The Bravos: Family Ties

The only faint shadow on her happiness was the mystery of the lost Belinda. Cleo still wanted to know what had happened in his marriage, what had gone so wrong that he had not only put his wife behind him, but also, for three years, his child.

She didn’t raise the subject, though. Eventually, she was sure, if they stayed together long enough, they would get around to it again.

On Friday morning—a week and a day after she and Fletcher became lovers—as Cleo and Ashlyn walked along the hotel hallways headed for KinderWay, Ashlyn tugged on Cleo’s hand. Cleo smiled down at her.

Ashlyn didn’t smile back—but then, she rarely smiled. She said in an easy, conversational tone, “My mommy was tall, like you, Cleo. And so pretty. She died.” Cleo slowed her steps a little as Ashlyn frowned, considering. “I don’t remember her very well. I think she was nice. But until Daddy came to get me, I mostly stayed with Grandma and Grandpa.”

Iron-lace benches with seats lushly padded in red and gold were spaced at intervals along the hallway. “Come on,” Cleo said. “Let’s sit down.”

Ashlyn hung back. “But we have to go to my school.”

“Just for a moment or two.” She led the child to the nearest bench.

Ashlyn obediently climbed up and sat. “Okay.” She waited until Cleo was seated, too, then folded her hands in her lap. “We’re sitting.”

Cleo looked at the sweet upturned face of Fletcher’s child and felt distinctly devious. Trying to get his daughter to tell her the things Fletcher hadn’t said himself …

How low was that?

But then again, maybe this was a subject Ashlyn needed to explore. She asked gently, “Do you want to talk about your mother?”

Ashlyn wrinkled up her pert nose. “Well, no. I mostly want to go to my school right now.”

So much for Ashlyn’s burning need to confide. “You know what?” said Cleo. “You’re right. We should get to school.”

“O-kay.” Ashlyn jumped eagerly to her feet. “Let’s go.” She reached for Cleo’s hand again and they proceeded down the hallway toward the bank of French doors that led outside and to KinderWay. A few steps along, she looked up again. “Cleo?”

“Hmm?”

“Where’s your mommy?”

“She died, too, but it was after I was all grown up.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What about your daddy?”

“He’s still alive. I don’t see him very often, though.”

“Tell him to come to my house. I’ll read him a story. He’ll like that.”

Cleo pushed open the door and they went through into the misty, cool February morning. “We’ll see.”

* * *

That night in bed, after sweet, slow lovemaking, Cleo told Fletcher what Ashlyn had said about Belinda.

She felt the movement of his shoulder as he shrugged. “They’re good people, Belinda’s folks. And they dote on Ashlyn. She went back for long visits twice last year. And she’ll stay with them again this spring for a week or so.”

“Stay with them where?”

“Bridgewater, New Jersey. It’s about twenty miles north of Princeton. Belinda grew up there—and she moved back when we separated.”

“But I hadn’t realized Ashlyn lived with her grandparents while Belinda was alive. I thought—”

“Cleo, it’s not a huge mystery. She was a single mother and her parents looked after Ashlyn so she could work.”

“Belinda worked?”

Fletcher canted up on an elbow and looked down at her. “What? That surprises you? You work.”

“Well, Celia mentioned that she didn’t think Belinda had a job while you were married….”

The recessed lights in the bedroom were turned low, casting his face into shadow. Still, she couldn’t miss the flash of his white teeth as he grinned. “Celia just happened to mention that, huh?”

“Okay, I asked. And yes, I’m curious about what went wrong between you and Belinda.”

He touched her cheek, traced the line of her hair where it fell against the side of her throat. “What do you want to know?” He sounded—what?—resigned maybe.

Still, her heart lifted. Whatever his attitude, he was willing to talk. “Oh, only everything …” She laid her palm against his warm chest and felt the low chuckle as it rumbled through him.

“Belinda got a job in some clothing store, I think. She left Ashlyn with her mother pretty much round-the-clock. She would stay with them on the weekends.”

“Belinda was close to her parents, then?”

“Very—and why don’t you go ahead and fill me in on what Celia just happened to tell you.”

“Be glad to.” She repeated all that Celia had said.

When she was done, he was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Belinda died of a stroke. It was a complete shock to everyone….”

She laid her hand on the side of his face. “Fletcher?”

He bent close enough to kiss the tip of her nose. “Why do I sense more questions coming?”

“Maybe because you’re a very smart man.”

There was a moment. She had a feeling he would tell her that they’d talked of this enough. But then he said, “All right. Fire away.”

She did exactly that. “What happened … between you two? Why did you end up divorced?”

He caught her wrist, gently opened her fingers and placed a warm kiss in the heart of her palm. Then he pressed her hand to his chest again. “Belinda hated Atlantic City. She didn’t like the gaming industry and she missed her hometown. And I was working killing hours—even more so than now, if that’s possible—trying to establish myself and move up. She felt … deserted by me, I guess you could say. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t try harder to fit into my world. And it really got to me that she would resent my working hard when, in the end, I was working for us, for our future.

“By the last year we were married, she was spending more time in Bridgewater than with me. She told me she was pregnant and that she wanted a divorce in pretty much the same sentence. She also wanted full custody. I gave her everything she asked for—alimony and child support and sole custody of the baby. All of it. I was bitter. I felt she hadn’t tried hard enough to make things work. I threw money at her and told myself I was glad to be rid of her.”

“But … what about Ashlyn?”

“You want the hard truth?”

“Please.”

“I didn’t think a whole lot about her. My accountant sent the money and I went on with my climb up the gaming-business ladder—and you don’t approve, do you? I can see it in the way you’re pointing your chin at me.”

“No, Fletcher. I don’t approve.”

“Neither do I. Now. But the ugly truth is, until Belinda died and I met Ashlyn for the first time, she just wasn’t real to me.”

“How sad—for her. And for you.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“But I’m glad that at least you and your daughter finally … found each other. And that you have a good relationship with Belinda’s parents. That’s important, I think, for her to know her mother’s side of the family.”

“I think so, too. Any more questions?”

“Not right at the moment.”

“Don’t hesitate. Anytime you’re the least bit curious, ask away.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I definitely will.” As she looked up through the shadows into his pale eyes, she felt she knew enough now about what had ended his marriage to Belinda that this particular part of Fletcher’s past wouldn’t nag at her mind so much. “And thank you.”

“For …?”

“Helping me to understand.”

“I live to serve.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Cleo?”

“Hmm?”

“Kiss me.”

“Great idea.” She smiled and lifted her mouth to his.

Friday, she and Fletcher planned to have lunch at Club Rouge, but he called at the last minute to say his meeting was running late.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, his voice low and intimate, causing shivers to skitter along her skin. “Tonight …”

Cleo settled for a sandwich at one of the sidewalk cafés along the indoor boulevard between the casino and Hotel Impresario. She’d just placed her order for a BLT and a large iced tea when a feminine voice said, “Cleo Bliss. It’s been a while.”

She looked up. “Andrea. How are you?”

“Oh, you know …” The showgirl slid into the seat across from her. “Workin’. I’ve got a featured part in Cancan du Bal.”

“Hey. That’s good news, huh?”

“I’m doing okay.” The waitress trotted back over bearing a menu. Andrea waved it away. “Brush-up rehearsal in ten minutes. You know how it goes….”

“I remember. Yes.”

Andrea flipped a swatch of thick dark hair back over her shoulder and recrossed her long denim-clad legs. Cleo had done two shows with Andrea, a rock revue over at the Luxor and a rip-off of Cats at one of the smaller resorts. They’d always gotten along well enough, though they’d never been what you’d call friends.

“So,” said Andrea. “I heard you did it. You’re living your big dream. You opened a day care.”

“A preschool. Yes, I did.”

“And now you’ve opened one here, too, at Impresario.”

The waitress set Cleo’s iced tea at her elbow. She picked it up and sipped from it. “Word gets around.”

“That’s right. All those nights of going home early, missing the party, paid off for you, I guess.” Cleo made a sound in her throat, the kind that might have meant anything. Andrea folded her forearms on the table. The diamond bracelet on her right arm caught the light, giving off a glitter as hard and bright as the one in her sapphire-blue eyes. She pitched her voice low. “I hear you’re with Fletcher now.”

Fletcher. First name only. Cleo got the message. Loud and much too clear. “Yes, I am.” She sipped more tea.

“Like you said a minute ago, word gets around. You know how it is.”

“Oh, yes. I know.”

“He’s a driven man, Fletcher is.” Andrea pretended to fan herself. “What a body, huh? Somehow he makes time for the gym five days a week. I like a man with cheese-grater abs—hey, nice watch.”

“Thank you. Beautiful bracelet.”

Andrea held up her wrist, flicked it back and forth so the diamonds twinkled wildly. “I love it. ‘Square cut or pear-shaped,’ as the old song goes.”

Cleo set down her glass. “Andrea.”

“Yeah.”

“Was there something specific you wanted to say to me?”

The dancer stopped flicking her bracelet and waved her hand instead. “Oh, only that nothing lasts forever, I guess. That some men just aren’t the forever type. They like to go after you, they like to love you up. And they’re good at it. They make you burn. But once you’re caught, it can get old really fast for them. Am I making any sense?”

“Perfect sense. Is that all, then?”

“Oh, yeah.” Andrea’s full lips quivered. “I guess it is.” She bent her sleek dark head. When she looked up again, those stunning blue eyes glittered with unshed tears.

Cleo dug in her purse and brought out a tissue. “Here.”

Andrea took it. “Thanks.” She blotted her eyes. “Hey. What do you know? I think I’m jealous.”

“Yeah,” said Cleo softly. “It kind of looks that way.”

“I thought I was past it, past him. But then I saw you sitting here, in your cute little short blazer, your geometric print skirt and business pumps and …” She sniffed, tossed her head. “God. F-O-O-L. That would be me.”

Cleo resisted the urge to reach out to the other woman. She knew the gesture would only be rebuffed. “Let it go,” she said quietly.

“Let what go?” Andrea demanded.

“This. Just now. Your stopping by this table to tell me all about Fletcher. Let it go.”

“And you? Will you let it go, too?”

“Yes, I will.”

Andrea squinted at her, as if trying to get inside her mind, to find out if Cleo really meant what she said. Then, at last, she shrugged and hitched her huge tote firmly onto her shoulder. “If you tell him I talked to you, you can probably get me fired.” She rose.

“I won’t do that.”

“Whatever. Story of my life, either way.” It was all bravado and they both knew it. Andrea had let the green monster get the better of her for a minute. But she didn’t want to lose a good job. “See you around. And don’t worry. In spite of this little lapse I just had here, I do know the routine. Smile. Nod. And walk on by.”

“Something wrong?” Fletcher asked that night as they lay in their favorite place—his bed.

Andrea Raye, she thought. That’s what’s wrong.

Which was silly. After all, it wasn’t as if Andrea had told her anything she didn’t already know. Fletcher liked women. He’d been with several—Andrea among them, apparently.

Oh, wow, big news.

He guided her chin around so she looked at him, at his handsome, lean face and into his unforgettable eyes. “You seem far away.”

She considered telling him what Andrea had said. She could lay it on him and then get his word that he wouldn’t take steps to get Andrea kicked off Cancan du Bal.

But she’d promised Andrea she wouldn’t say anything. And she was just unsure enough of how Fletcher might react to feel uncomfortable jeopardizing another woman’s job.

When it’s over, it’s over, Lolita used to say in the tough times, after another man had left her. I like to play with the big boys, so I gotta know how to let it go when the game is at an end. I keep my head up and I don’t complain. I move on, baby. That’s how it works. Those are the rules.

Andrea had broken the rules. Cleo couldn’t bring herself to take the chance that the other woman might have to pay for that. A dancer’s life was tough enough without getting canned for telling the truth to the CEO’s current girlfriend.

And besides, Cleo couldn’t help sympathizing with Andrea. She knew she’d probably be eaten up with jealousy, too, if it ever became her turn to move on….

If? taunted a voice in the back of her mind. Oh, please. You mean when …

Fletcher bent closer. She felt his warm breath across her cheek. He caught her lower lip between his teeth—so lightly—tugged and let it go. Then he whispered, his mouth against hers, “Hello? Are you in there?”

“I’m here.”

“No. I don’t think so. You are far, far away….”

She lifted her arms—lazily—and wrapped them around his neck. “Wrong. I’m right here.”

“Prove it.” Beneath the covers, his hand swept downward. She moaned. “Better,” he whispered. “Let’s try that again….”

Fletcher woke first the next morning. He rolled his head to look at the woman beside him.

Cleo lay on her stomach, her face turned toward the far wall, all that glorious auburn hair spilling across the gray silk pillow. Slowly, carefully, he peeled back the blankets that covered her, pushing them all the way down to the foot of the bed.

Then he stretched out beside her again and admired what he’d revealed—starting with the vulnerable pink soles of her long, slim feet, moving up over the shapely ankles, the muscular calves, that tender, pale curve at the back of her knee.

From there it only got better: the long, firm thighs, the round, muscular bottom, the inviting sacral dimples at the base of her spine that made him want to bend close, dip his tongue in one and then the other. The scent of her tempted him—sweet and just a little spicy.

Yeah, he’d always enjoyed beautiful women. But Cleo—she was one of a kind. She had it all: not only the drop-dead looks but also the brains and the pure will to succeed. Plus, she possessed that smoldering extra something: call it an inner confidence, a sense of feminine power. Whatever. It made the men sit up and stare.

Men wanted her—though they’d sure as hell better keep away unless they wanted to deal with him. And not only did men desire her, women liked her. She could conquer the world, just as her name promised, as her mother had wanted her to.

But Cleo wasn’t interested in running the world.

She only wanted to make a place for kids to learn. To have a family …

Yeah. She was special. There was no one quite like her. He was long gone over her and perfectly content to be so. Not since those first magic months with Belinda had he felt quite the way he felt right now.

Belinda …

Uh-uh. No point in going there.

He’d messed up with Belinda. She’d been all wrong for him. Weak. Not focused. A woman from a nice middle-class family who didn’t understand the first thing about his world.

A woman nothing like the one beside him right now.

He continued his slow, appreciative scrutiny, admiring the sleek curves of her back, the leanly muscled shape of her dancer’s arms—one bent at the elbow supporting her head, the other resting along her side. He was just getting to the poetry in her slim, long-fingered hands when she stirred and yawned and rolled to her back.

“What?” She squinted up at him, her face sleep-flushed and so beautiful it hurt to look at her—hurt in a very good way.

“Just admiring the view …” He traced a finger around a pert, pink nipple.

She lightly slapped his hand away. “The view is getting chilly since you stole all my covers.”

“Let me warm you up.”

She smiled at him then. Damned if her smile couldn’t light up the darkest night. “Hmm. You know, that’s an excellent idea….”

And then, before he had a chance to take the lead, her warm, soft hand closed around him. The feel of her gripping him was so perfect, so exactly right, that a low, pleasured moan escaped him.

She was still smiling—a much naughtier smile than before. “How about … like this?”

“Oh, yeah …”

She put her other hand—the one that wasn’t doing incredible things to his suddenly rock-hard erection—on his chest. Gently she pushed him over until he lay on his back. Then she canted up over him. That cinnamon hair brushed his chest. The scent of her swam around him. She whispered, “And like this …?”

He could only nod as those long fingers of hers stroked him, slow, knowing strokes.

How did she do it?

The woman drove him wild.

She worked him, milking him with her hand, and she kissed her way down the center of his chest. When she took him in her mouth, he was absolutely certain he was going to explode.

Somehow he managed to hold back as her soft lips closed over him, as the wet cave of her silky mouth surrounded him, sucking. He rolled his head on the pillow and groaned low in his throat and tried not to reach for her….

He could only hold out for so long. The moment came too quickly when he couldn’t take the sweet sexual torture she inflicted for one second more.

So he caught her by the shoulders and pulled her up to face him.

“Hey.” She grinned down at him. “I wasn’t finished.”

“Maybe not. But if you don’t stop, I will be.”

Her fingers tightened on him again. “Fine with me.”

He groaned. “Wait.” And then he swore. “Have mercy….”

“Oh, Fletcher. I love it when you beg.”

“Kiss me. Now.” He lifted his head off the pillow, straining for that soft mouth.

She gave him those warm, full lips, and he kissed her, urging her to open, which she did without even token resistance. He wrapped his arms around her and rolled, wild for her by then, wanting only the hot, perfect feel of her body closing around him.

He sought her, found her. She was slick and swollen with arousal, already wet for him. She could take him. Now. When he needed her so desperately.

He nudged her smooth thighs apart and slid inside with a pleasured moan.

Oh, the way she fit him. No one. Ever. Had fit him like that.

She wrapped those fine legs around him and she moved with him, rocking, taking his rhythms and giving them back to him, answering the questions he hadn’t even known to ask.

She whispered his name, husky and low. “Fletcher …”

“Yeah,” he said. “Cleo …”

And then he was rising, going up and over, spilling into her, and she was holding him, meeting him, crying out with her own release.

There was that frozen, straining moment as the pure pleasure took them. Then they both went limp.

He lifted up to his elbows and looked down into her flushed face. Her satiny throat was dewed with sweat. He bent his head and licked her there, tasting her.

“Fletcher,” she whispered, breathless—and insistent. He lifted his head enough to meet her eyes. She looked … what? Disbelieving? Shocked?

He stared down at her, baffled. What the hell could be wrong? “What’s the matter?”

“We forgot the condom,” she said.

Chapter Eleven

Cleo thought he looked totally stunned—as stunned as she felt. “I can’t believe we did that,” she whispered. “Damn.” He blinked. Shook his head. “Neither can I.”

“We’ve got to be more careful….” She waited for him to agree.

And he did. Kind of. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe …” She pushed at his shoulders. “Fletcher, what do you mean maybe? There’s no maybe about it. We have to—” He put a finger against her lips. “Easy.” She pushed his hand away. “Fletcher, this is serious.”

“We could look at this from another angle, you know”

“Another angle? I don’t think so. We messed up. We can’t afford to—”

“Wait.”

“But I don’t—”

“Go with me here, just for a minute.”

She stared up at him, bewildered. He really was acting strangely. “Go with you … where?”

“You did tell me you wanted kids, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But—”

“Having sex without a condom is a good way to make that happen.”

She gaped up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Yeah. I heard it. I can’t believe you said it, but I definitely heard it.”

“Are you telling me you’ve changed your mind—that you don’t want a baby, after all?”

“No. No, that’s not what I said—or at least, not what I meant. What I meant was, I don’t want a baby like this.”

“Like what?”

She couldn’t believe the look on his face. Did he find this amusing? She accused, “I swear, all of a sudden you are grinning at me.”

“Yeah. So?”

“It’s not funny. I don’t want to be like my mother—or even like your mother, though that is no judgment on either of them, it’s truly not. I want my kids to grow up with their father in the house, you know? I want—”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” She glared up at him and demanded, “Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

She pushed at him again, hard enough that he rolled off her. Then she sat up and grabbed for the sheet at the bottom of the bed, yanking it up to cover herself. “Listen. Listen very carefully. I don’t want to be a single mom. I don’t want that for myself or for my kids.”

“Fine. Let’s get married.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Would you, um, say that again?”

He put up a hand. “Wait.”

“But—”

“No. I mean it. Wait right there.” He slid from the bed, went to his knees, yanked open the bedside drawer and took something out of there.

“Fletcher, have you completely lost your mind?”

He shoved the drawer shut. “I think I might have.” He put his fist to his chest and loudly cleared his throat. “Cleopatra. Marry me.”

She clutched the sheet harder and stared down at him—naked on his knees. Proposing to her. “I … what?”

“I said, marry me.” He held out his fist and opened his fingers. A gold-embossed red jewelry box sat on his spread palm. A ring box.

Her stunned gaze tracked from the box to his face and back to the box. She blinked, thinking this truly could not be real. But when she opened her eyes again, he was still on his knees, still holding out that little box. “You’re serious … aren’t you?”

He grinned all the wider. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Give me your hand.” Numbly she did. He set the little red box in it. Then he wrapped her fingers around it. “Marry me, Cleo.”