The Senator’s Daughter Page 14

  Four, and the sweat ran down her brow and the back of her neck. The rest of her might sweat or not, she’d didn’t know how that worked in a vat of mud.

  Six minutes.

  “Lyle.” There was an edge to her voice.

  “I know.”

  Seven.

  “I don’t think I can make twelve minutes in here,” she said.

  Suddenly, an icy washcloth descended to drape her forehead. Sylvia couldn’t see Kelly, but from the corner of her eye, she detected Jay placing an identical soothing cloth over Lyle’s face.

  “Ahhh.” His sigh mirrored Sylvia’s.

  “I was about to leap out,” she told him.

  “That would make two of us.”

  With the chilled cloth on her brow, she watched the clock tick off the rest of the time.

  When Kelly and Jay returned to release them, Sylvia moved with alacrity to emerge from the too-hot mud. On the opposite side of his tub, Lyle loomed, looking like Bigfoot.

  Kelly and Jay escorted Sylvia and Lyle to the needle shower, twisted the taps, and left them alone.

  Lyle’s laugh was frank and full. “I’ve got mud in places I didn’t know I had.”

  “Me, too.” Once out of the tub, the drying clay was making her itch.

  The shower was at least five feet in diameter, water pulsing from all directions. “Ladies first,” Lyle gestured with a bow.

  She stepped forward. Water burst from a hundred nozzles creating an invigorating spray. When she and Lyle had decided to do this, she’d imagined separate showers in addition to the separate tubs.

  Sylvia’s robe was God-knows-where, as was Lyle’s.

  Lyle moved to join her beneath the spray that transformed the clay to dark rivulets, running down to the floor and into the drain.

  With Lyle and Sylvia back to back, scrubbing at the persistent coating, he tried to be discreet in his glances over his shoulder.

  It was no good. She half-turned toward him, and he glimpsed her breast in profile. The nipple was not the pink he’d anticipated, but a delightful peach tone. The areola puckered in the force of the spray. And there was her belly, flat, yet with a touch of swelling flesh between her hipbones.

  Discretion evaporated as blood rushed to the male part of him.

  Lyle swiveled so his back was to Sylvia. He scanned the area and spotted a stack of towels about five feet away.

  Though he hadn’t finished getting the mud off, he made a beeline, wrapped a towel around his waist, and sat on the edge of one of the tubs.

  “Lyle?”

  “I think maybe we’d better take turns.” He kept his gaze on the far wall.

  “Ah,” she said, still scrubbing.

  A few minutes later, he heard wet footsteps on the tile and noted with relief that she was wrapped in one towel with another twisted turban-style around her head.

  A few minutes’ respite had done little to erase the evidence of his excitement, but he had to get clean. Without looking at Sylvia, he went back to the needle shower, dropped the towel, and proceeded to dig out the last of the stubborn mud from his armpits, the backs of his knees, and his crotch.

  Just as he was finishing and reaching for a fresh towel, Jay and Kelly materialized, holding up the white terry robes. “Time for your herbal wrap.”

  That was good. If Lyle were encased in layers, he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Moreover, if Sylvia were covered, he might stop having these reactions.

  Who was he kidding? From the first time she’d kissed him, through his tackling her on the street, to last night on the porch overlooking the Lava River … it had been clear he wanted Sylvia at an elemental level.

  Today’s sensual web just underlined it. From their shared wine drinking at the Montague picnic grounds to this spa game of peekaboo, being with her had him humming like a high-voltage wire. Whoever said the mud baths were for relaxing hadn’t taken one with Sylvia Chatsworth.

  While Jay wound steaming sheets around Lyle until he resembled a mummy, he watched Sylvia from the corner of his eye. When Kelly finished wrapping her and they were alone, he turned his head.

  Sylvia’s black eyes were the only part of her visible. “You look like the invisible man.” Lyle heard a muffled giggle. The skin around her eyes, crinkled from a smile, smoothed. “Are you sorry we did the coed thing?”

  He decided on honesty. “It’s a challenge keeping my libido under control.”

  Wrapped from nose to toes in hot sheets scented with sage and citrus, Sylvia looked over into Lyle’s frank blue eyes. And felt her insides do a lazy flip-flop.

  “How about you?” he asked in an intimate tone that bridged the gap between the massage tables they reclined on.

  She found herself smiling. “On the one hand, the heat is turning me to rubber. On the other, I’ve been thinking about a million volts.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

  After the wrap and her massage, delivered by the expert hands of Kelly while Jay worked on Lyle, they were left alone to relax until they felt like donning their robes and dressing.

  Sylvia lay on her stomach, breathing deeply and trying not to fall asleep. Noting how wonderfully tension-free her neck and shoulders were, she turned her head to the other side.

  Lyle faced her. With his eyes closed, he looked peaceful.

  Her breath escaped in a sigh, while she visualized them this close together on a bed.

  He opened his eyes and studied her. “Whatever you’re imagining,” he murmured, “hold that thought.”

  When they exited the spa, Lyle’s muscles were so warmly relaxed he could barely walk. Figuring Sylvia must be equally jelly-legged, he placed his hand under her elbow to support her.

  Immediately, the state of relaxation he’d finally achieved was replaced by the electric zing of their touch.

  He’d parked his Mercedes on Lincoln Avenue, Calistoga’s main drag. A check of his Rolex indicated it was seven thirty. The only thing he could think of to round out a perfect day was the perfect meal. “The lunch Mrs. Montague gave us was nice, but I’m starving.”

  “I could eat.”

  Lyle snagged her hand, and they ambled down the street, past historic brick buildings. Seeing a place advertising California seafood, Lyle raised a brow at Sylvia. She nodded.

  Their hostess greeted them and gestured toward a table by the window. Sylvia suggested they sit near the rear, using the excuse of the late sun streaming in to sit with her back to the room. After Kelly had recognized her, Lyle couldn’t blame her.

  He checked out the menu. “They have oysters.”

  Sylvia’s laugh was a clear peal. “We’ve been waiting weeks to eat oysters.”

  Their server maintained a poker face.

  “We’ll have two dozen on the half shell,” Lyle ordered, along with a Napa champagne-style sparkling wine.

  The oysters were perfect, slightly salty, light on the tongue. The dry bubbly cleared his palate, even as Lyle reached for more. Fresh crusty French bread completed their meal.

  He swallowed the last oyster on his side of the tray and looked at Sylvia. “Think there’s anything to the aphrodisiac stuff?”

  She forked up another shellfish. “You never know.”

  Lyle watched the oyster slide between her lips. “Because, I figure if they really work that way, I’m going to be in worse trouble this evening than I was this afternoon.”

  She swallowed and sipped wine. “What trouble?” Her tone said she knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “What trouble?” he pretended to muse. “Why, in spite of all that hot water and mud, the heat wrap and massage … you’re getting me all tensed up again.”

  “Me?” One dark brow arched. “You sure it’s not the oysters?”

  Lyle studied the empty shells arranged on a bed of ice. “Let’s have another dozen and find out.”

  A couple of hours later, after lingering over more oysters and a shared helping of creamy sweet tiramisu, Sylvia settled into the passen
ger seat of the Mercedes. With the convertible top down, she had a view of the sky, fading purple in the west with stars starting to appear.

  After the sensual delights of the spa, the meal had been perfection.

  Lyle whipped his Mercedes out of the parking space on Lincoln Avenue and followed Highway 29 out of town. With a faint squeal of tires, he rounded a sharp curve to the left, and drove along a straightaway between rows of vines. Past the intersection with Tubbs Lane, he started the climb into the dark hills.

  Into third gear and he dropped his hand onto Sylvia’s thigh. He stroked, sliding his hand higher while he drove expertly on the winding road toward Lava Springs.

  Sylvia sighed, almost a moan.

  “I’m resisting the impulse to pull off at an overlook and drag you onto my lap,” Lyle teased.

  Oysters or not, there was no question in her mind she wanted Lyle. Beginning with last night’s gentle press of his lips on hers, his restraint had been a huge part of the allure. A silly one on one at basketball, sampling wine and cheese—imagining the rich appreciation Lyle had for drink and food focused on pleasing a woman—tantalizing glimpses of his athletic body at the spa, sexy repartee about what oysters might or might not do …

  Though each skirmish had resulted in a corresponding retreat, now they rose through the darkness toward the inn. When they arrived, would they go in together, wordlessly accepting their game had advanced to the next level?

  The hallway at the Lava Springs Inn was lit at intervals by small nightlights. Neither Lyle nor Sylvia spoke, as if their silence erased the necessity of discussing what might happen next.

  As he’d told her over oysters, he was in trouble. He wanted more. He wanted them on a bed. He wanted all night.

  His room was the one at the end of the hall, but about halfway down, Sylvia stopped. “I’m here.” She nodded at a door.

  “I guess I thought your room was downstairs.”

  “No.”

  Her room would be fine.

  Lyle raised his hand and placed it between Sylvia’s shoulder blades. He felt her skin’s warmth through her tank top and the shirt over it.

  She looked up, her dark eyes shining in the dim light.

  “I can’t tell you when I’ve had a better day.” He stroked over her back, keeping it light.

  “I’ve been on fancy trips,” she said, “but the things we did today seemed different.”

  Lyle, who hadn’t been on fancy trips, withdrew his hand. “The spa and dinner weren’t cheap.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. But the mud bath was really… old-fashioned, the way things used to be when people took the waters.”

  He nodded. “Not a thing like the faux atmosphere at so many hot spots in the City.”

  “Speaking of San Francisco, are you going back to work after you meet Andre Valetti tomorrow?”

  Lyle’s muscles tightened. She didn’t know about his “leave of absence.” Nor how his interest in Andre, or rather Tony, stemmed from his hot button about people who disappeared. “I can stay over tomorrow night.”

  She smiled up at him, and he shared her relief that they need not yet part.

  The other thing she didn’t know was about her father and his reward money.

  Tell her, demanded his inner voice. Before …

  His libido argued if he destroyed the mood, there would be no bed.

  Putting a hand on the wall above her head, he cleared his throat. “You know, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  She put a finger to his lips. “Your tone is far too serious. You said this morning we were going to have fun.”

  He grabbed her hand and lowered it, holding the contact. “I am serious. It’s about your father …”

  Black brows made a vee. “Whatever you’ve got to say about him has nothing to do with our experiment on the effect of oysters on libido.”

  That ought to be clear enough, even for a confirmed nice guy. None of the men he knew, except possibly Cliff, would fail to get her message. The one shining in her eager eyes and saying, “Shut up and kiss me.”

  He tried again. “You father came to my office when you went missing.”

  “He thought you would know where I was because of the kiss.” She showed no surprise.

  “Actually, he wanted to hire me to find you.”

  Sylvia laughed and hooked both her hands around the back of his neck. “You found me. Somehow I don’t think you’ve told him.”

  “Of course, I haven’t.”

  “Well, then …” Her voice was like silk, inviting …

  She tugged at his neck, and Lyle slowly lowered his head. His pulse pounded in his ears and in the swelling ache at his groin. “All day … no, not just all day …” He brushed his lips across Sylvia’s cheekbone. “Ever since I met you …” His kiss grazed her temple. “You’ve been making me crazy.”

  A chuckle emerged, low and throaty. “Me?” Her hand lifted and barely brushed the back of his neck.

  Goose bumps ran down his back and arms. “Yeah,” he growled, “doing things like that.”

  She twined her fingers in his hair and drew him down. “And like this?”

  Their lips met, instant heat melding them. Tonight, there were no cameras. And no more “Mr. Nice Guy,” unless keeping Sylvia’s secret from her father counted.

  Sylvia had grasped at Ice how Lyle hated being taunted by Julio Castillo for being a nice guy. She’d surmised he sometimes held back in order not to intimidate people with his size.

  This evening, he seemed freed of his former restraint.

  She let her head fall back and gave herself to the moment. The combination of Lyle’s magnificent strength and essential vulnerability combined to create a hunger for more.

  He deepened the kiss. His tongue plumbed inside her mouth, mimicking the act of love he clearly wanted. Everything said he had no question as to whether or when.

  Her knees went weak, as they had on the porch last night. Lyle moved to cup her breast; her nipple beaded beneath his touch.

  To do more in the hallway was to invite a charge of indecency. Her breath came faster, and she imagined bearing his weight upon her. How her hands would slide over his strong bare back … and there was the desire, no, the need to know what made Lyle tick. Had his mother made him peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches? Did he ever have a new puppy? How much had he burned the midnight oil in first-year law school?

  How she yearned to give in to what had felt inevitable since the evening at Ice.

  But that would be the outcome “On the Spot” expected of Sylvia Chatsworth. Lyle’s boss had called her a she-cat, a tramp.

  “I …” she whispered.

  He slid his hand down from her breast to the juncture of her thighs. At his touch, a new shaft of desire pierced her. Her hips jerked; she pressed against his palm.

  “Baby,” he groaned, grinding the base of his thumb against the seam between her legs. “You want me.”

  She couldn’t deny it.

  But she hadn’t expected his touch would bring both joy and pain. His mention of her father reminded her of the loss of him their disparate lives might bring.

  One thing Lawrence Chatsworth had taught her was to be true to herself. And she couldn’t go to bed with Lyle when there was still doubt whether she would wind up inside a cliché, that is, hating herself in the morning.

  This was nuts. She was putty in powerful hands, sagging against him, and she was going to say no? There’d been a word for that at her exclusive girls’ school—cocktease.

  “Lyle…”

  He tensed.

  And drew back.

  “You want me,” he said in a low voice, “but…?”

  “I want you,” she bit out, “yet…”

  Lyle took his hands off her and straightened. “I get the idea ‘yet’ isn’t any different from ‘but.’”

  It wasn’t. It meant Lyle walking away and Sylvia leaning against the back of her closed bedroom door, her palms press
ed to smooth wood.

  She stood for a long while, deep breathing. It helped, and it didn’t.

  Sylvia was still aglow from Lyle’s touch. She did want him, with every cell in her body.

  But…

  Was she crazy? The man was beautiful, strong, caring. He was the real deal, and she was in her room and he in his. Right now, she was supposed to be in his arms, fulfilling all the promises they had made each time their gazes collided and held. Exploring what turned him on, and she imagined he would be equally as devoted to her pleasure.

  In all her life, Sylvia could not remember feeling like this. She was on fire for Lyle, but she was afraid of something this powerful. What if she gave herself to him, body and soul, and found out he wasn’t who she believed he was? What if they made love here in Lava Springs, with all the promises it implied, at least in her mind, and when they got back to the City it wasn’t the same?

  How could she be sure? How could she know anything?

  She banged her fist against the door. Then recoiled because Lyle’s room wasn’t far and he might have heard.

  “That went well,” Lyle told his reflection in the dresser mirror in his room.

  Shaking his head, he went to the window overlooking the river. He’d left it open this morning and the curtain stirred in the breeze. Outside, the Lava River chattered over the rocks.

  He pulled down the roller blind.

  If only he hadn’t let his frustration make him leave Sylvia in the hallway with a curt, “Good night, then.” He should have tried to find out what she meant by “but” and “yet.”

  Now, he was going to spend the night wondering what had made her pull back. And imagining all kinds of things.

  Had he pushed too much or not enough? Had his mention of her father made her recall the difference between their backgrounds? Had she decided he was only good enough to tease?

  Or had she divined he hadn’t been entirely level with her?

  He should go down the hall right now and tell her about the Senator’s half-million-dollar offer. Let her know that even though financial security was another of his hot buttons, he’d been sitting on her secret at considerable expense.