The Bravos: Family Ties. Christine Rimmer
“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.”
That kind of startled him. “Me? But I haven’t even seen you since Monday. How could I—”
“Stop.” She hissed the word at him, red-rimmed eyes flashing.
“But I—”
She got a hand between them, waved it in his face. The rows of diamonds on the watch he’d given her the other day glittered in the light from the crystal chandelier overhead. “Just stop,” she commanded in a hot whisper. “Just listen.”
Fine with him. “Okay. What?”
“Let go of me.”
He didn’t want to let go. He never wanted to let go. He had a feeling she was only going to turn and stride away from him on those incredible long legs of hers. And he was fed up with waiting for his chance with her, tired to the bone of biding his time, of keeping it cool with her, when all he wanted was to take her down in flames.
“Let me go, Fletcher.”
Reluctantly he took his hands away and dropped them at his sides.
She didn’t run. Instead she drew herself up, straightening those fine shoulders, pointing that pretty chin high. “It’s this way, okay? I’m nuts for you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I keep trying to forget you but it’s not working. I broke up with Danny—or, I mean, Danny broke up with me. Because of you, because