The Bravos: Family Ties. Christine Rimmer
She almost smiled. Really, if today was going to be all of it, he’d hardly be urging her to stick around and share the evening meal with him and his daughter. “It’s tempting, but no.”
He didn’t argue further. He was smarter than that. What he did was kiss her—a wet, seeking kiss, a kiss hot with the promise of more pleasure to come. Then he threw back the covers and strode, naked and utterly amazing to look at, toward the open door to the bathroom, where he paused and turned back to her. “Come on.”
She sat up and eyed him sideways. “To do what?”
“You are the most suspicious woman—to take a shower.”
“Together?”
“That would be nice.”
Nice was hardly the word for it, and he knew it, too. Those smoke-and-silver eyes promised a lot more than “nice.” A flush of arousal swept through her as she imagined the two of them sharing a hot, steamy, leisurely shower, as she pictured soap bubbles sliding down his beautiful chest….
No way. Couldn’t happen. If they fooled around in the shower, he’d never make it to Celia’s apartment by six.
And she did need to go home, to recoup and reevaluate.
He must have read her thoughts in her expression, because he added, “Don’t worry. There are two showers. You can lather up alone.”
When they were both fully dressed again, he pulled her into his arms.
He kissed her. At length.
When he lifted his head, he commanded in a low tone, “Don’t talk yourself out of this. Please …”
He looked … vulnerable. At that moment she was certain he’d be hurt if she refused to see him again. In spite of her strong reservations, her heart warmed to him. She could almost hope …
What? She wasn’t quite sure. Maybe for more of him than his gorgeous body. For his deepest secrets, that he might give them to her, to share. For his trust …
She told him honestly, “If I could talk myself out of this, I would have done it already.”
“But you couldn’t—you can’t.”
“I don’t think so. Especially not after today …”
He traced the line of her jaw, his touch setting off sparks. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”
Going home didn’t help much. The cozy rooms seemed kind of empty and she felt at a loss—for Fletcher. How crazy was that?
She sat on her sofa and pretended to watch the news and relived every moment of the afternoon before—every sigh, every kiss, every lingering touch.
The phone rang at nine and she knew it would be him.
“Hello?”
“I hope to hell you’re not thinking.”
Happiness glowed all through her. Was she foolish? Oh, yes. Did she care?
Not hardly. “I have been thinking, as a matter of fact. Thinking about this afternoon …”
“I love it when you get that husky tone. I know then that I’ve got you.”
“As always, you are stunningly sure of yourself.”
Was he smiling? Oh, yes. She knew that he was. “I’m going to consider that a compliment,” he said.
“Ah,” she said, because the truth was, her mind was so filled with him, there was no room left for thinking up clever replies.
“I wish you were here with me.”
She found, incredibly, that she believed him. “I’m glad,” she answered softly.
“What are you wearing?”
She threw back her head and she laughed, then she whispered into the mouthpiece, “Who is this?”
“A very bad man. Tell me what you’re wearing.”
She sighed—good and loud, so he would be sure to hear it. “I’ll say this much, I’m looking really glamorous.”
“I want specifics.”
“Don’t go there. Keep your illusions.”
“I said specifics.”
“You’ll be sorry.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Just remember, you asked for it. I’m wearing ugly old sweatpants.”
“Sweatpants excite me. What color?”
“Oh, come on …”
“What color?”
She gave in and told him. “Light blue.”
“Sexy.”
“If you say so …”
“I do. What else?”
“A stretched out KinderWay T-shirt and ratty slippers.”
“I’m getting that feeling. You know which one I mean?”
“I could guess….”
“And underneath the blue sweatpants?”
“Panties. Plain cotton.”
“White?”
“Yes.”
“I love plain white cotton. So … functional.”
“Well, yes. It’s that.”
“Bra?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Take it all off. Now.”
“Fletcher?”
“What?”
“Is this phone sex we’re having?”
“Now you’re catchin’ on.”
The next morning, Friday, she was in the five-year-olds’ room when he dropped Ashlyn off.
“Cleo!” Ashlyn ran to her.
She bent down and caught the warm little body close in her arms. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.”
Ashlyn pulled back and laid her small, soft hand so briefly against Cleo’s cheek. It felt absolutely lovely, that fond, trusting touch. The little girl asked, “Can I read to you today?”
“I would like that very much.”
“When?”
“How about morning playtime? I’ll come back here to your classroom.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. I promise.” She rose to her height again, a delicious flush sweeping through her as she met Fletcher’s eyes.
“Walk me out to the gate,” he said.
She joined him as he turned for the door.
Once out of the classroom, they crossed the breezeway and headed down the walk. At the gate he paused and turned to her. “Tonight?”
Her heart beat in a lazy, deep kind of way. Her blood moved slow and sweet through her veins as she thought of the afternoon before—of last night on the phone. “Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
He arrived right on time. They went to a little Italian place he knew off the Strip, away from the glitz and the glitter. The food was good and the wine even better.
She held it to one glass. Just being with him was challenge enough to her good sense. He asked her about her years as a showgirl and