set the red box beside her on the bed and she reached out to smooth the scowl from his brow. “Please. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. But I had to know….”
He caught her hand and kissed it. “I’ll be a faithful husband. Say yes.”
“I, um, one more thing.”
“What now?”
“Well, you’ve yet to mention love….”
“Love,” he repeated, looking a little bit stunned.
“Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes, refusing to waver. “Love.”
He dropped her hand—but only long enough to pick up the red box and remove the biggest, brightest princess-cut diamond she’d ever seen. He took her left hand. It happened to be the hand she was using to hold up the sheet, which dropped around her waist. Neither of them noticed.
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.”
