The Senator’s Daughter Page 20

  Lyle closed the space between them and kissed her lips gently. Then he moved to drop butterfly nips on her cheeks, forehead, and eyelids. This act of tenderness, after the cyclone that had turned her world inside out, undid her.

  To her horror, her next breath sounded too much like a sob.

  “Sylvia?” Lyle’s brows knitted.

  She couldn’t hold back the rising flood. “Lyle … I’ve never …”

  “Sweetheart.” He pulled her to him.

  With her cheek pressed against his bare chest, she fought to control herself. “I just…”

  Lyle cradled her close to his heart. “Go ahead and let it out, my darling.”

  Sylvia put her arm around him and held on as hard as she could. “I’m … crying because I’m so … happy.”

  How right she had been to believe making love with Lyle would be like losing her soul and finding it again.

  With her warm tears mingling with the sweat on his chest, Lyle’s throat tightened. When he blinked, his own eyelashes dampened.

  Never had such a storm seized and tossed him like a rowboat in a mid-ocean tempest. Until this night, he had not understood the profound chasm between having sex and making love.

  “I’m happy, too.” It came out hoarsely, and he wanted something better than such an understatement.

  He forged on, “Nothing like you has ever even remotely happened to me.”

  They lay together, breath mingling. Gradually, the pressure they exerted holding each other eased. Lyle felt Sylvia’s muscles slacken; her chest began to rise and fall with regularity.

  His own limbs grew heavy. The last thing he registered was the glow from the bedside candle as he closed his eyes.

  Next, he was dreaming, a good one in which he lay in a soft bed with the warm weight of a woman by his side. As he drifted in and out, he knew at some level the bed and the woman were real, while other visions playing on the big screen in his head weren’t.

  In a pretty parlor in the Chatsworths’ Sausalito house, Lyle perched on a chintz-covered sofa. Laura poured tea into porcelain cups so delicate he feared to pick his up. A bull in a china shop, his eighth-grade teacher had called him, when he grew a half foot taller than the other boys. She’d been right; his field-roughened hands could never handle Laura’s gilt-edged cup and saucer without disgracing himself.

  To avoid dealing with it, Lyle fought his way up from sleep. He took a deep draught of California mountain air, then buried his nose in Sylvia’s silken hair.

  That was better. He lay on his side with one arm snuggling her against him. His sex stirred once against her buttocks, and he subsided back into sleep’s warm darkness.

  He stood among the redwoods, head thrown back to appreciate the convergence of the trunks against the faraway sky. The scent of evergreen duff, soft beneath his shoes, filled his nostrils. Except that a rattletrap of a car smashed through the plate-glass window of a nearby dry cleaners, releasing the stench of… gasoline?

  Lyle backed away, hand covering his nose and mouth.

  Before he could get far, the dry cleaners erupted with a whoosh, flames shooting up and igniting the redwoods. The resin-saturated wood burned hotly, crackling and popping with an almost merry music.

  Lyle came back to lying in bed with Sylvia, but the cracks and pops continued. It sounded like the cheery welcome of a campfire on a cold night.

  Chapter 20

  Sylvia’s eyes snapped open. Leaping light turned the corner room at the inn into a vision of hell.

  “Lyle!” she screamed. “Fire!”

  He jackknifed and rolled off the bed, dragging her with him. “Put your face to the floor. The air’s better.”

  She obeyed. Once below the level of the bed, she saw the fire didn’t seem related to the bedside candle. It had apparently guttered out.

  The garish light came from the blazing wall separating the room from the hall. Through a hole in the ceiling where hungry flames had done their work, the night sky was intermittently visible. Black smoke alternately swirled up and then cleared, while the snapping that had awakened her, resin exploding in burning timbers, gave way to a full-throated roar.

  How lovely and golden the candlelight had been; how horrific the macabre colors of conflagration. Ochre, vermilion, the crimson of blood.

  With a shriek, Sylvia closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her head.

  “No time for that.” Lyle raised his voice.

  Her throat stung; she started to cough. A pit opened in the middle of her stomach. She and Lyle were trapped—they were going to die. And it wasn’t fair because they had just found each other.

  Lyle grabbed her by the hair and yanked hard enough to get her attention. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “The window,” she coughed, starting to crawl. There were two big ones facing off across the corner. The one farther from the fire had a drop of about twelve feet to landscaping rocks at least a foot in diameter.

  Lyle crawled in that direction, probably because it was open a few inches.

  She tugged at his shoulder. When he didn’t stop, she pulled his hair in turn.

  On hands and knees, he looked back. Their eyes met for the first time since awakening in hell. In his, she saw determination, further buoying her against terror.

  “This one!” she shouted, pointing to the near window. The shrubbery below would break their fall.

  Unless a sharp stick impaled them.

  Lyle crawled ahead and reached the sill. Sylvia followed.

  Watching him reach for the sash, his back bare … they were about to leap out starkers.

  She grabbed his arm. “We’re naked!”

  “We’re alive.” But Lyle retreated a few feet for his duffel bag and dragged it over beneath the sill.

  He shoved at the window; Sylvia waited for it to slide up.

  Nothing happened.

  Lyle turned again toward the open window.

  “No,” she cried, “rocks below.”

  He gave the frame another jerk.

  “Painted shut,” she offered.

  It was getting hotter, and she kept choking. The fumes bore the essence of everything old and new in the inn, ancient timber and stucco, modern sheetrock and latex paint, oak hardwoods, toxic gases from synthetic upholstery and mattresses …

  Lyle started to gasp, as well.

  “Break it,” she got out.

  He shook his head and looked around.

  Sometime in the past hours, she felt as though they’d developed the ability to sense each other’s thoughts. Now she believed he didn’t want to risk them getting cut unless they had to.

  With the heat coming down … according to what she’d heard, a thousand degrees would sear their lungs before the flames reached them … it was time to risk it. Sylvia eyed the nightstand and debated demanding Lyle hurl it through the pane.

  He gestured for her to stay put and moved into the murk.

  With Lyle out of sight, Sylvia’s chest clutched. Seconds passed like hours, while she considered executing the nightstand option on her own. At the very least, she was going to use the faux stone statue of an angel atop a nearby dresser to break the glass for air in the next ten seconds, no matter where Lyle was.

  When her countdown was almost done, and she was reaching for the figure, he reappeared. Inserting a closet rod beneath the metal latches affixed to the wooden window frame, he bent and used it as a lever.

  With a pop, the window opened, driven up a foot by momentum. Lyle dropped the closet rod, shoved the sash farther up, and threw his duffel bag into the night. Fresh air poured in, though she still felt the rising heat.

  Lyle looked at Sylvia. “I’ll go first and catch you.”

  It wasn’t the moment for a Sir Galahad remark, though the thought crossed her mind. Time for it later, if this worked.

  He leaped and was swallowed by the shrubbery.

  She strained her ears but couldn’t hear the sound of his impact. Was he hurt?

  She look
ed at the drop.

  “Don’t clutch now, babe.” Lyle’s voice emerged from the cool relief of night.

  Sylvia couldn’t resist a look over her shoulder. Buck and Mary’s pride and joy was going up in the worst way, flames licking their way across the carpet and burning her shorts where she’d dropped them. A look up and she noted the sprinkler valve on the ceiling; no water had come out of it.

  “Sylvia!” Lyle called from below. The timbre of his voice said he feared the fire had done its worst.

  Naked, she addressed leaping into the void. One leg over the scratchy wood sill, then the other. When she hit the sharp ends of the bushes below all hell might break loose, but on her back the heat turned blistering.

  “Dammit, Sylvia!”

  Finally, like all the people who’d ever leaped from a burning building rather than be caught by the conflagration, Sylvia pushed off the sill and felt the sickening sensation of free fall.

  Lyle broke her descent, staggered, and went to his knees. She wound up cradled in the upturned branches of a rose of Sharon, getting scratches on her behind.

  He helped her out. Slaphappy with relief, she thought if the situation weren’t so serious, she’d want to laugh at the picture they made.

  As soon as she was on her feet, Lyle dragged his duffel out of the bushes and unzipped it. Grabbing his cell phone out of the side pocket, he pressed 9-1-1, then looked at Sylvia and gestured toward the bag. “Grab something to put on.”

  By the time he’d reported the fire, Sylvia had pulled on a pair of his jogging shorts, dragged the drawstring tight, and had her head under a T-shirt while she pulled it on.

  The garment completely covered the shorts, grazing her thighs.

  While Lyle rummaged for underwear, jeans, and a golf shirt and got into them, he said, “I was the first to call—”

  “Buck and Mary!”

  “They’re probably around front.”

  Sylvia hoped so. They’d had enough excitement in the past two days, with the quake and fire, to last a long time.

  Though she broke into a jog, Lyle passed her at the corner. There was no one on the lawn or in the parking area.

  They raced up the front steps. The door was locked.

  He rapped at the panel, then pounded. “Do they keep a key under a rock or something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I could kick it open if not for the deadbolt.”

  “They don’t set the upper lock, said it was so people could get out in case of—”

  “Fire?” Lyle turned his back, lifted his knee, and brought it down in a donkey kick.

  The door banged open, splinters falling from the frame.

  Smoke boiled out.

  Though the last thing Lyle wanted was to eat more smoke, he ordered, “Stay here.”

  He dashed inside, snatching a decorative scarf from the foyer table and breaking some knickknacks that had survived the earthquake.

  At the crash and tinkle, “Lyle?”

  “I’m okay.” He wrapped the cloth around his mouth and nose and tied it behind his head.

  The stairs down to where Buck and Mary lived were black and smoky. Having never been down, Lyle wished he knew where he was going.

  Halfway down, Sylvia appeared at his elbow.

  “I told you to stay put,” he gritted.

  “You don’t know where you’re going.”

  He wished he could argue with her.

  When they reached the base of the stairs, an emergency light came on. Lyle jumped but was glad for the illumination.

  “There goes the power,” Sylvia said. In the pale glow, he saw she had his T-shirt pulled up over her nose and mouth.

  Along the corridor ahead, Lyle noted at least six closed doors. Though he hated for Sylvia to put herself at risk, thank God she had come. He wouldn’t know where to start.

  She pointed. “Second on the left. The others are storage.”

  Lyle moved quickly to the door—unlocked. He touched the panel; not hot, opened it and jerked back. No need for emergency lights here, the living-room curtains were ablaze, along with a sector of ceiling near the outer wall.

  Buck crouched on hands and knees on the floor beside a supine Mary. She wore a sweat suit, he jeans and a denim shirt; he held wet towels to his face and to hers.

  “Are they gone?” Buck asked wildly.

  “Who?” Lyle asked.

  “Don’t know. Someone threw a jar of gasoline or something like it through the window upstairs.” His voice shook.

  “That’s my room,” said Sylvia.

  Her room? God, if they’d gone there …

  “I heard glass breaking and smelled the fumes before all hell broke loose. Why aren’t the sprinklers on?” Buck inhaled through the towel and looked at his wife. “We dressed and were on our way out when she collapsed.”

  “I’ve got her.” Lyle bent and lifted Mary’s limp form to his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He turned and headed up the stairs.

  When he emerged into the night, he carried her away from the inn to where the air was cool and the wind blew the smoke in another direction. He lowered her to the grass with care and made sure Buck and Sylvia were behind them.

  Tearing the scarf from his nose and mouth, Lyle mentally prepared to start CPR, but Mary moaned and turned her head. Buck knelt beside his wife.

  After calling emergency services again and requesting an ambulance in addition to the fire department, Lyle felt his legs start to tremble.

  It was the crash; the letdown after the adrenaline had flushed out of his system. Not only did it make him weak, it brought home what a close call they’d had. This put last night’s earthquake in the category of a walk in the park.

  He turned to Sylvia. She looked equally stunned.

  All the while they’d been working out their escape, he’d figured somewhere in the background of his mind that an electric problem, old wiring, had caused the fire. Once he knew it wasn’t the candle they’d stupidly left burning.

  Buck’s story of the sharp sound of breaking glass and the stench of volatile hydrocarbons now meshed with Lyle’s dream of the car crashing into the dry cleaners. The fumes must have burned off by the time he and Sylvia had awakened to a conflagration.

  If they hadn’t been sleeping so soundly, they surely would have woken up before things got so out of control. Might even have been able to do something about putting the fire out.

  A glance at the flames roiling through the roof made it an impossible dream. He never thought he’d be glad for an earthquake, but if it hadn’t happened and rendered the inn empty, there would no doubt be bodies on the lawn.

  He put his arm around Sylvia’s shoulders and drew her down to sit beside him on the grass. He could feel the trembling in her, as well.

  “Where’s the fire department?” she demanded.

  Lyle shook his head. “It’s a ways to town. And when they get here I don’t think …” He looked up at the debacle in progress.

  “Who would want to burn out Buck and Mary?” Sylvia’s anger rose.

  He didn’t have an answer. But, as great showers of sparks flew up to join the stars burning in the night sky, Lyle recalled Andre Valetti telling him he wouldn’t get away with making accusations.

  Sylvia rode with Lyle in his Mercedes through the predawn darkness, down the Silverado Trail to Napa’s Queen of the Valley Hospital. They were following the ambulance with Buck and Mary.

  Though she and Lyle were okay, at least physically, the fear-ache in her had not subsided. “Mary and Buck were good to me,” she told the highway’s centerline.

  “Fine folks,” Lyle agreed. “Mary was like a bantam hen protecting her chick when she thought I was your abuser.”

  “This shouldn’t have happened to them.” When she got the chance, she would ask them whether they had any enemies.

  She didn’t think it likely.

  Looking out at the narrow strip of illumination from the headlights, she watched the vine rows go by o
n either side of the road. It was hard to believe that only a couple of hours ago, she’d been happier than she had dreamed possible. If only she could wake up and discover they were still in the big bed … she’d tell him her nightmare and he’d hold her.

  Looking over at Lyle’s profile in the dash lights, she reached and laid a hand on his forearm. He let go of the steering wheel and put his palm on her thigh, making her feel safer than she had since waking in a fiery hell.

  “Buck said the fire started in my room,” she ventured.

  “There probably isn’t any meaning to it. Who would know it was your room?”

  “We’ve had two close calls now.”

  He took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “It would be tempting to think somebody’s really trying to tell us something.”

  He’d said the same thing last night and she’d told him to forget it. A fateful event like an earthquake was random, not aimed at trying to tear two people apart.

  But what about arson?

  If the gasoline bomb had been intended for her room, then how and why? She didn’t think anyone knew where she was, but that could be wrong. Being in Lava Springs, away from the limelight, she’d almost convinced herself she could lead a normal life.

  One that could include the man beside her.

  “If something is sending signals,” she said softly, “I’d like to believe it’s telling us to hold on to each other.”

  “You and me both, babe.”

  Chapter 21

  The clock in the ER waiting room at Queen of the Valley showed 7:00 a.m. Lyle sat beside Sylvia, both of them staring at the morning news on a wall-mounted TV, while Buck riffled the pages of a battered People with a headline speculating whether Brad and Jennifer would break up.

  Images of the war in Iraq, turmoil in the Middle East, and the San Francisco arrest of a man suspected of killing his girlfriend did not distract Lyle from last night’s arson. Sylvia had said it best—who would want to burn out Buck and Mary?

  Two kind retirees, proud and happy with their inn. It didn’t make sense unless there was some family or money business, and that was always a possibility. One was more likely to be injured or killed by family or friends than by a stranger.