“Good for you,” Lyle said grimly. “And his claim is true. My friend Cliff and I drove up to get you out of Andre’s place and ran into a roadblock.”
Hearing he’d come after her, like the proverbial Sir Galahad, helped calm her after her wild flight. “I thought he … or someone … was following me so I ducked into the grocery and called you.”
“Why didn’t you call your father?”
Sylvia blinked and realized the warm air from the Mercedes’ heating vents was drying her eyes.
“That was what you wanted earlier?” Lyle went on.
“Yes, but…”
“Do you want me to take you to Sausalito now?”
“I…” Did she? “When I was in Andre’s bedroom, I wondered if Father knew he had me locked up … oh, this sounds crazy.”
“Go on,” Lyle said evenly.
“It must have been drug paranoia, but I thought maybe it was some kind of punishment for running away. I know I promised you …”
“I think you are probably overreacting, but I’m not going to try to talk you into going home at this hour.” His tone said he wanted her to himself.
She looked over her shoulder. “Isn’t your place down by the water?” That was where she wanted to go, where she wanted to stay.
“It is, but we’d better keep away from there. We can probably assume that Andre doesn’t want the law in his business and won’t call the police about your beaning him. But when he wakes up, all hell will break loose. My loft will be the first place he or his thug, Luigi, will look.”
Chapter 28
A few minutes later, Sylvia and Lyle left his car with a valet at the rate of thirty dollars a night and entered the lobby of a traditional hotel in Japantown. She checked out the moon gate in marble opposite the entry, the lighted waterfall, and a koi pond with lava rocks in a courtyard beyond a wall of glass. A vase of hothouse orchids graced a round table in front of the reception desk.
A sense of stillness about the place at this late hour made her feel safe. Even better when the valet moved Lyle’s car out of view of the street.
The man behind the desk let his glance touch Lyle’s duffel bag, slide off Sylvia’s damply crumpled clothes and curling wet hair. He informed them the only accommodation open was their traditional Japanese suite.
At top dollar.
Lyle brought up his wallet and paid with hundred dollar bills.
Behind the black lacquered suite door was a comfortable living room, floored with crimson carpet. Silk prints on the walls portrayed the uniquely rounded mountains of Japan. At the rear was a peace garden of live bamboo, floored with sand raked into curved patterns.
When Lyle slipped off his running shoes and set them side by side, Sylvia bent to follow suit and felt the pistol in her pocket. Though it was warm in here, she shivered.
Lyle went to the bedroom, where the floor was elevated a few inches and covered with beige tatamis. The bed consisted of a cushioned queen futon laid out on the woven mat. He shoved back the folding closet door to reveal a pair of kimono robes.
“You’re to get right into a hot bath,” he instructed, turning on a bronze floor lamp.
Stepping onto the smooth rushes, Sylvia brought out the small gun. “That’s not why I shivered, though I am chilled. This is Andre’s.”
“Whoa.” Lyle took it, holding it with the muzzle pointed down. “Smith and Wesson Chief Special.” With obvious expertise, he released the revolver’s cylinder, swung it to the side, and tapped the five bullets out onto his palm. “We’d better hang onto it.”
Sylvia watched him replace the cartridges and put the pistol onto the closet shelf.
“Now get to that bath,” Lyle said. “I’ll order some food and we can talk out what to do next.” He started toward the living room and turned back. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”
Sylvia shook her head. “I’m lucky I only took a few sips of the wine.”
Lyle lifted his hand and captured a strand of her dark hair. “Lucky for you … and for me.” He bent and brushed his lips across her forehead, then moved away.
Stripping off her wet clothes and placing them on hangers to dry, she donned a kimono and headed for the bath. In front of the peace garden’s rice-paper screens, a deep slate-lined tub sat flush with the floor. Beside it sat a short-legged wooden stool and a matching bucket with a ladle.
Sylvia turned the taps and added an envelope of emerald green bath salts in a jasmine scent.
Lyle appeared in the doorway in the matching kimono, yet the robe swathing her ankles stopped at his knees.
Their eyes met and held. How precious to be with him when she’d feared she might never see him again. All the tension of being separated, all the uncertainty about whom to trust… Andre had failed … how would her father fare?
Everything came down to what she had done on instinct when dark footsteps stalked her.
She’d called Lyle.
Lyle gazed at Sylvia. Despite Andre Valetti’s assault on her and the cloud of suspicion over her father, he wanted to forget all that. At this shining instant, before she went back to the world, he had Sylvia all to himself. Sheltered against the wet night, behind closed doors.
He leaned his shoulder against the tiled opening to the bath and mentally thanked the desk clerk who had, rightly or wrongly, stated this was the only open accommodation. “You know,” he told Sylvia, “in Japan the women wash the men …”
One of her brows lifted.
“But I think in San Francisco, it should be tit for tat.”
The tub was full; Sylvia closed the taps. The smoky aura of her rain-wet hair took him back to the night he’d tackled her on a sidewalk ahead of pursuing paparazzi. How trivial it now seemed; they had believed their biggest hurdle was keeping off the front page.
Sylvia moved toward him, skimming the robe off her shoulders. “You’re going to bathe me?”
Lyle straightened from his comfortable slouch. “And vice versa.”
The corners of her mouth curved up. He helped her robe go south and tried to control his reaction at the sight of her always-magnificent breasts. Shrugging off his wrap, he placed them both on wall hooks.
When he turned back, Sylvia was looking at him like she was considering a banquet. Her luscious lips were parted.
Lyle reached and turned on the wall shower. “I’m told that in Japan one scrubs off,” he nodded toward the stool and bucket, “then enters the bath.”
Together, they stepped beneath the spray.
After her rush through the wet streets, Sylvia reveled in the warmth. Not even the heater in Lyle’s car or being inside the hotel had thawed her deep chill.
More than the water, her rising heat came from being with Lyle.
He selected a small bottle of shampoo from a wall rack and opened it. “Turn around.”
She obeyed.
First, she smelled citrus scent and then his fingers moved over her scalp, creating a luxurious lather.
“Ever think about being a hairdresser?”
“Ever think about being a maid in a country inn?”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
They both laughed, the sound echoing in the tile-walled bath.
Sylvia turned, and his soapy hands found her breasts. She inhaled sharply and felt the tug in her womb his touch always produced. Facing him, she noted his appreciation becoming more evident by the moment.
Yet, they each made a show of ignoring the sexual aspect of washing one another, he kneeling and placing her foot atop his thigh and washing between every toe, she sliding her palms over the planes of his chest and back.
Lyle pointed her toward the wooden stool. She sat, and he applied the brush to her back, arms, and legs, making her skin glow. Afterward, he dipped the bucket into the bath and, ladle by warm ladle, poured rinse water over her. Then it was his turn to be ministered to in a like manner.
The slate-lined bath was at least three feet deep with room enough for two. They sat
with their backs at opposite ends, smiling at one another through the steam as though they had no cares. The salts had turned the water silky.
“I love you, Lyle.” It just slipped out.
And hung on the air while his smile evaporated.
Oh, dear, had she blown it? Would her declaration frighten away a man who’d been hurt in the past? Despite his obvious desire, was he ready to accept the risk of loving?
At her declaration, Lyle pulse pounded. He had a moment of “deer in the headlights,” until he realized he in no way felt there was a hole in his heart. Rather his chest swelled, full to bursting with …
Joy, it was joy.
Sylvia watched him from across the water, hope evident in her shining eyes and the way she held herself as though waiting for his reply before breathing. He’d decided he loved her, acknowledged to Cliff that he had chosen a woman. Or rather that she had chosen him with a kiss.
But, unlike some men he knew, who bandied the word about freely, Lyle could only tell her if he was ready to accept commitment without reservation. To take the plunge, knowing it might end in heartbreak.
He grabbed Sylvia’s wet hands. “I told you the night of the fire that I’d fallen for you.”
The little line between her brows said she’d hoped for better. Well, he was just getting warmed up.
A knock came at the suite door. Both Lyle and Sylvia jumped.
“Who…?” Her quaver suggested Andre had recovered and tracked them.
For a pulse-pounding second, Lyle feared the same. Then he had a vision of a bacon cheeseburger. “Dinner.”
He started to get out of the tub, but bent to kiss Sylvia. Their lips lingered. “Make a note this conversation is merely tabled.”
“Aye, aye, counselor.”
With a thick towel, Lyle scrubbed himself, then got a robe and wrapped in it. Halfway across the bedroom, he glanced at Andre’s Smith and Wesson .38 caliber on the closet shelf.
Another knock.
The gun went to the door in his robe pocket.
“Room service.” The voice was female, so much for night fears. He’d ordered food. It had come.
Nonetheless, he checked the peephole and noted the cart before he loosened the security chain. While he added a tip to the bill, the mouthwatering aroma of burgers and French fries made his stomach growl.
With the plates transferred to the low coffee table, Lyle saw the server out. On his way back in, he lifted a lid and took a fry.
From the bath, he heard the gurgling of water going down the drain. He smiled, heading that way in hopes of getting there while Sylvia was still sleekly wet and naked.
Sylvia, wearing the other robe, stepped out. A towel wrapped her head, turban-style. Though it had only been moments since he’d seen her, his heart gave a glad little leap.
Brandishing the French fry, he grinned. “Eat first?”
Her roguish smile said she knew what he meant.
Lyle bit off half the fry and put the other to her lips. When she took it between her teeth, his focus moved from a rumbling tummy south.
When they both had swallowed the morsels, he stepped closer. Sliding his hands beneath her voluminous sleeves, he kissed her neck. “What I said about the night of the fire …”
“Do you suppose,” she mused, “we’ll ever stop calling it the ‘night of the fire’?”
“Perhaps,” Lyle put his lips close to her ear, “we should call it the night we fell in love.” Beneath his fingertips, goose bumps rose on her arms. “Am I going to have to put you back in the tub?”
“No, Lyle,” she said thickly. “Just hold me.”
“I will,” he promised. How he did love her. Despite his belief the emotion would pass him by.
He tipped her chin. “Before I do, I want to be sure you understand …” Like a vow, he spoke from his heart. “You said you love me. I love you, too, Sylvia.”
Her eyes looked misty.
“If this suite had a window that opened, I’d shout it to the City.” His voice rose. “Hear me, everybody, I love Sylvia Chatsworth!”
“Julio Castillo would love to air that.” Sylvia trailed a fingernail down his chest to where his robe lapels met.
He slipped the sash of her kimono; she was damp and jasmine-fragrant. Her hands tugged at his belt. His robe parted.
“Lord, woman.” Lyle glanced down. “Look what you do to me.”
Sylvia took a step and pressed her naked heat to him. He fumbled her towel turban off. Black hair tumbled over her shoulders, giving off a delicious floral aroma.
Before he could tell her that, despite his legendary appetite, dinner had slipped to second place, Sylvia raised her glowing face to his. “I don’t think we are going to eat first.”
Half an hour later, Sylvia still couldn’t believe making love with Lyle had been better than the night of … the night they fell in love. She had feared the first time might be best, fraught with the excitement of the unknown. Instead, more comfortable with each other’s bodies and rhythms, they both had been more ardent than before.
Now, lounging side by side in their robes on the carpet, they attacked the food. He’d ordered her a burger with mustard, onions, pickles, lettuce, and tomato, just the way she liked it.
Lyle watched her take a big bite. “I’ve noticed, and enjoyed, that you don’t eat rabbit food like a lot of women.”
Sylvia considered some she knew. “You mean the ones who eat salads in front of guys and ice cream when they get home?”
Lyle polished off his bacon double cheeseburger. “I’m glad you’re a real person.”
Sylvia cocked her head. “You mean instead of ‘the Senator’s daughter’ of TV fame.”
He dipped a fry in ketchup. “I prefer the gal who makes beds at the Lava Springs Inn.”
Sylvia sobered. “I’m afraid she’s gone, along with the inn … and the party girl I used to be.” She sipped from a can of cola. “Now I have to figure out who I really am.”
Lyle put the fry on his plate. “Funny you should say that, because I’m in the same boat. When I answered the DA’s summons, he fired me.”
“Oh, Lyle …” She was silent for a moment. It wasn’t time to wonder what he was going to do. But it wasn’t too soon to ask, “Why would he fire you?”
Lyle leaned back against the couch and stretched out his bare feet. “He said it was for falsely representing myself as being on official business when I questioned Andre. Turns out he invested with Tony Valetti and Andre in the land deal up near the springs.”
“Didn’t you say some woman might have been killed because she wouldn’t sell?”
“I did. David Dickerson was her executor.”
For the next half hour, Sylvia sat cross-legged on the floor while Lyle explained in detail how a circle of prominent men was all connected to northern Napa real estate. Most chilling was the note he ended on; her father was the most likely candidate to be the kingpin in a scheme to buy up land and change the zoning requirements for development. Yet, Lyle admitted, he had trouble thinking a deal like that would be big enough for the Senator to risk so much.
She didn’t want to believe it, either. She wanted her father to be the person of integrity she’d always thought he was, but if men like Andre and Tony Valetti and the district attorney were dirty …
“Of course,” Lyle said, “with the evacuation, their plan has been nipped in the bud.”
Sylvia considered. “Maybe not.”
“You heard what I said about the National Guard. Nobody gets in there, not even to build mini-mansions.”
“Bear with me. A while back Mom wanted to buy a country place in the Napa Valley. Father said they should wait until prices went down.”
“How is that relevant?”
“At the time I thought he just meant there would be a housing bust, but …” Sylvia straightened. “Do you remember what Andre said? How he’d give anything to see land prices rolled back for just a month.”
“Yes.”
&nbs
p; “Wouldn’t you say this is the month?”
Lyle’s blue eyes darkened. “You mean because of the mercury scare?”
She pushed to her feet. “You said it yourself. What if that’s all it is?”
“You mean if a buyer offered someone in the evacuated zone a price well below previous market value …”
“My God. Andre offered to buy Buck’s land yesterday morning. He didn’t mention a price.”
“Buck told Cliff and me.” Lyle got up; they faced each other. “But, how? Buck said this was a natural phenomenon.”
“His talk about the old mines and the spring water may have planted the seed,” Sylvia said. “Think of ways to rig it at the bottling plant, doctoring of the sample analysis spreadsheets. Or a mercury residue placed in the bottles before they give them to their chemist. But that’s a long shot, since this has basically destroyed Palisades Pure’s business.”
“They’d have to be in on it, along with Andre and the rest.”
“And that’s possible. Fiamma is a good Italian name.”
Lyle scratched his chin. “But even if we bought that, government agencies were all over the springs within hours, the U.S. Geological Survey was checking the water quality at the springs’ source.” He paced. “For this to work, there would really have to be mercury in the Lava River.”
Sylvia digested that. “Then there must be.”
“How could they contaminate the spring flow?”
It made sense. So much that she almost capitulated.
“I don’t know, but—” She snapped her fingers. “You know that apparatus in Andre’s lab, the one he didn’t want to talk about? I saw one just like it in Frank Fiamma’s lab at Palisades Pure. I asked about it and, despite Andre’s attempts to distract me, Frank explained you fill a bottle with a chemical solution and an osmotic membrane time-releases the liquid. It only takes a few parts per billion to show up in the spring flow, so if they used a concentrated solution …”
Lyle stopped in mid-pace. “We’ve got to be hallucinating.”
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