she stood caused him to glance over.

  Black jeans, red plaid shirt, curling cloud of midnight hair … her knuckles white, gripping the rail, and here came the moment of truth.

  “Good afternoon, miss,” Lyle offered to her stiff-shouldered back.

  She turned, still holding the white-painted wood. Eyes the color of midnight glowed, pleading yet proud, begging and defying him.

  Would he expose her?

  Chapter 10

  Sylvia met Lyle’s piercing gaze, trying to strike a balance between communicating with him and not letting anyone else detect her desperation. The silence lengthened.

  Lyle’s Adam’s apple bobbed; he put out his hand. She extended her own.

  Their palms touched, slid alongside until the handshake was fully engaged. His skin warmed hers, her fingers barely wrapped around to the side of his big hand.

  Lyle squeezed, a nice firm greeting. Sylvia strengthened her own grip.

  The clash of their eyes underwent a softening and, for reasons she could not fathom, she felt the sudden sting of tears. Lyle blurred.

  Their hands clasped too long for a casual greeting. Sylvia was afraid to blink or a flood would break over her bottom lid and run down. Instead, she stared at Lyle’s red polo shirt.

  Finally,
he spoke. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  In his mind’s eye, a half-million dead presidents blew away on the afternoon breeze. Chatsworth would pay if Lyle delivered his daughter, not if he helped her hide.

  But with only an instant’s observation of her too-bright eyes, he’d known he was going to play along.

  Of course, this didn’t have to be final. He’d get her alone and talk her into coming back to the City. Pass go, and collect.

  Right now, he concentrated on keeping his face neutral. It was tough when the simple graze of their palms made him want to pull Sylvia against him.

  Mindful of their audience, he ended the contact and took a half step back. Mary must have picked up on the undercurrent, for she studied him with renewed suspicion.

  Lyle turned his attention back to Andre. “When I came out, I believe I heard you mention touring your winery.”

  Andre gave a reluctant-looking nod. “I was thinking of taking Miss Cabot.”

  “Miss Cabot?”

  “Miss Sylvia Cabot,” Buck amplified. “She works for us.”

  “And you’ve not had the chance to tour the winery?” Lyle lifted a brow.

  “I’ve only been here a short while,” Sylvia said.

  “Really.”

  Her eyes shot sparks at him.

  He turned back to Andre. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me tag along. I’ve been on canned tours, but the chance to look behind the scenes with a vintner of your caliber …” Shameless flattery.

  Evidently effective; a smile tugged at the corners of Andre’s mouth. Lyle couldn’t tell whether Sylvia wanted him to go. Probably not.

  “Were you thinking of going this afternoon?”

  Andre continued to hesitate, looking at Sylvia as if he didn’t want to share his plaything.

  Lyle ignored her and kept his focus on Andre. This was a priceless opportunity to get his foot in the door at Villa Valetti. “I’m told you make the finest Chardonnay in California.”

  The vintner gave a little bow. “Thank you, but I think Milenko Grgich or Jess Jackson might want to talk to you about that.”

  Lyle chuckled. A moment later, he hit pay dirt.

  “Shall we go?” Andre suggested.

  On the way out, Andre mentioned he’d walked down from his place. Lyle reported his car carried only two adults, the tiny rear seat barely held a sack of groceries.

  Sylvia said she didn’t have a vehicle. Lyle wondered what she’d done with the Jag; her father had said it disappeared when she did.

  On the stroll through the vineyards, Andre pointed out a plot of his famous chardonnay grapes. A little farther on, the vines heavy with green grapes gave way to some with bluish-purple clusters.

  Lyle twisted off one of the globes and found it luscious. He passed another to Sylvia who met his eyes nervously.

  “This is a project dear to my heart,” Andre said. “Sangiovese, the main grape used in the making of Chianti.”

  “Isn’t Chianti a region in Tuscany?” Lyle had done his reading while attempting to transform from farm worker to gentleman.

  “Quite right. I will be making a Chianti-style wine. Only the members of the association of the Gallo Nero, the black rooster in Chianti, can use that appellation.”

  “Like Bordeaux,” Sylvia supplied.

  This was crazy. Walking not three feet from Sylvia, tossing off small talk as though they had just met, they climbed steadily between the rows of vines. From the Lava Springs Inn next to the river, there was at least a five-hundred-foot elevation gain to Andre’s mountaintop.

  When they stepped out of the fields near the guardhouse, the man inside stared. Lyle grinned and waved.

  “Luigi has been with me for years.” Andre acknowledged his security precautions. “I have a tasting room, but no regular hours. It is all by appointment, as almost everything I make sells out before it is bottled.”

  “I’ve had your wine,” Lyle challenged.

  “I said almost,” Andre volleyed.

  Villa Valetti was reached by a winding brick drive, which made a half circle in front of the main entrance. Bronze sculptures graced the landscaped curve and a magnificent porte cochere flanked a glass-walled conservatory.

  Andre held the door for Lyle and Sylvia.

  Inside, the gentle splash of stone fountains made music in the original garden room Andre said had been built by Aldo Valetti for his bride, Antonia Cavilli. Aldo had fled Italy in 1938 ahead of the war in Europe, married the San Francisco daughter of an Italian family in the import business, and transplanted his family’s wine-making tradition to the Napa Valley.

  The gamble had paid off. Aldo built the villa in the style of his family home in Italy and was poised to participate in the postwar rejuvenation of a wine industry crippled by Prohibition.

  “Our father always expected Tony to be the winemaker. When he chose real estate … The only thing that has redeemed him is staying married to Janine.”

  “You sound as though that’s pretty dull,” Sylvia observed.

  “Not at all. Tony and I are different.”

  Lyle suspected there was more to that statement than met the eye. If Andre took such pride in being a winemaker, was he glad his brother had chosen to compete in another arena?

  Andre leaned toward Sylvia as though Lyle wasn’t there. “I married three times, foolishly, to young women of society. The bishop is heartily tired of procuring annulments and tells me I should have waited for a woman with depth, intelligence, and strength.”

  Andre’s dark eyes bored into Sylvia’s and made her uncomfortable. If he knew who she was, he’d say so.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Lyle clearly knew.

  Why would Andre not call her out if he recognized her? Perhaps without her makeup and wardrobe, her disguise was better than she imagined.

  They moved on through the house. In the great room, with a fireplace twenty men could stand in, the walls were festooned with hunting trophies and racks containing hunting rifles. As they passed through an archway, Sylvia came face to face with a giraffe that had been cut off at the neck. Its glass eyes, fringed by inch-long lashes, gazed at her.

  “That trophy was taken by my man Luigi, on my last safari in Botswana.”

  She noted that though some men would have admired the mounted animals and weapons, Lyle did not.

  “Let me show you the cellars.” Andre led the way.

  In a cave hollowed out of the hillside, cool darkness reigned. Barrels that Andre said were Nevers oak from France lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The mingled aroma of wine and wood made Sylvia’s mouth water.

  Andre pulled the bung from the top of a barrel, applied a glass tube with a suction device, and withdrew a pale, almost greenish liquid. From his pants pocket, he produced a small silver tasting cup, filled it, and offered it to Sylvia.

  She sipped, and while she swished the sample of wine around her mouth, Andre gauged her reaction with alert eyes. Trained at her parents’ table, as well as attending events like Wilson McMillan’s house party where nothing but the best was served, she knew her way around wine.

  “It’s more nutty than the usual Chardonnay, an interesting touch,” she observed.

  Andre appeared to recall that Lyle was with them and offered him some.

  “Another to try.” Andre tapped another sample from a barrel that bore a different numbered code and date. He sampled first, and Sylvia thought he looked the quintessential winemaker, closing his eyes while he tasted. She’d heard that professionals spit out the wine, but Andre swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.

  She tasted the second variety and found it to be an even smoother blend of fruit and buttery oak than the first.

  “The character comes from adding a bacteria that coverts the natural grape malic acid to lactic acid. It has a smoother mouthfeel.” Andre drew a measure for Lyle. As she stood between the two men, it fell to her to pass the silver taster across.

  When Lyle put it to his lips, she wo
ndered if the rim was still warm from the touch of hers. “A complex finish,” he said.

  Andre acknowledged their praise with an unhappy shrug. “Unfortunately, we will not see any more wine from those vines.”

  “Why not?” Lyle frowned. “If they produce a vintage this delightful …”

  “They are dying of phylloxera damage. A common parasite.” Andre sounded sad. “In the past four years, we went from getting twenty-five tons of grapes per acre to below ten tons.”

  “How many cases of wine come from a ton of grapes?” Sylvia inquired.

  “Maybe seventy-five.” Andre led the way out of the cellar into sunlight.

  The threesome looked down at the rounded hills planted in hundreds of broad curves. Andre pointed to an area where the vines had been pulled out. “We will be replanting down there.”

  He frowned at the beautiful view. “This kind of financial setback, along with rising property taxes and fuel costs, makes things difficult, as it is for farmers all over the country.”

  Sylvia made a sympathetic sound and caught a sharp look from Lyle.

  Andre went on, “I need more acreage, and the price of land in this valley runs well over fifty thousand an acre.” His voice rose a little. “But did you know that the economics of wine making really only allow a profit on much cheaper land?”

  “You mean only the grape growers and vintners who bought their land when the prices were lower are really making money?” She’d thought everything in the Napa Valley automatically turned to gold.

  “All the weekend winemakers moving in have been paying a premium for the beauty of the valley. I would sell my soul to the devil if he could roll back land prices for a month!”

  The tour continued with a visit to the wine-making area, where tall, round, stainless-steel tanks awaited the juice of this year’s harvest. Each time Andre scrutinized Sylvia with one of his appraising looks, Lyle wanted to deck the man.

  Yet he couldn’t help but admire his antiques and his acreage. All the while, Andre continued to chat, pointing out everything from how the grapevines trained to run laterally along suspended wires to pointing out the volcanic stone pillars that held up the underground cellar.