Christine Rimmer - The Bravos - Family Ties

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.”

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?”

“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.”