Celia turned to kiss Davey goodbye, but her son was already occupied, playing blocks with a couple of the other kids. She cast Cleo a wry glance. “As you can see, he can’t get along without me.”
“Looks like a well-adjusted boy to me.”
“And I’m glad he is—but a big hug and a kiss goodbye would be nice.”
Davey turned and waved. “‘Bye, Mommy. Come back and see me soon.”
Cleo, who couldn’t bear to let go of that warm pink bundle just yet, suggested, “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
They ran into Fletcher in the central breezeway that connected the classrooms. He’d just dropped Ashlyn off with the five-year-olds. He greeted Cleo and Celia and remarked that things seemed to be off to a great start.
“So far, so good.” Cleo glanced up from J.J.’s sweet little face and into the eyes that haunted her dreams. Quickly she looked down at the baby again.
Celia said, “Cleo got her hands on my baby and now she won’t let go.”
Cleo laughed and smoothed the pink blanket, then stroked one plump and perfect little hand. “Oh, don’t I wish …” And then she made the mistake of glancing up a second time. Her laughter faded as her gaze locked with Fletcher’s.
Trouble, she thought. I’m in big, big trouble here.
She made herself turn to Celia. “I suppose I’m going to have to give her back to you….”
Celia took the baby and they started for the nearest of the three gates that led out to the parking lot behind Hotel Impresario. Along the way they passed other parents with their kids. They waved and shared greetings as they went by.
When they got to the gate, Fletcher put his hand on Cleo’s arm. She felt that touch far too acutely, as she’d felt every one of his touches since that first day they’d met. “I need a few minutes.”
Carefully she pulled her arm free. “Sure.”
“This is where J.J. and I came in.” Celia left them, taking the sidewalk around the KinderWay fence, heading toward the hotel. More parents with children approached the gate.
Fletcher took her hand, capturing her fingers, wrapping them around his arm. “How about your office?”
“All right.” And she let him lead her, as if she didn’t know the way, back through the gate and along the breezeway.
She knew she should probably pull away again. But she didn’t. She kept thinking it shouldn’t matter as much as it did—the touch of his hand on hers, the feel of his warm, hard arm beneath the fine fabric of his suit jacket, the heat of his lean body so close to her side.
They entered the main office. The new secretary, RaeAnne, smiled as they passed her desk. “Cleo. Mr. Bravo …”
“We’ll just be a few minutes, RaeAnne,” Cleo said. “No calls or interruptions. Not unless there’s bleeding involved.”
“Got it.”
Cleo let go of Fletcher’s arm—and felt her heart contract at losing hold of him.
No doubt about it. Trouble. Capital T.
“This way.” She opened the door to her office and ushered him inside, gesturing at a guest chair. He sat and she went to her chair behind the beautiful desk he’d had built just for her. “Now,” she said, sounding brisk and businesslike and feeling anything but. “What’s up?”
He studied her for a moment before he spoke. She felt his gaze as if it were a physical touch. At last he said, “You’ve done an amazing job with this project. I didn’t really believe you’d succeed in doing what you’ve done here—not in two and a half weeks, anyway.”
She couldn’t resist reminding him, “I believe you chose the time frame.”
He gave her one of those regal nods of his. “I did. I like setting impossible goals. They make people try harder. And you did.” Another regal nod, then he said, “Well done.”
“Thank you.” So. He’d only taken her aside to give her a pat on the back for the work she’d done.
That was good. She was pleased. He wasn’t putting any moves on her and she wanted it that way.
Too bad she felt so let down.
He asked, “Aren’t you glad now that I wouldn’t leave you alone until you agreed to go for it?”
To her, the question had more than one level of meaning. She reminded herself not to go to those other levels. “Yes, I am. It’s worked out beautifully.”
He slid a hand into the inside pocket of his suit coat and produced a red leather jeweler’s box embossed with gold.
Another gift.
Well. So much for a purely professional pat on the back. Damn him. She had told him not to—
“Don’t,” he said, as if she had spoken her objections aloud—which she hadn’t. Yet.
“Fletcher, I asked you not to—”
He raised his free hand for silence as he set the red box on her desk. “Open it.”
“No.”
Her refusal didn’t faze him in the least. “All right. I’ll open it for you.” He took the box again, raised the lid and set it down facing her so she could see what waited inside.
A watch. White gold or maybe platinum, with a black alligator band. A small, oh-so-tasteful row of diamonds running down either side of the square face and the single word Cartier beneath the upper numerals. A go-anywhere watch. Gorgeous and simple and absolutely perfect.
And very, very expensive.
He explained, “It’s engraved on the back with the date and ‘KinderWay at Impresario’—and don’t look at me like that. Yes, it’s a gift. A strictly professional one. To commemorate a job much more than well done.”
Strictly professional. Did she believe him?
Yes. No. She didn’t know.
She did know that the watch was beautiful and she had done a hell of a job in the past weeks and … yes, she wanted it.
What did that make her? A professional justifiably proud of her latest accomplishment? Or a woman finally saying yes to a man’s slow, relentless seduction?
Or both?
The really scary thing was that it didn’t matter what it made her. Whether this gift was strictly professional or not, she was keeping it.
Her doubts fell away. She knew at that moment that she would have to break up with Danny. And that someday soon Fletcher would ask her out to dinner again. And when he did, her answer would be yes.
No qualifications. And no restrictions. Simply, completely,
