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

“Yeah. It bothers me, though I get that you want to be sure about whoever you do business with. Especially when it comes to something as important as your child’s education.”

He sat back in the plush white satin chair. “You’ll be relieved to know you checked out just fine.”

“Not that I asked to be checked out. Not that I came to you.”

“You grew up around the gaming industry. I think you know that the procedure’s the same no matter who makes the original approach.” He picked up his flute and sipped in a thoughtful way. “Cleopatra. It’s an interesting name to give a kid.” She only looked at him, tight-lipped. One corner of his fine mouth kicked up in a rueful smile. “It’s called conversation. And it’s not going to kill you to try making a little of it.”

Cleo knew she was being snippy and she ought to snap out of it. After all, she’d agreed to have lunch with him. It wasn’t as if he’d forced her to be here.

She picked up her champagne again and drank. It really was delicious. “You would have to know my mother. She came here in the late sixties, from New York City by way of L.A. A trained dancer with big dreams who’d never managed to get much of a start in the movie business or on Broadway. Her given name was Leslie. Leslie Botts.”

“Ouch.”

Cleo couldn’t help smiling. “Not exactly a name to conjure with. She had it changed legally.”

“To Lolita Bliss.”

“That’s right. She was famous in her day—in a minor kind of way, I mean. But then, you already know that. She worked at most of the old casinos, the top ones. The Flamingo, the Stardust, the Sands. She was tall and gorgeous and she knew her stuff. She loved the entertainment business. When she had me, she had no doubt that I was born to follow in her sequined shoes. She named me Cleopatra. She said that ‘Cleopatra Bliss’ was going to look just grand on a marquee. She used to tell me I would conquer the world. I was three when she enrolled me in my first ballet class. Sometimes we didn’t have food in the house, but there was always money for tap lessons and gymnastics.”

“And you turned your back on all that to open a school.”

“That’s right.”

“Was your mother okay with that?”

“She died when I was nineteen. She never knew I chose a different career than the one she had planned for me.”

“Would she have been disappointed?”

“To say the least—but I like to think she’d have gotten over it eventually.”

“And your father?”

She turned her crystal flute by the stem. “My mother raised me without a father—and didn’t your detective tell you that?”

One dark brow lifted. “More or less.”

She chuckled, though not really with humor. “I thought this meeting was supposed to be strictly business.”

“It is.”

“Then why all the personal questions?”

“I’m interested in you.”

Now why did those words send a naughty little thrill zipping through her? “My mother never would tell me who my father was.”

“Why not?”

“See? You’re getting way, way too personal.”

He didn’t appear the least apologetic. “The way I look at it, I can’t lose by asking. If you give me answers, I’ve got more information than I had before. If you don’t, well, I’m no worse off than I was in the first place.”

She took another small sip of bubbly—and told him a little more of what he wanted to know. “My mother knew a lot of men. She preferred the rich and powerful. High rollers, preferably whales.” A whale, in casino terms, was a gambler who could afford to lose millions. She went on, “Wheeler-dealers. She liked a player who was playing with a nice fat bankroll. A lot of her men were already taken, if you know what I mean.”

“Married.”

“That’s right.”

“You make her sound like a heartless home wrecker.”

“Do I?” Cleo frowned. “Well, as I said, there were a lot of men. But heartless? Uh-uh. She was … passionate and glamorous and she loved living large. She was always falling in love and then getting her heart broken. She just couldn’t seem to stop herself from hooking up with the wrong kind of guy.”

“But you’re not like that.” Was he being sarcastic?

She couldn’t tell—and, she reminded herself, his attitude didn’t matter to her in the least. “That’s right. I’m not like my mother. When I look down, I see two feet firmly planted on the ground.”

“Did you ever try to find your father?”

“Not exactly.”

“Now what does that mean?”

She smoothed the napkin she’d already laid in her lap. “I don’t think I’m going to answer that one. Which is fine, right? Leaves you no worse off than before you asked the question.”

He leaned a little closer, those pale eyes seeming to see right down to the center of her. “You found him,” he said at last with an absolute certainty that sent another shiver running down her spine—this one not nearly so warm as the shivers before it. “Your father is Matthew Flint.” Matthew Flint was a Las Vegas legend. He’d been building supercasinos in the eighties, back when the biggest place around was the MGM Grand. And yes, he was Cleo’s father.

She demanded, “Why are you asking me when you already know?”

“I’d like to hear it from you, that’s all.” She probably shouldn’t have told him. It didn’t concern him in the least. But still she found herself explaining, “My father found me. In my mother’s hospital room the day before she died. He’d heard she had pancreatic cancer. By then, she’d been through both chemo and radiation. The tumor hadn’t shrunk much and cancer was all through her body. She was wasted down to nothing and she’d lost all her beautiful blond hair. She hated that the most. She was always so proud of her hair….”

He prompted softly, “And your father?”

“The word got out she wouldn’t make it. My father knew it was his last chance to see her. So he paid her a final visit. I was there at her bedside when he showed up.”

“And you’ve kept in touch with him since then.”

“As you know, he already has a family. A wife. Two sons. I try to keep it low-key, you know? But now and then we get together.”

“I understood that he backed you when you started out.”

“Yes. He’s the main reason I was able to open my own preschool at the age of twenty-five.” She found herself thinking that she ought to turn the tables on him and ask a few questions about his absentee father, Blake Bravo. Like almost everyone else in Las Vegas, Cleo had read the articles about the fabulous Bravo brothers and their swift rise to prominence. Always there was mention of their father, the notorious sociopath who had faked his own death at the age of twenty-six and then gone on to romance an endless number of gullible women—with the classic result: Blake had left illegitimate children all over the good old U.S. of A.

Fletcher said much too softly, “We have a lot in common.”

And before she could argue, let alone get him talking about his father, a waiter appeared and set their green-bean-and-crayfish salads in front of them.

Fletcher gave the waiter an approving nod. “This looks wonderful, Armand.”