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

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.

Cleo decided she’d allow herself a glass. Fletcher toasted to the future of KinderWay.

Why not? KinderWay would have a future, regardless of its connection with Fletcher Bravo and the Bravo Group. She touched her glass to his. “Bright lights, late nights,” she said automatically—and then wished she hadn’t.

He set down his glass. He didn’t say anything, but she could see in his eyes that he found her toast out of character.

“My mother used to say that,” she admitted grudgingly. “And please don’t try to tell me you had no idea my mother was a showgirl.”

“All right, I won’t.” He said it so … mildly.

And that really bugged her. They both knew he was far from a mild kind of guy. She set down her own flute and accused, “You’ve had me checked out. You know everything about me—or at least everything that a good detective could dig up. You have a profile on me, a … dossier, or whatever you want to call it.”

“And that bothers you?”