The Senator’s Daughter by Christine Carroll Page A

claptrap to you.”
    Lyle rocked a little faster. He would like his father to be proud of what he’d accomplished, but the older man refused to even come in to San Francisco and see his loft.
    â€œIt does me good to see those rich folks drive by and wish my side of the road was Phase II.”
    â€œLook,” Lyle said. “There’s no use you living like this and having me sell the place for a lot of money when you …”
    â€œWhen I die, it’ll be here. Where folks know to find me.”
    Lyle stopped the motion of his chair. Unspoken between them lay the fact that his father was still waiting for Maddie to come back.
    Well, wasn’t Lyle?
    Didn’t he still hope each time a phone rang? Only this week, there was someone else’s voice he longed to hear, the ache sharper because it had not been dulled by the years.
    What if Sylvia called and said she was back … if she had gone away on her own, then she deserved his anger, not his understanding. That was the instinctive reaction, and when he believed the theory, he was enraged, just as he had been with Maddie Thomas.

Chapter 8
    F riday morning Lyle rose early. Much as he detested Julio Castillo, last night’s encounter had given him an idea. If he wanted to know what had happened to Tony Valetti, an obvious first step would be to ask his brother, Andre, some questions.
    Warming to the idea while he showered and dressed, Lyle decided to do it today.
    He began by finding the business phone number of Villa Valetti and dialing. Using one of Cliff’s investigator tricks, he affected a quasi-Brit accent for the woman who answered and posed as a visiting vintner from South Africa who wanted to meet Andre. Within moments, he learned Andre both lived and officed at the winery north of Calistoga.
    Not knowing how long he might stay in the Napa Valley, Lyle packed a duffel; jeans, T-shirts, something to play golf in should the occasion arise, swim trunks, and his toilet kit. And noticed, tucked in beside his travel toothbrush, dental floss, and antiperspirant, a pack of condoms.
    Maybe what he needed was to get his ashes hauled. It had been five months since his fling with the blonde, a paralegal who worked on the second floor of the courthouse. If he got serious about hooking up this weekend, a singleton might make out at one of the nice resorts in the Napa Valley.
    Leaving the protection in his kit, Lyle met his eyes in the mirror over the bathroom sink.
    Truth to tell, the only woman he wanted to run into in the wine country, or anywhere else, was Sylvia Chatsworth.
    He didn’t know how to feel about that.
    In the space of any given hour, he vacillated between fearing for her, and wishing she had simply reached her limit. If he’d gone through the kind of wringer Sylvia had, and she no doubt included him along with the bitchy women and the media, wouldn’t he have packed his bags and headed for the hills?
    Perhaps.
    On the other hand, look at the wringer everyone who cared about her was being put through.

    With a map off the Internet on the passenger seat of his Mercedes, Lyle drove up the winding road north out of Calistoga. It was coming up on three thirty; he’d been delayed by a red herring.
    Just as he was about to leave his loft, he’d fielded a call from Cliff with a lead. Last night after Lyle had left Ice, Cliff had run into Corinne Walker. She said to tell Lyle she’d seen Sylvia the other day.
    After treating the banker’s hawk-faced daughter to an expensive lunch in exchange for information, Lyle had gone from trying to get her to focus on Sylvia to realizing she was playing games—specifically the game of pursuing Lyle Thomas.
    With most of the day wasted, he pressed on toward Villa Valetti. He might have phoned for an appointment, but had decided to try to catch Andre without giving him a chance to prepare.
    Now, where was the turn for the winery? There might not be a sign; he’d