The Senator’s Daughter Page 2

  Sylvia’s huge dark eyes swept down to focus on the mess and back up at him. With a little slam in his chest, he took in smears of mascara on her cheeks above a high flush. Though they were brightly rouged, her full lips looked like she’d been biting them. Funny though, how the under-an-arctic-sea lighting seemed to flatter her complexion when it was cruel to Corinne Walker.

  Unsteady hands cupped, Sylvia picked up the glass and stopped before she got it to her mouth. “I really am sorry,” she said in a normal no-nonsense tone. “When you told me about the Pearl’s Puget Sound oysters, all fresh and briny, I was ready for them.”

  Lyle’s heart rate edged up, for he had frankly proposed them for their highly touted aphrodisiac properties. He ought to suggest they have a drink here and go on to the Pearl, sit at the bar, and have some of the raw shellfish.

  Sylvia’s hands trembled while she put her drink down, spilling a bit more of it. “I shouldn’t tell you, maybe it’s as catty as what they were doing.” She drew in a breath that sounded like a sob.

  “What happened?” His fingers tightened on the stem of his glass.

  “Some women were gossiping, making fun of me being spurned by Rory. I just … couldn’t come out of the stall until they left.”

  It was Lyle’s turn to be sorry and to glance around for his prime suspect, Corinne Walker. She wasn’t in sight.

  “Look …” But how could he tell Sylvia she brought notoriety on herself? Certainly, she knew and did outrageous things by design.

  With a sigh, he shifted gears. “Do you still want oysters?”

  He could have sworn she gave him a look of genuine hurt, but it flashed by and her chin lifted. “Would you rather cancel? Not be seen with me?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Despite his resolve not to bring up her fame, he heard himself say, “Maybe I’m off base, but you don’t seem the type to dance bare-breasted with a boy toy.”

  She matched his look with a sharp one. “Did you see the ‘On the Spot’ in question or just hear about it?”

  “I just …”

  “Fell for hearsay, counselor? If you saw the show, you’d know there was footage of me and the girls laughing with the dancers, and the voice-over, ‘A little later, the Senator’s daughter got into the spirit of the club and did a dance herself.’” Sylvia slapped her palm on the bar top. “I was fully clothed.”

  She couldn’t know how glad he was to hear it, but before he could reply, a commotion at the door accompanied a glare washing out the blue atmosphere.

  Turning, Lyle saw the familiar figure of roving reporter Julio Castillo out doing nightly recon for “On the Spot.” The athletic, dark-haired thirty-something sported a black suit and a lavender open-necked shirt.

  “Bad news,” Lyle told Sylvia. He’d been enjoying the scene, but now it was starting to look like he should have asked her on a drive to someplace remote and rustic.

  With a look toward the camera crew, she favored Lyle with a view of her chiseled profile while her lips expelled a four-letter epithet. He slid what he hoped was a reassuring hand onto the smooth skin of her forearm. “Ignore them.”

  “Easy for you to say, Mr. DA.” Beneath his fingers, he felt her tension.

  Castillo, black eyes intent in a face made for being on TV, advanced on them.

  “Tell them we have no comment,” Lyle insisted. “It’ll be all right.”

  Her laugh managed to be both mocking and warm. “You think that’s all it takes? If you don’t look at the mariachis they won’t play at your table?”

  Even as adrenaline started to pump, Lyle let his hand tighten on her. Sylvia’s eyes slammed into his, and he had a sudden below-the-belt problem.

  “They’ll keep shooting,” she purred, “until they have what they think are the goods. And they’ll twist it into whatever they want.”

  “Come on,” he argued. “How much trouble can we get into?”

  Sylvia’s answer was immediate. She kissed him.

  They were filming, all right; she could see the red camera light from the corner of her eye.

  Sylvia Chatsworth and Lyle Thomas, “Mr. Straight Arrow,” caught together after she was publicly dumped. Why, from the clinch they were in, who would believe she cared about anything or anybody?

  To make it good, she tilted her mouth beneath Lyle’s and let her lips part. In an instant, the scene went from faking it to better than a reality show, from the passionless press of dry lips to a wet, scorching kiss sending thrills down all her nerves.

  She didn’t qualify for shrinking virgin, but the miniscule number of her lovers would have shocked her public. The reason was that she’d wanted to know, to trust a guy before she would shuck even the smallest item of clothing. How to explain, then, since she barely knew Lyle, he was blowing her circuits with a single kiss.

  Something in the mastery with which he plied his mouth and tongue made her acutely aware this big man could have his way with any woman or put away most men with a single punch. Yet, the sense of him choosing to control and direct such power into arousing her was amazing.

  On camera, this must look like true Hollywood. Hot, hot, hot, and who could doubt she and Lyle must be an item?

  Sylvia’s head fell back. His hand slid into her hair and caressed the back of her head. Goose bumps prickled her scalp, erupting down her spine and legs to her sandaled toes. The aroma of his soap or aftershave, clean and spicy, filled her head. God, if this weren’t staged …

  Lyle’s fingers were on the move again, from her head down onto her expanse of bare back above the strapless dress. His palm splayed between her shoulder blades; through the warmth of his skin, she knew the chill of Ice.

  Her arms lifted and found their way around his neck, drawing him down. He obliged by dragging her off her stool, slanting her across his lap, and sliding both arms around her.

  “Lyle,” came out in a ragged gasp, half-entreating, half-demanding. There was nothing stuffed shirt about this man, at least when it came to lovemaking.

  Lyle deepened the kiss so she could no longer say his name.

  Yet, it was burning in her brain.

  Lyle caught the spirit of having fun for the camera. A quick nip and “On the Spot” would have their pound of flesh. He and Sylvia would, because of their position in the City, be duly recorded as of interest, at least for the moment the kiss went on.

  But within the first second of his lips touching Sylvia’s, all calculations were off. Electrified, he felt alive in a way he’d never imagined. Bungee jumping on the South Island of New Zealand where the sport was invented, leaping out of a perfectly good airplane and experiencing free fall—nothing had quite prepared him for the raw and potent energy flowing from Sylvia Chatsworth.

  It wasn’t a one-way circuit. He wanted to direct his own force back to match hers.

  Lord, whatever trouble this got him into might be worth the price of admission.

  “Whoa,” said a voice behind him. “Check out Lyle and the bimbo.”

  A compliment, really. The speaker couldn’t know the depths Sylvia revealed through their communion. That raven hair made a fall as silky as it looked, her bronzed back smooth and flawless beneath his palm, and her ample breasts made a fine match for his broad chest. Her musky perfume was pure sex.

  Another voice intruded. “This is Julio Castillo reporting from Ice. We’ve got Assistant DA Lyle Thomas and Senator Chatsworth’s daughter, Sylvia, putting on a show here. Looks like Sylvia has found a new amour, or has she?”

  A frown creased Lyle’s brow.

  Castillo hammered on, “Or maybe she’s taking advantage of a nice guy who doesn’t get out enough to know a she-cat when one gets her claws into him.”

  That was it; the equivalent of a pitcher of ice water to his groin, while Sylvia’s embrace turned from promising to pathetic.

  Lyle set her aside. With his eyes open, the cameraman’s spotlight seemed blinding.

  He focused on Castillo, recalling how the man had invaded a funeral home
viewing back in the spring and gotten knocked on his can for it. Lyle had instructed Sylvia to ignore the paparazzi, but he lashed out, “Is there no limit to how low your mind can go, Castillo?”

  The red light on the camera glowed.

  Sylvia sagged against the bar; Lyle reached a hand to her elbow.

  “Sir Galahad, I presume?” Castillo prodded.

  Lyle’s fingers drew into a fist.

  “Hit me and your career’s over,” the reporter predicted.

  With his courtroom training, Lyle sensed the room dynamic in his favor. But nobody here wanted to see him deck Castillo and get hauled up on assault charges, especially when the reporter’s taunts had been sufficiently without substance to warrant a defamation suit.

  Even so, having given himself a common-sense ruling, it took a huge effort to let his fist relax and his hand drop.

  “You’re right,” Lyle said. “It’s not worth it.”

  “Sylvia Chatsworth isn’t worth it,” Castillo announced.

  Laughter erupted around her. In the crowd, she located Corinne Walker, her face distorted with the kind of mean mirth Sylvia remembered from a long-ago schoolyard and this evening in the ladies’ room.

  Sensing her face was as bright as her dress, for the first time Sylvia realized the outfit was wrong. The stiletto sandals might look right on the page of a men’s magazine, but there was a reason her blue-blood mother blanched at the sight of them.

  Not worth it.

  Where, at twenty-six, she might be allied with some prominent business concern, she had neither struck out on her own nor cashed in on her parents’ contacts. She’d been too certain whatever she did wouldn’t live up to their expectations.

  While the laughter in the bar grew more raucous, Sylvia realized she was waiting for Lyle to act the knight in shining armor. But why should he? She’d just behaved with him in exactly the way the tabloids branded her.

  If only he knew how carefully she made her choices in men, he might understand how rare was the embrace she had shared with him tonight. But how did you tell a man you found his kiss special when you’d jumped him on camera and earned the City’s ridicule?

  Sylvia looked up at Lyle projecting a composed image. He couldn’t know her lipstick stained his mouth and cheeks.

  It would have been nice to eat oysters with him. Good to have had a fresh, cold drink, to clink glasses together and smile into his eyes. Even better to have found out where their uncanny and unprecedented chemistry might have led.

  The camera was still recording. Castillo shoved his microphone at her. She wanted to scream, to flee the lights and the humiliation.

  Behind her, she heard Lyle say, “Hang in there.”

  Sylvia dodged through Ice’s close-packed crowd toward the door. Despite his encouragement, she knew she had to be a long way from him when he watched the show and found out how ridiculous her lipstick made his handsome face look.

  Outside, clear weather had given way to a pea-souper. Condensation streamed from car windows; streetlights reflected on shiny pavement. Although Sylvia normally loved the City, this evening’s atmosphere made her claustrophobic enough to long for mountains and redwoods.

  Raised in charming Sausalito with the staggeringly lovely slopes of Mount Tamalpais above, its forested flanks and rugged cliffs overlooking the Pacific above Stinson Beach … on the surface it seemed all she yearned to escape to.

  But she’d been stifled there … the best private schools with the skirted uniforms, the ones that groomed the finest little wives for wealthy men’s sons.

  Ever since she’d been old enough to get out of Marin County and set up her own place, she had lived in the bustling North Beach district, with its clubs, restaurants, and eclectic shopping. When Father had been elected, Mother had insisted Sylvia sell the town house bought with the trust-fund money she didn’t control and move to a high-rise with security.

  She had refused.

  Maybe that hadn’t been smart. Just as running out of Ice would have Castillo brand her a coward.

  She hurried up the Embarcadero skirting the waterfront. Though well lit, in this weather the wide street with a trolley line down the center was deserted. Sylvia rushed west past the shoulder of Telegraph Hill and headed inland toward her place near Washington Square, wondering if she imagined a shout behind her. She looked back, but saw no one.

  It started to rain and she went faster, hugging herself against a chill she wasn’t dressed for. A moment later the squall hit in earnest, blasting in off the Bay. The rainfall increased to a thick curtain, and drops bounced off the pavement. She felt the spray on her bare knees.

  “Sylvia!”

  Without looking back, she ran faster. If it were the news crew, they could go to the devil. If it were Lyle, she must look a fright, the rain ruining her leather dress and turning her sandals sodden. Water streamed from her face and bare shoulders, her hair plastered to her head.

  “Wait up.”

  She risked a glance over her shoulder.

  Twenty yards behind, Lyle ran like a linebacker, blond hair darkened. His dress shoes splashed through water sheeting across the sidewalk. She faced forward and kept going. All she wanted was the sanctuary of her town house, where she’d slam the door and lock out the world.

  “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 emba
rrassed 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?”

  Chapter 2

  Lyle’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 …