The Bravos: Family Ties: The Bravo Family Way / Married in Haste / From Here to Paternity

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’tcomplain. 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.