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  She was starting to put it together. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

  His expression grew severe. “The ring and the proposal, absolutely. Forgetting to use a condom—no. That was a mistake. The truth is, I got carried away.”

  “Oh, Fletcher.” Her heart was pounding so hard the sound rang in her ears.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Oh, yes. I am.”

  “All right then. I love you, Cleo. Passionately. Completely. To distraction and beyond…” He slid the platinum band on her finger.

  And she grabbed for him. “Oh, Fletcher. I love you, too—and yes. Yes, yes, yes!”

  He caught her, turned her so she lay across his naked lap and gazed down at her, his pale eyes alight. “I think a kiss would be a good idea about now.”

  “I think you’re right.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  Chapter Twelve

  Matthew Flint turned from the window that looked out on the Strip and the Stratosphere tower looming proudly in the distance. “You’ve told me more than once that you would never marry a man in the gaming business.”

  Cleo glanced down at the diamond on her hand—the diamond she’d been wearing for just over forty-eight hours now—and then quickly back up at her father. “What can I say? I fell in love.”

  Flint didn’t reply. He only looked at her, a long, probing sort of look. Then he strode to the wet bar against the far wall and poured himself a whisky. He glanced up before putting the stopper back in the crystal decanter. “Drink?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  Her father picked up his glass. “What about the mechanic? You seemed so sure he was the one.”

  “I was. But then I met Fletcher and…that was it. I couldn’t think of anyone but him. Believe me, I tried.”

  Flint nodded. “You’ve never been one to make rash decisions. I have no doubt you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  And she had—at least, when it came to becoming Fletcher’s lover. In terms of marrying him, well, maybe she hadn’t been terribly thoughtful about that. For the first time in her life Cleo was wildly, madly in love. When you were madly in love and your guy proposed, there was only one answer.

  Wary as she always was around the man who had fathered her, Cleo watched as Flint approached. At sixty-five he remained straight-backed and broad-shouldered. A handsome man, grown statesmanlike with age. He gestured with his whisky glass. The amber liquid swirled. “It’s a beautiful ring. I’d say ten carats at least.”

  “Yes,” she said, ill at ease with him so close. He’d been good to her, in his way. But she’d never felt as if she really knew him or even as if she might someday come to know him.

  He raised his glass. “Bright lights, late nights.” She gave him a nod and he took a sip. Not a very big one. He liked whisky, but in moderation. Power was and always had been his drug of choice. “Well.” He crossed around behind his desk and dropped into his high-backed oxblood leather swivel chair. “Fletcher Bravo. I suppose I can get used to your marrying the competition. He’s got talent, that Fletcher. But then, all the Bravos do. And now he and Aaron have hooked up with Jonas Bravo and his billions…sky’s the limit.”

  She agreed. “The Bravos have done well in town.”

  “At least I know he can take care of you.”

  She couldn’t let that remark pass. “I can take care of myself.”

  Her father chuckled. “Right you are, Cleopatra. Yes, you can.”

  She reached for her bag and stood. “I just wanted you to hear it from me.”

  He dipped his silver head in a nod. “And I thank you for that.” She turned for the door. He spoke to her back. “Am I invited?”

  She whirled his way again, not understanding. “To?”

  His smile was wry—but his eyes weren’t. “I’m assuming there will be a wedding—given that you’re getting married.”

  She felt the heat as a blush swept up her cheeks. “Well, yes. It’s this Saturday. I just never thought…” She hesitated, seeking a tactful way to say that she’d never for a moment considered that he might want to be there.

  After over a decade, it still wasn’t public knowledge that the Matthew Flint had an illegitimate daughter. He’d kept the information out of the tabloids by steering clear of situations where his name might be linked with hers. Cleo’s wedding to someone as high-profile as Fletcher should have been exactly the kind of event he would want to avoid.

  He said, “Inga and I are going our separate ways.”

  “Oh. I see.” And she did.

  Flint had married the world-famous supermodel, Inga Gayle, thirty-five years before. They’d had two sons together. Cleo had met Inga once, a few months after Lolita died. The still-gorgeous blonde had dropped in uninvited at Cleo’s apartment. It had not been a pleasant meeting. Flint’s wife had made it very clear that she didn’t want her husband’s bastard daughter “messing up” their lives.

  Of course, your mother’s trashy behavior isn’t your fault, Inga had said. But don’t expect us to welcome you into our family with open arms. We’d like to keep this issue low-key. The last thing any of us wants is the sordid details spread all over the tabloids. Do I make myself clear?

  Cleo had resisted the urge to call the woman a series of very ugly names. She refused to make any deals, but she did realize that Inga had been betrayed and had a right to be angry. Tight-lipped, Cleo had shown her father’s wife the door.

  And however much she disliked Inga, Cleo hated to see a marriage—any marriage—break up. She fumbled for the right words. All she could come up with was the usual lame, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We’ve been leading separate lives for years. The boys are adults now, self-sufficient and on their own. It’s begun to seem pointless to carry on the charade. The truth is, I’m not an easy man to put up with. I guess you could say Inga has grown beyond me.”

  Now what was she supposed to say to that? She had a feeling he probably was hard to live with. He certainly hadn’t been faithful. She herself was living proof of that.

  He spoke into the silence between them. “Cleo, I know I haven’t been any kind of real father to you. But I’d be honored if you’d allow me to attend your wedding.”

  Again, what could she say but, “Of course. I’m, um, pleased you want to come.”

  “Where and when?”

  “We’re keeping it simple. The wedding chapel at Impresario. Saturday at six. Family only.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  And Matthew Flint was there. As were Fletcher’s half brothers and their wives and Davey and little J.J.. Caitlin Bravo—Aaron, Will and Cade’s bold and brassy mother—also attended, as did Jonas Bravo and his wife, Emma, with their toddler, Russ, and six-year-old Mandy, Jonas’s adopted sister and ward. Fletcher’s mother and stepdad made it, too.

  And then there was Ashlyn, who, all in pink, her shining brown hair twined with rosebuds, was the cutest little flower girl Cleo had ever seen.

  After the brief ceremony, they all headed over to Club Rouge, where a private room was waiting, complete with a large round table set for the wedding feast with gleaming crystal and fine china. Just about every guest had a toast to propose.

  For Cleo, the evening went by in a happy blur— except for a few moments in the ladies’ lounge, where she happened to run into Caitlin.

  When Cleo entered the lounge, Caitlin Bravo sat at the gold-rimmed vanity mirrors, reapplying her red-red lipstick. At the sight of Cleo, she rolled the lipstick down and capped it. “There she is, the gorgeous blushing bride!”

  Cleo gave the woman a friendly smile. According to Celia, Caitlin was a wonderful person at heart. Aaron’s mother had not only raised three boys on her own, she’d also made a success running a combination bar/restaurant/gift store/gaming parlor, called the Highgrade, in her hometown. “My mother-in-law didn’t get where she is by keeping her mouth shut and minding her own business,” Celia had warned. “If yo
u don’t want Caitlin’s opinion, stay away from her. Far, far away.”

  Too late for that. Caitlin was already patting the red-and-gold-brocade chair next to her. “Park that pretty butt right here. Just for a moment, now, darlin’. We’ll have us a quick talk, woman-to-woman.”

  Feeling trapped—and also a little bit curious as to what the opinionated Caitlin might have to say to her— Cleo slid into the offered seat.

  Though the lounge was empty except for the two of them, Aaron’s mother leaned close to Cleo, bringing with her a cloud of musky perfume. She spoke low, as if guarding against any other listening ears. “I been watching that husband of yours ever since he came to Vegas and joined up with my Aaron and his uncle Jonas. Fletcher’s got those strange light eyes, now doesn’t he? Just like his daddy, that low-down SOB ex of mine. At first I thought that just lookin’ in those eyes again was getting to me, that it wasn’t anything about Fletcher himself that bothered me, that he only reminded me of my own checkered past and the evil, sexy man who ran me in circles—and also gave me three fine, wild sons. I have since changed my mind. It’s more than just those pale eyes. It’s Fletcher himself.”

  Alarmed, Cleo jerked back. “Why? What did he do?”

  Caitlin loosed a lusty chuckle. In the bright mirror lights her hard black hair gleamed like a raven’s wing. “Honey, it’s nothin’ he’s done, exactly—or if it is, it’s nothin’ I caught him at. But there is something….”

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t know, not for sure. But I’ll lay odds something is bothering him in a deep way. There’s some secret he’s keeping. With him, no one gets too close.”

  “You know this…how?”

  “I know it here.” Caitlin fisted a hand and pounded her chest with it. “And I also know that you’re the woman to open him up.”

  “Er…you do?” Cleo’s apprehension faded as she realized that Caitlin was quite a character—but not necessarily anyone Cleo needed to take too seriously.

  Caitlin loosed a hefty sigh, and the bright beads on her red dress glittered madly with the movement. “I didn’t get me three sons by a psychopath without learnin’ a thing or two about what goes on in men’s minds. I been worried about Fletcher, I truly have. Worried not knowing how he’d ever allow himself to let down his guard and find the love every man needs. But tonight I met you, sweetheart. And I can honestly say I’m not worried anymore. You’re the woman that he has been waiting for.”

  Cleo resisted the urge to make some flippant remark concerning Caitlin’s amazing psychic abilities. No. That would be cruel. Caitlin meant well. Cleo could see her sincerity in her black eyes. “Well. I, um, promise to do my best.”

  Caitlin laughed her raucous laugh again. “You don’t believe a thing I’ve told you, now do you? And don’t answer that. I’ve said what needed sayin’ and that’s all she wrote for this particular conversation.” She grabbed her sequined bag and pushed herself to her feet. “I wish you health, wealth and love aplenty, darlin’, on this your wedding day.” Then she turned for the door and went out without looking back, her high red heels tapping hard on the black marble floor.

  The next morning Cleo and Fletcher took off for a Bravo-owned five-star resort in Cabo San Lucas. Fletcher’s mother and stepdad stayed with Ashlyn at the penthouse for the four brief days they were gone.

  Those four days were beautiful. Cleo and her new husband lay in the tropical sun and swam in the blue, blue sea and made love—a lot.

  Twice—the afternoon of the first day of their honeymoon and two days later at dinner—Cleo found herself thinking that her groom seemed just a little preoccupied, a little bit withdrawn. Both times she asked him if something was bothering him. Both times he reassured her that there was absolutely nothing wrong.

  The second time she asked, at dinner on their private balcony overlooking the beach and the fabulous jewel-blue ocean, he reached across the table. She gave him her hand and reveled, as always, in the sheer thrill of his touch.

  “How could I be preoccupied?” he said. “I’m right where I want to be—with you.”

  They returned home midweek, said goodbye to Fletcher’s folks and then they both rushed around playing catch-up, getting on top of what hadn’t gotten done while they’d been lying in the sun. Fletcher had a series of killer meetings that stretched into the evening on both Thursday and Friday, so Cleo and Ashlyn shared dinner on their own.

  Friday night, Cleo was sound asleep long before Fletcher returned to the penthouse. Deep in the hours between midnight and dawn, she stirred, opened her eyes—and stared into the darkness at Fletcher’s side of the bed.

  Empty.

  She stretched out a hand, felt the cool, undisturbed expanse of silk. The red numerals on his bedside clock read 3:13. So very late. Where could he be? He’d said nothing about being gone all night.

  Restless and beginning to worry, she rolled over.

  And there he was, sitting in the buff leather easy chair five feet from the bed. His bow tie was undone and his collar unbuttoned, but otherwise he was fully dressed in a gorgeous black tux.

  She canted up on an elbow and pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. “Hey. There you are. I was just wondering what might have happened to you….”

  “Late night,” he said, his voice a low, soft rumble, his gaze never straying, trained on her. “Entertaining the whales.”

  “Gotta keep those high rollers happy.”

  “That’s right. How’s Ashlyn been?”

  “Very proud. She finished The Happy Ladybug tonight.”

  “How did it end?”

  “Happily.” She sent him a grin.

  He didn’t grin back. “For some reason, I’m not surprised.” His gaze, shining and somber, didn’t leave her face. “I did stop by her room to check on her.”

  “And?”

  “Out like a light.” He continued to watch her as he began to undress.

  Swiftly, almost brutally, he yanked off his tie, shrugged out of his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt. He dropped the fine clothes to the floor by the chair as he shed them.

  Bare-chested, he shucked off his black Italian dress shoes and slipped off his socks, the muscles of his lean arms and strong shoulders bunching and flexing with each deft, deliberate move he made. Once the shoes and socks were off, he stood. Down went the black tux slacks and his silk boxers, too.

  Naked—and fully aroused—he came for her. She lifted the covers, a thrilling sense of mingled alarm and excitement skittering through her. He slid in beside her and gathered her to him, rolling so that he was on top, then easing himself between her thighs, his lean body pressing her down. Below, he nudged at her, a delirious, insistent pressure. He smelled faintly of brandy and expensive cigars, reminding her of where he had been—out wining and dining Impresario’s biggest-spending guests.

  She looked up into those gleaming eyes and wasn’t sure what she saw there. “Fletcher? Are you…angry?”

  “No,” he whispered. “Not at all.”

  And then he kissed her.

  Oh, she couldn’t think when he was kissing her. She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back as he pushed on her short satin nightgown, easing it up over her belly, his hands molding her flesh in the hungriest, most thrilling way.

  He lifted his body away from hers—just a little, enough that his fingers could find her. His intimate touch sent her soaring even higher. She wanted him desperately, wanted…

  All of him. Now.

  She reached down between them, clasped his heat and hardness—and guided him home.

  They both moaned at the glorious pleasure of entry. And then he lifted up on his elbows and looked down at her, eyes burning even brighter than before, as he moved in her—moved with her.

  She gazed up at him, her body dissolving, going molten, and she wondered how she could love him so much—love him and sometimes be absolutely certain that she didn’t know him at all, her lover, her husband, the man who was everything she’d swor
n never to love.

  And yet, by some dark and wondrous miracle, she did love him. Madly. Wildly. Without reservation. In a reckless way her cautious heart had never thought to know.

  She whispered, “I love you, Fletcher. I love you so….”

  He muttered, “Cleo.” The word was rough in his throat, full of heat and yearning—and something that sounded almost like pain.

  They both went still, straining at the peak, pushing into each other as if they might somehow make their separate bodies one. And then came that wonderful, loosening rush of pure feeling, and she was going over, riding a giant glittering waterfall of sensation down into a velvety midnight scattered with bright-burning stars.

  The next morning, Saturday, he was already gone from the bed when she woke. She pushed back the covers and went to look for him in the bathroom.

  He wasn’t there either, but she recognized that faint humid scent of soap and aftershave. He’d already showered and gone. Quickly she showered, too.

  As she pulled on a sweater and jeans, she found herself wondering again if something might be bothering him. They’d been married a week and somehow every day he seemed just a little bit farther away from her.

  Out of nowhere, Andrea Raye’s spiteful words drifted into her mind.

  Some men just aren’t the forever type. They like to go after you, they like to love you up… But once you’re caught, it can get old really fast for them….

  She also remembered what Caitlin had said in the ladies’ lounge on Cleo’s wedding day.

  But I’ll lay odds something is bothering him in a deep way. There’s some secret he’s keeping. With him, no one gets too close….

  Cleo turned to the mirror on the dressing room wall and scowled at her own reflection. Not smart, to let some thoroughly out-of-line remark of Andrea’s get to her or to take seriously the wild ideas of the eccentric Caitlin. The dancer had admitted that she was jealous, that she still carried a torch for Fletcher. And Caitlin, well, what she’d said about Fletcher was only her opinion, no matter how vehemently she’d insisted it was true.