The Bravo Family Way

by Christine Rimmer

  “Brandy-colored eyes. And auburn hair…” He touched her cheek. She didn’t stop him. He brushed a finger along the line of her jaw. It was a shocking and inappropriate intimacy, and she felt it through every singing nerve in her body.

  She made herself speak. “Take your hand away, please.”

  He did. Then he said, “Dinner,” again, as if she hadn’t just told him no. “Strictly business.”

  “For some reason, I don’t believe you.” Straighten up, you fool, she thought. Step away from him. Slowly her body obeyed. One step, two…

  He swiveled his chair around until he faced her and then he leaned back—so cool. So casual. “Business,” he said again. “We’ll enjoy a fine meal and we’ll discuss the new KinderWay facility you’ll be opening right here at Impresario.”

  “But that would be a complete waste of your time and mine.” He arched a brow, but before he could speak, she informed him—again, “I’m not opening a new KinderWay facility here at Impresario.” She stuck out her hand. “Fletcher. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  His lean fingers engulfed hers. “The pleasure was all mine.” He gave her hand one firm shake and then released it.

  His letting go didn’t help. She could still feel the tempting press of his skin to hers. “Goodbye, then.” She circled back around the massive desk. At her chair, she scooped up her bag and made for the door.

  Fletcher watched her go, admiring the rear view of her tall, curvy dancer’s body, appreciating the shine and bounce to that silky-looking cinnamon hair. Once the door had closed—quietly but firmly—behind her, he picked up the phone and buzzed his assistant.

  “Marla, get me Brian Klimas.” Brian Klimas was a P.I., a damn good one, both thorough and discreet. “And call Tiffany’s. Something pretty. A necklace. A bracelet. Either. Have it sent to Ms. Cleopatra Bliss. Her home address. It should be in the database.”

  “I have it,” Marla said. “Is there a message?”

  He considered. “Yeah. ‘Lunch, then?’ With a comma and a question mark.”

  “A signature?”

  “No. She’ll know I sent it. Put Klimas through as soon as you get him.”

  He disconnected and waited. It didn’t take Marla long to reach the P.I. Her line blinked.

  Fletcher punched the speaker button. “Put him on.”

  There was a click. Marla said, “You’re connected.”

  Fletcher instructed, “Brian, I want more on Cleo Bliss.” He waited, giving Klimas a chance to access his records.

  “Got her,” said the P.I. “Cleopatra Bliss. Twenty-nine. Owner and Director, KinderWay Preschool. Graduate in child development, UNLV. Put herself through college working nights as a showgirl.”

  “That’s the one. I want everything you can find for me. There’s a boyfriend. Check him out—who he is, what he does, how long he and Cleo have been together and how serious the relationship is.”

  “Anything else?”

  “How soon can I get a report?”

  “I’ll put a rush on it and give you a call tomorrow to let you know where we are with it.”

  “Good.” Fletcher ended the call. As he sat back again, his gaze settled on his computer and the KinderWay design it still displayed.

  She’d liked the design. A lot. It had, in fact, provided the moment or two in their meeting where he’d been certain she would say yes to his offer.

  All right, then. The design.

  Once again Fletcher reached for the phone.

  Chapter Two

  “So what’s in the fancy little box?” Danny Pope asked when Cleo ushered him in the door that evening.

  The unopened gift waited, nestled in packing popcorn, in a brown box on the narrow table in Cleo’s tiny square of a foyer. She’d found it waiting on the front step when she got home from KinderWay. Once she’d peeled back the cardboard flaps and seen the blue Tiffany box, she’d known who sent it.

  There’d been no need to read the card. But she had: Lunch, then?

  Uh-uh. Not dinner. And not lunch. Not anything. No way.

  “It’s nothing important,” Cleo told Danny. “As a matter of fact, I’m sending it right back where it came from.”

  Danny frowned. “You know what it is?”

  “No, I don’t. If I had to guess, I’d say jewelry. The shape of the box seems to indicate a bracelet. Maybe. Or it could be a necklace. Who knows?”

  “Well, why don’t you open it and find out?”

  Cleo took his hand, twined her fingers with his and pulled his arm around her. Settling their joined hands at the small of her back, she kissed him, a quick, firm press of her lips to his. “Nope.”

  “Why not?” He smelled of a recent shower and also very faintly of motor oil. Danny owned a garage and restored classic cars for a living.

  “There’s no point,” she said. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.” She brought their hands back around between them, pressed a kiss to his big, rough knuckles and then turned and headed for the kitchen, towing him along behind.

  He pulled her back. “Wait a minute. Who’s it from?”

  She gave in and said the name of the man she didn’t even want to think about. “Fletcher Bravo.”

  Danny whistled. “The Fletcher Bravo?”

  She made a show of rolling her eyes. “Please don’t tell me there’s more than one.”

  He frowned again—and then he got that adorable, goofy grin that had tugged on her heart from the first day she met him, when her SUV had blown a tire on I-15 and he’d come to her rescue, her knight in greasy overalls. “Aw, Cleo. Come on…”

  She relented. “Okay. Yeah. The Fletcher Bravo. I met with him this afternoon.”

  “Wow. Why?”

  “Come in the kitchen. Have a beer. I’ll tell you all about it.” She pulled on his hand again and that time he went with her.

  In the breakfast nook, in front of the bow window that looked out on her postage stamp of a patio and the cinder-block wall enclosing it, she pushed him down into a chair. “Bud?”

  “Sounds good.”

  So she got him his beer, serving it up straight from the bottle, the way he liked it. She explained about Fletcher as she went to work on the salad. “Fletcher Bravo wants me to open a KinderWay at Impresario for the children of selected employees—and more specifically for his soon-to-be five-year-old daughter.”

  Danny took a long pull off his beer. “You never mentioned anything about Fletcher Bravo before….”

  She sent him a look as she grabbed a big knife suitable for chopping lettuce. “Okay. I confess. I’ve been in denial.”

  “Denial about…?”

  She steadied the head of lettuce on the cutting board and hacked at it with her knife. “Three times I’ve met with Fletcher’s underlings. Each time I’ve told them, politely but firmly, that I’m not interested.” She set the knife aside and scooped up the lettuce she’d chopped, sparing another glance at Danny as she dropped the greens in the salad bowl. “Fletcher wouldn’t believe me. I guess that’s not especially surprising. He didn’t get where he is by giving up without a fight. Finally he asked to meet with me personally. So I met with him. Today.” She grabbed a smaller knife and went to work on the radishes, cutting the ends off, slicing them into the bowl on top of the lettuce.

  “Wait a minute. You turned him down today—and so he sent you jewelry?”

  She paused in midslice, glancing his way, shaking her head. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it? To tell you the truth, I still don’t think he believes that when I said no, I meant it.”

  “Cleo?”

  “What?” She looked toward him again.

  He was picking at the label on his bottle of beer. “I gotta say. If one of the Bravos came to me with an offer to expand, I’d jump at it. The Bravos are big-time. The real deal. Maybe you ought to think twice. This could be a good move for you.”

  “But I told you. I don’t want to do it. I don’t like the idea of putting a KinderWay in a casino.”r />
  “He wants it in the casino? Wouldn’t that be illegal or something?”

  “All right,” she amended, “it would be off the hotel, but still, it’s not the kind of location I had in mind.” His expression said he wasn’t buying. She set down her paring knife. “Okay. Say it.”

  “Well, it’s only…this is Vegas, you know? Most of the people who live here work for the resorts and casinos. Those folks have kids, too. And their kids need preschools. And I think, because of how you grew up, you sometimes want to pretend that this is a different town than it really is.”

  What could she say? He was absolutely right. “Okay. You’ve got a point….”

  He said it again. “This town is what it is.”

  She kidded him, “Go ahead. Make me face reality.”

  His sweet smile lit up his face again. “You’re welcome.”

  She flicked on the faucet long enough to rinse her hands, then grabbed a towel and turned to lean against the counter. “This whole thing does get to me. I mean, just because a guy is some big shot around town doesn’t mean he’s always going to have things his way. If I’m not ready to expand, I’m not ready. Period.”

  “But this would be on the Bravo Group’s nickel, right? You’d get a new facility and they would pay for it?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Well, that sounds like a hell of deal to me.”

  “How many ways can I say I’m not ready yet?”

  Danny took another pull off his beer and set it down with care. “Okay. What’s going on?”

  She put a lot of attention into thoroughly drying her hands. “What do you mean?”

  “You seem really…jazzed about this. Really nerved up. And angry, too.”

  “Well, I am angry. I’ve told that man no four times now, including today. And what does he do? He sends me jewelry.”

  Danny’s honest brown eyes held hers. “He’s after you.”

  “Didn’t we already establish that?”

  “I’m not talking about KinderWay right now,” Danny said. “I mean you.” Cleo had no idea what to say then, so she kept her mouth shut. Danny added, “Come on. What guy in his right mind wouldn’t be after you?”

  She let out a hard breath. “Oh, Danny…”

  “And why else would he be sending you jewelry?”

  She couldn’t hold his gaze and found herself looking down, studying the rounded toes of her ballet flats. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just send it back.”

  “You want me to talk to this guy?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  She lifted her head and straightened her shoulders. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “You want to…go out with him?”

  “Of course not.”

  Danny smiled. Slowly. “Well, then. We got no problem here, do we?”

  She could never resist that smile of Danny’s. She felt the corners of her own mouth lifting in response. “You know what? You’re right. We’ve got no problem at all.” She turned, hung the towel on the rack and went back to cutting up the salad.

  Danny finished his beer and helped himself to a second one. A few minutes later they sat down to eat.

  After the meal, they cleaned up the kitchen, working smoothly together, two parts of a well-oiled machine. Then Cleo made popcorn and they adjourned to the living room to catch a movie on pay-per-view.

  Cleo shucked off her flats and cuddled up close to Danny, enjoying the strength in his muscular arm when he draped it across her shoulders, thinking that this was a great guy and she’d been lucky—so lucky—to find someone like him.

  Someone so sweet and kind, someone who understood her and was always gentle with her and who never, ever tried to boss her around. Someone true and steady and down-to-earth.

  Someone totally unlike some people she could mention…

  When the movie ended, as the credits were rolling, Danny pulled her closer, tipped her chin up and pressed his lips to hers. She kissed him back warmly.

  But it was after ten by then and she was tired from the long workday—and the added stress of having to face down Fletcher Bravo.

  Danny sensed her mood instantly. He always did. “Tired, huh?”

  “Yeah. I guess I am….”

  She walked him to the door and they shared another kiss. He asked her out for Friday night.

  She said, “I’d love to.”

  “Pick you up at seven?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  She stood in the open doorway, watching as he went down the front walk and got into his perfectly restored ’57 Chevy. He waved as he drove off, and she shut the door, locking it, turning back to lean on it with a sigh—and spotting Fletcher’s gift again. She’d have to pack it up and call his office to find out where to send it.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight she was putting Fletcher Bravo, his unwelcome offer and his unwanted gift completely from her mind.

  Ten minutes later she crawled into bed. She drifted quickly off to sleep.

  Her dreams that night were thoroughly erotic ones. Danny wasn’t in them.

  The next morning—Wednesday—she woke up furious. At Fletcher Bravo.

  Before she headed for KinderWay, she pushed the little blue box deeper into the packing popcorn and sealed up the flaps with heavy tape. She got the address of Impresario out of the phone book and printed it neatly on the box. She made it in care of Fletcher’s secretary, whose name, she remembered, was Marla Pierce. On the way to work she took the box by the post office and mailed it. She felt a whole lot better once the damn thing was out of her hands.

  At KinderWay, Kelly, her assistant, asked her how the meeting at Impresario had gone.

  “The important thing,” she told Kelly, “is that it’s done. I told Fletcher Bravo in no uncertain terms that we’re not interested in his offer.”

  Kelly laughed and pretended to fan herself. “That Fletcher Bravo. I’ve seen the pictures of him in the newspaper and NightLife magazine. Total hottie. Those sexy, scary gray eyes of his… Yum. He could make me an offer any day. You can bet I wouldn’t refuse.”

  Cleo was still feeling good that his gift was out of her hands and things were finally settled with him. She joked, “I should have let you handle him.”

  “Oh, yeah. You should have. I’d have handled him and then some.”

  After that, Cleo did her best to put Fletcher Bravo completely out her thoughts. Friday night, she and Danny went out for dinner and a movie. Saturday, they went to a car show. Sunday, she took the day for herself. She restocked the pantry and straightened the house and went to the mall for a little leisurely shopping. If occasionally the memory of compelling pale eyes crept into her mind, she ordered the image right back out again.

  Monday, at a little after ten, with daily classes well under way and the children in each of the three KinderWay classrooms absorbed in the study of language arts, Cleo escaped to her office to get a little paperwork done. The phone rang, and since Kelly was helping out with the three-year-olds that morning, Cleo answered it herself.

  “You sent my gift back. Cut me right to the core.”

  Her pulse picked up speed and a truly exasperating warm shiver went skittering through her. “You shouldn’t have sent it.”

  “You didn’t even open it.” He was faking an injured tone for all he was worth. “You don’t like Tiffany’s?”

  “Of course I like Tiffany’s. Everyone likes Tiffany’s.”

  “But you sent it back. Should I try Cartier?”

  She felt kind of breathless. Kind of eager and expectant. Dumb. Really, really dumb. She instructed with great firmness, “Do not send anything more.”

  Fletcher chuckled, a low, far too sexy sound. “No problem. And now we’ve got that settled, do you recall the prospective KinderWay design I showed you last Tuesday?”

  She admitted warily, “Of course.”

  “I made the changes you wanted.”

  The cojones on this guy were truly phenomenal.
“I didn’t want any changes. I was only…” She wasn’t sure how to go on.

  He prodded, “You were only what?”

  “Look. It was a terrific design. I got a little carried away, that’s all. But I never said I wanted any changes. Why would I? As I did say several times, I’m not going to open another KinderWay at this time. And Fletcher, you can’t just—”

  “Never tell me I can’t. It only encourages me.”

  “But you—”

  “Cleo, listen.”

  Patience, she thought. Calm. And serenity. “Okay. What?”

  “I made the changes and I had it built.”

  For a moment she was sure she hadn’t heard right. But then she understood—or so she thought. “A scale model. You’ve had a—”

  “No. Not a model.”

  “Not a model?” she echoed lamely, still not believing that he could mean what he seemed to be saying.

  “That’s right. I’ve had the facility built. To your specifications. In the location we spoke of, off Hotel Impresario.”

  That was impossible. Wasn’t it? “But it’s only been six days since—”

  “I want you to come and take a look at it.”

  “I still don’t believe that you could possibly have—”

  “How about one o’clock? We can have lunch.”

  “I swear, if you interrupt me again, I’m hanging up this phone.”

  That gave him pause. At least briefly. Then he said, “I apologize. It’s a failing of mine. Impatience.”

  “Curb it.”

  He was smiling. She just knew it. He said softly, “On the plus side, I’m a man who gets things done.”

  “Well. Apparently.” She still couldn’t believe it. He’d built a new KinderWay?

  “You really need to see it, Cleo.”

  She shouldn’t. And she knew it. But he was right. She had to see this. “Strictly business,” she warned.

  “Agreed. My office. One o’clock.”

  Chapter Three

  They had lunch at Impresario’s five-star Club Rouge, with its light-studded, red-silk-draped ceiling and glittering Swarovski crystal chandeliers. There was champagne. Cristal, 1988. An excellent year, or so the wine steward claimed.