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A guy exactly like Danny, as a matter of fact—Danny, who had just said goodbye and walked out the door.
So what about Cleo’s lifelong dreams now? She’d never have the life she longed for with someone like Fletcher. And please, who was she kidding? It was highly unlikely she’d have any life with Fletcher. He wanted her, period. And she wanted him.
This thing between them had nothing to do with the two of them building a life together. So if she couldn’t forget about him, she’d better learn to accept that what they’d have together wouldn’t last all that long.
Cleo supposed it was funny in a grim sort of way. Here she sat, contemplating the brief white-hot affair she and Fletcher would share. She was heading right into the kind of nowhere relationship her mother had never been able to resist. Lolita, though, had always believed that each player she fell for was finally the right one, that she’d found him at last.
Not Cleo. She was cursed with a crystal-clear view of hard reality. Fletcher Bravo was no knight in shining armor. With him, it would be hot and heavy and overwhelming … and brief.
The more Cleo thought about that—about how she was following in her mother’s footsteps without the benefit of her mother’s stubborn and somehow valiant illusions—the more she resisted her longing for Fletcher.
As the week went by, she tried to keep from running into him. In the morning and in the afternoon, when the kids were picked up and dropped off, she stayed away from the five-year-olds’ classroom and off the breezeway where she could easily cross paths with him coming or going.
She avoided him—and she longed for him. She daydreamed about kissing him. And at night her dreams went way beyond mere kisses.
On Thursday, she happened to be in with the three-year-olds again when Celia brought Davey in. J.J. wasn’t with them.
“Where’s that beautiful little girl of yours?”
Celia grinned. “Up at the apartment.”
Since Cleo had access to Davey’s student file, she knew already that Celia and her family lived in one of the big penthouses at the top of High Sierra Hotel. She couldn’t resist asking, “You like it … living on-site?”
Celia leaned a little closer and whispered, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. And J.J.’s with her aunties, Jilly and Jane. They refused to part with her even long enough for me to come down here and drop Davey off at school.”
Cleo remembered what Ashlyn had revealed at her birthday party. “Jilly and Jane. J.J.’s named after them, right?”
Celia nodded. “They’re my best friends. We grew up together, up north in the dinky little town of New Venice. Our husbands are New Venice natives, as well. They all had bad reputations as those wild Bravo boys. We—Jilly, Jane and I—were very, very good girls. It’s the classic story, I guess. A bad boy and a good girl. Sparks flying. Love. And marriage. Though I must admit, when I fell in love with Aaron, I never imagined we’d end up husband and wife. He so was not the marrying kind, if you know what I’m saying….”
Cleo did know. She nodded and made an agreeable noise in her throat, feeling wistful. Celia and her friends were not only happily married to Bravo men, they’d also lived the kind of childhood that Cleo had always longed for. “I know New Venice. It’s not far from Lake Tahoe.”
“That’s it—and hey, why don’t you come on up to the apartment around noon? You’ll like Jane and Jilly. And Jane is cooking lunch for us. She’s a genius in the kitchen. I guarantee the food will be fabulous.”
“Oh, I couldn’t….”
“Yeah, you could. Come on. Say yes.”
What could it hurt? And Cleo was curious about the other two Bravo wives. Plus, she’d liked Celia from the first time she’d met her at the Placer Room that day she and Fletcher had stopped by their table. “You know what? I’ll be there.”
“Great. We’ll set a fourth place.”
Jane Elliott Bravo, who had long, corkscrew-curly black hair and owned a bookstore in New Venice, was five months’ pregnant and thrilled about it. “It’s our first,” Jane announced, a proud hand on her swelling stomach. “Cade wants a little girl. I’ll take either. As long as she’s healthy, that’s all I ask.”
Jillian Diamond Bravo, a fashion plate in black and white with ropes of pearls, black tights and Mary Janes, was an up-and-coming lifestyle columnist in Sacramento. She was holding the baby when Cleo joined them. Jilly gazed adoringly down at the little darling. “I love being an auntie. But a mother? Well, not quite yet.” She beamed them all a broad smile and then grinned at Cleo. “I can see it in your eyes. You want to hold her.”
“You are so right.”
So Cleo took the baby, who waved her plump arms and yawned enormously, then promptly dropped off to sleep. Celia took her and put her in her crib and they all sat down to eat.
Lunch was every bit as good as Celia had promised: an incredible salad of baby greens and glazed pecans, followed by a main course of crawfish étouffée over rice. After the meal, they retired to Celia’s sun-bright living room where the view rivaled the one in Fletcher’s apartment across Las Vegas Boulevard at Hotel Impresario. Jane and their hostess sipped herbal iced tea while Jilly and Cleo indulged in second glasses of an excellent white wine.
Cleo knew she probably should have said no to that refill. The wine was making her just a little bit tipsy. But for the first time in days she found herself actually having a good time.
“I’m glad I came,” she confided. She sipped some more. Delicious. “Though the hard truth is that now I’m having a second glass of this wonderful Chenin Blanc, the rest of my workday will be pretty much shot.”
Celia looked slightly smug. “That was exactly my plan.”
Cleo laughed. “To get me drunk?”
“No, to get you to take a few hours off. I’ll bet by now you need a break.” She turned to the others and briefly explained the job Cleo had tackled and successfully completed in the last few weeks.
“Pretty darned impressive,” said Jilly. “Here’s to you, Cleo.”
Jane added, “We are so pleased that you came to lunch.”
“Oh, me, too,” said Cleo. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”
They all rose, clinked glasses and drank.
Just as Cleo was about to sink back into her comfortable chair, Jilly caught her wrist. “Cleo. This watch … Cartier. Oh, I knew it.” She laughed. “I really, really need one of these.”
“It is beautiful,” Jane agreed.
Cleo looked around at the friendly faces of the three women she was so glad to be getting to know—and her throat clutched up tight on her.
She felt tears rising. How ridiculous. She gulped and blinked, trying to force them back down. But they wouldn’t go.
“Oh, honey,” said Jilly, her dark brows drawing together in real concern. “What did I say? I’m so sorry….”
Cleo grabbed Jilly’s hand. Tight. “No. Please. It’s not you, honestly. It’s only …” Her throat locked up tight then, and the silly tears spilled over.
Jane reached for her. Never had another woman’s open arms looked so … necessary. With another huge sob Cleo fell into that warm and welcoming embrace. She bawled on Jane’s shoulder, soaking her soft red sweater, feeling the bulge of Jane’s pregnant belly nudging her own flat stomach. Jane rubbed her back and the other two women made cooing, understanding noises.
“It’s okay….”
“Don’t worry.”
“Just cry if you need to.”
“Just let it all out….”
Jane guided her back to her chair and eased her down into it, and Celia handed her a tissue. Cleo swabbed her eyes and blew her nose and told them, “Oh, I can’t believe this. I never cry like this.” She sobbed some more, took another tissue, blew her nose again.
“What is it?” asked Jane so gently. “What’s got you upset?”
“Yes,” Jilly urged, “you can tell us.”
Celia tried a joke. “What happens in my apartment stays in my apartment.”
They were all so dear and they really did seem to care and, well, Cleo needed to tell someone, she truly did. She sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “It’s Fletcher.” There. She’d said his name right out loud. She said it again. “It’s Fletcher. That’s the sad, awful truth.”
“Fletcher,” echoed Celia in a knowing tone. “I should have guessed.”
Cleo wiped her eyes some more. “It’s just … I’m so crazy about him and he wants to go out with me and, well, I know he’s all wrong for me.” She blew her nose a third time and told them everything—from that first meeting in Fletcher’s corner office to how she’d pushed him away for weeks and then finally taken his gift of the watch and how Danny, who was the perfect man as far as she was concerned, had broken it off with her because he knew she’d fallen for Fletcher.
When she’d finished her sad story and accepted another tissue from Celia, Jane dropped to the arm of her chair and bent close, that cloud of dark hair swinging forward around her arresting face. “Listen. Don’t feel too bad. I know, it’s awful when you fall for a Bravo man.” Jilly and Celia were nodding—in total agreement, apparently. “All of them,” Jane went on, “the sons of Blake Bravo, they always seem to have … issues, you know? They all grew up without a father and their childhoods had big challenges and … that’s just how they are. Kind of tough to get close to. At first, anyway …”
“But Cleo,” said Celia, “you might be surprised if you gave it a chance. You might find out that Fletcher is exactly the right guy for you.”
Cleo blinked. “You’re not serious.”
Celia looked slightly crestfallen. “Well, yeah. I was. Kind of …”
“Celia, he’s a major player. You know it.” She pointed her tissue at Jane and Jilly. “They know it. See? They’re not arguing. My mother loved nothing but major players and I know one when I see one. Fletcher’s a gorgeous guy with lots of power and a boatload of money, and I know he’s got a different girlfriend for every day of the week.”
Was she hoping they’d disagree with her—just a little, at least? No such luck.
Celia did go so far as to wave a dismissing hand. “Well, Aaron was that way, too. The drop-dead beautiful women came and went so fast I could hardly keep track of them. And as his personal assistant, it was my job to keep track of them. I was like you then, sure he was never going to settle down with one woman—and if he did, not with me. I’m very happy to tell you that I was totally wrong. It could be that you—”
“Wait a minute,” Jilly cut in. “Look, Cleo. We are so not going to tell you what you should do.”
“Well, I am,” Celia insisted.
Jilly shot her sister-in-law a warning look and continued, “We’re not going to lie to you. We all find Fletcher a hard guy to know.”
Celia was scowling. “But I think—”
Jilly cut her off again. “Ceil, come on. Fletcher’s a smooth operator, totally charming when he wants to be. And loyal where it counts. I believe he’d lay down his life for anyone he called family—or for anyone he considered his responsibility, for that matter. But what goes on inside that brilliant mind of his? It’s not like any of us knows.” She gave Cleo a game smile. “All we can say is, we did marry his brothers. And each one of us was certain our love was never gonna work. And look at us now.”
Cleo slumped in her chair. “The problem is, I’m just … paralyzed. Can’t stop thinking about him, can’t seem to make myself face him. I’ve actually been kind of hiding out from him, never going anywhere I might run into him during the time he would be dropping off or picking up Ashlyn….”
Celia pointed her index finger skyward and declared, “Action. Sometimes it just comes down to the fact that you have to do something, you know what I mean? Make a choice and go for it.”
“But with honesty,” said Jane. “Look him straight in the eye and lay the truth right on him.”
Jilly chimed in again. “Action is good.” Jane gave her a sharp look and she shrugged. “Yeah. All right. Honesty matters. I know that, Jane. But Cleo, you still have to figure out what’s going to work for you. If you decide to go to him, can you live with it if it ends up just the way you’re afraid it will? On the other hand, can you stand not to give what you feel for him a chance?”
“Oh, Jilly …” Cleo sniffed and dabbed her eyes some more. “Those are the right questions. I just don’t know the answers.”
“You will,” said Jane. “Trust me on this. Eventually you’ll make a choice.”
“Make it soon,” advised Celia. “It took me forever to tell Aaron how I felt about him.”
“And?” Cleo asked, daring to hope she’d get reassurance.
Celia looked sheepish.
Jilly spoke for her. “It went badly. Really badly.”
“Gee. Great to know.”
Celia sat up straighter. “But soon enough things did improve. Greatly. Looking back, I only wish I hadn’t dithered around so much.”
A half an hour later Cleo left Celia’s penthouse. She paused at the door to exchange business cards with Jilly and Jane. And, of course, to hug each of the Bravo women in turn.
“Call us,” said Jilly. “Any of us—all of us—anytime you need to talk.”
Cleo promised that she would.
The wine and the uncharacteristic crying jag had left her feeling draggy and tired. She would go home, relax, watch a movie on Lifetime. After weeks of driving herself day and night, an afternoon of doing nothing was just what she needed.
She got in the private elevator that serviced Celia’s suite, forcing a weak smile for the attendant and then standing back against the far wall of the car, trying not to look at herself in the gold-veined mirrors that surrounded her.
The attendant cleared his throat. “Parking levels?”
Her car was parked across the street, behind Hotel Impresario, not far from KinderWay. “No. Fifth floor please. I’ve got to go back over to Impresario.”
“Fifth floor it is.” The car hummed, picked up speed—and slowed to a stop in no time at all. “Here you are.” The door rolled open.
Cleo left the elevator, walking at a brisk pace. She had a ways to go, around to the front of the resort to the open area where the escalators carried people up from High Sierra’s casino and then across the glass skyway that connected the two resorts at fifth-floor level.
At Impresario she took the escalator down, hurried through the noisy, busy casino and along the fake French streets. At last she reached the hotel. She passed the long check-in desk and started down the hallway that led to the back parking lot and, at last, her SUV.
By then, she was looking down, focused on moving fast. She wanted out of there and into the privacy of her car. She had no idea who was coming toward her until he was standing right in front of her.
She spotted the gleaming pair of fine Italian shoes first. The shoes stopped a few feet from her, directly in her path. She started to dodge around, looking up at the same time—right into those mesmerizing pale gray eyes.
She stopped stock-still and drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, no,” she muttered. “Not you. Not right now.”
Chapter Seven
Great, Fletcher thought. He hadn’t seen her since Monday and now he finally ran into her, all she could say was, Oh, no. Not you….
But then he looked closer. Her eyes were red and slightly puffy. She must have been crying not too long before. What the hell was that about?
Concern replaced frustration. “Cleo, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. And you know, I really have to go.” She tried again to dodge around him.
He slid to the side and blocked her. “Wait.” He wasn’t letting her go without knowing what had happened, without finding out if there was something he could do to help.
“Fletcher, please …” She was looking at the red-and-gold carpet again, as if she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.
What the hell was going on here? He knew that the people hurrying past on either side were staring, wondering the same thing—not that he gave a damn. Let ‘em stare.
He took her by the shoulders. “Cleo, come on. Tell me what’s happened.” She tried to turn her face away—but he caught her chin and tipped it up to him. “Your eyes are red and swollen. You’ve been crying. Did somebody—”
She didn’t let him finish. “No. Nobody.” She tried to jerk away. He held on. And then she pinched up that soft mouth he couldn’t wait to kiss. “All right,” she said. “Fine. If you must know, it’s you.”
