Falcon's Flight (11 page)

Leslie should have felt anger. She should have felt insulted. She laughed instead and moved to comply with his silent command for participation. “Don’t you ever get tired?” she asked, taking her time as she was already partially undressed, having stripped down to bra, panties and a half-slip on her return to the apartment.

Flint paused in the act of removing his shirt to slant a contemplative look at her. His shoulders and chest were exposed, revealing long, hard muscles and a patch of tightly curled black chest hair. Strangely, as Leslie had discovered to her surprise, the rest of Flint’s body was smooth and hairless except for a fine, silky down.

“Not often,” he said with absolute seriousness. “I have a lot of stamina and staying power.”

“I’ll say,” Leslie muttered, drawing one of his rare barks of laughter from him.

“I work at it,” he added, tossing his shirt aside.

“Really?” Leslie frowned. “When?”

Flint stepped out of his slacks and tossed them on top of his shirt before glancing at her. “Every morning, before you’re awake.” Perching on the side of the bed, he bent to remove his shoes.

Leslie was hard-pressed not to trail her fingers the curved length of his enticing spine. “But how? I mean, where do you work out and what do you do?” she asked, completely forgetting that she was supposed to be undressing.

“I run on the beach every morning.” Standing, Flint hooked his thumbs under the elastic waistband on his narrow briefs. “And I swim in the hotel pool,” he continued, drawing the briefs over his slim hips and down his taut thighs. As he bent to remove the shorts, his gaze swept her body, which was still clad in bra and panties. “I’m winning this race, Leslie.” The shorts landed on top of his piled clothing.

“There’s a need for speed?” Leslie asked ingenuously.

“You must not have been paying attention, darling,” he drawled, straightening to his full height to reveal the fullness of his arousal, “or you’d know there definitely was a need for speed.” Stepping to the bed, he knelt on the mattress beside her and reached around her to unsnap her bra. His warm hands replaced the lace supporting her breasts.

“Flint?” Leslie murmured as he eased her onto her back and covered her with his body.

“Umm?” he murmured, testing the texture of her shoulder with his mouth and tongue.

“I still have my panties on,” she whispered, gasping her pleasure as his lips tasted her skin from her shoulder to the tip of one breast.

“I know,” he whispered back, aligning his hips with hers as he settled between her silky thighs. “Exciting, isn’t it?” he said, closing his lips around the aching crest as he arched his body into hers.

Leslie inhaled sharply, sighing, “Yes!” He was so close, so close, and yet barred from her by a filmy strip of silk. Flint arched again, his body making an urgent demand for entrance. And suddenly, desperately, Leslie wanted his entrance, needed to feel him inside her, filling her emptiness, feeding her hunger. Her trembling fingers fumbled at the wispy bit of nothing.

“Flint,” she pleaded when his pressing body impeded her efforts, “please, raise your hips!”

“Not yet.” Reaching down, he circled her wrists with his strong fingers, then brought her arms up and over her head. He began to rotate his hips slowly and lowered his head to suckle at her breast.

It was maddening. It was exasperating. It was the most erotic sensation Leslie ever experienced. Within moments she was whimpering low in her throat. Her senses going haywire from the steadily building tension, Leslie helplessly responded to the cadence Flint’s motions created. The sensual thread woven through her body tightened to quivering tautness.

“Falcon!” Leslie cried his name as she twisted to free her hands from his firm but gentle clasp.

“Yes, darling?” Flint murmured, caressing her nipple with his tongue one last time before raising his head. Watching the tension mirrored on her face, he continued the rhythmic motion of his hips.

“Let go of my hands! I want to touch you!” she gasped, obeying the dictates of her body and arching to meet his thrust. “Please, Falcon, I want to feel you in—” Leslie’s ragged voice rose to a muted scream as the thread of tension snapped, flinging her into a shattering release. “Falcon!”

Flint gentled her with soft words and stroking hands but didn’t let the fire go out. With her first unlabored breath, he slipped the panties from her. “And now it gets even more exciting,” he whispered, moving between her thighs and entering her body. Slowly at first, then more quickly, his thrusts deeper, he fanned her inner fire into a raging blaze.

Clinging to him, fighting for breath, Leslie was carried along in Flint’s flaming tide of passion. She shattered around him again an instant before she felt him explode deep inside her quaking body.

Sunset was spreading its golden mantle over the earth when Leslie came to her senses and felt Flint’s hand stroking her inner thigh. Raising her heavy eyelids, she gazed into his eyes.

“1 thought you’d fallen asleep again,” he murmured, gliding his hand up to possessively cup her breast in his palm.

“No.” Leslie smiled and settled her body more firmly against his hand. “I was merely attempting to breathe.” Deciding that what was good for the goose, and so forth, she captured him with her fingers; Flint’s surprised gasp made the display of boldness worthwhile. But even as she felt the unmistakable stirrings of renewal, Flint moved away from her.

“Later, darling,” he promised, bending to her to brush his lips over hers. “But now I’m starving, and you must be also.”

“Must I?” Leslie frowned, thinking it odd that she really wasn’t at all hungry. “I suppose so,” she went on quickly when Flint returned her frown. “But more than food, I really^could use a short nap.”

Though he sighed, Flint relented. “All right.” He brushed his mouth over hers again, then rolled off the bed. “I’ll have a snack to hold me until dinner.” He stretched lazily, displaying his muscular body for her inspection. “I feel great,” he said, grinning down at her. “I think I’ll have a swim while you nap.” He started for the bathroom, but paused at the door to shoot a stern look at her. “Stop ogling me and get to sleep.” His tone was as stern as his expression. “You have one hour, Leslie.” Without waiting for either reply or protest from her, Flint strode into the bathroom.

Ogling? Leslie mused sleepily. Had she been ogling his body? Yes, of course she had, she admitted shamelessly. But then, Flint’s body deserved female ogling—among other things! Feeling content in body and amused in mind, Leslie yawned, closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep.

For a weeknight, the casino was exceptionally crowded. Standing at a progressive half-dollar machine, Leslie fed her last five coins into it, pulled the handle, then watched as the four reels spun. She shrugged when the reels settled into place, revealing a bar, a blank and two more bars. Turning away, Leslie glanced down at her hands. She had fed the greedy machine five rolls of halves for a single payout of fifty coins, or twenty-five dollars. The luck, or lack of it, didn’t bother her, but her coin-blackened fingers did.

Pausing to light a cigarette, Leslie smiled and shook her head at a man who politely asked if she was going to play the machine. Stepping aside, she headed for the ladies’ room. Her pace unhurried, she strolled through the casino, her gaze skimming the male faces for a glimpse of Flint, who was somewhere in the large room even though he was not indulging in the games offered.

A soft smile touched her lips as she thought about the seeming contradictions the man presented. She had discovered at the outset that Flint did not gamble, at least not in the casinos. She had also learned early on that although he had a forbidding, unapproachable look about him, Flint was capable of tear-inducing tenderness. And though he projected an image of cold detachment, Flint could generate spine-melting heat with his thoroughly involved lovemaking.

A man of many facets, half of them hidden, Leslie concluded. She sighed with disappointment at not spotting him as she reached her destination. After washing the residue of the coins from her hands, Leslie moved to the long mirror above the vanity countertop. She was brushing clear red color onto her lower lip when two beautiful young women entered the lounge.

“Did you see him?” the one woman, a true blonde, asked the other, a brunette, in a breathless, excited tone.

“Did I see whom?” The brunette responded in a cultured, bored tone.

“The infamous Falcon!” The blonde’s awed reply caught the brunette’s attention. Suddenly Leslie was very interested as well.

Infamous? Leslie questioned silently, listening closely while appearing to concentrate on outlining her lips.

The brunette’s reaction was far from bored. “Flint’s here?” she fairly yelped.

Flint?
Leslie’s eyes narrowed, ostensibly on her makeup.

“Flint?” the blonde repeated, wide-eyed now, her awe obviously doubled. “You know him?”

Good question, Leslie thought, playing deaf as she strained to hear the brunette’s answer.

“I’ve met him.” The woman’s smile was smug, too smug to suit her unobtrusive eavesdropper.

In bed? Leslie wondered, beginning to simmer as she waited for the query to be asked aloud.

But the blonde’s mind was not in the bedroom. “Is it true that he’s an ex-con?” she asked in an avidly curious tone.

Leslie nearly dropped the crimson-tipped lipstick brush. Ex-con! Flint? Anger ripped through her. How dare that little fool insinu— “Yes, it’s true,” the brunette said with absolute certainty. “He served three years of a twenty-year sentence in a prison in New Mexico.”

Twenty years! The damning words pounded inside Leslie’s head as she collected her makeup and beat a hasty retreat from the room. As the door shut behind her, she sank back against the wall and drew deep gulps of air into her trembling body. What crime had Flint committed to draw a twenty-year sentence? she thought frantically, skipping her wide-eyed gaze over the faces of passersby. Several women, and more men, gazed at her with concern, but only one detached himself from the throng to make his way to her side.

“Are you feeling sick?” Flint’s dark brows drew together in a frown as he examined her face.

Leslie stared mutely at his tense expression and slowly shook her head.

“Leslie, what’s wrong?” he demanded, grasping her upper arm.

Leslie swallowed. “I—I need a drink.” She swallowed again, fighting back a brackish taste. “Can we find someplace to sit down?”

Though Flint’s frown deepened, he answered at once. “Of course.” Steadying her with his firm grip, he turned and walked with her toward the escalator. “We’ll go down to the restaurant.” Exasperation overshadowed the concern in his tone. “You barely touched your dinner,” he said. “You’re probably halfstarved.”

Food was the last thing on Leslie’s mind, but she didn’t bother to correct him. Shocked and sick to her stomach, she allowed him to usher her to the restaurant. Since she was no longer surprised by the fact that Flint was apparently recognized by every maitre d’ in every restaurant in every hotel in Atlantic City, Leslie accepted the effusive attention shown to them by this maitre d’ as he escorted them to a table. She wasn’t even surprised at the relative seclusion afforded by the table; Flint was invariably seated at a secluded table.

Flint took it upon himself to order a sandwich for her when Leslie merely shook her head at the menu the waiter offered her; he ordered wine for the two of them as well. Even though he maintained his intense scrutiny, she kept silent until the waiter departed after delivering their drinks.

“Damn it, Leslie, talk to me,” Flint said through gritted teeth when the silence stretched into humming tension between them. “Tell me what is wrong with you.”

Leslie moistened her dry throat with a sip of wine. “I, eh, overheard two women talking in the ladies’ room,” she said, her voice low and reedy.

“So?” Flint demanded.

Lifting her head, she met his narrowed gaze. “They were talking about you.”

“So?” he repeated arrogantly. “What did they say?” His gaze held hers.

Leslie inhaled slowly, then threw caution aside—she had to know if what they’d said was true. “The one woman asked the other, who incidentally claimed to know you, whether it was true that you had served time in prison.”

Flint stiffened and his expression froze, but his tone was unruffled. “Continue.”

Leslie had a terrible feeling of foreboding. “It
is
true, isn’t it?” Leslie didn’t know quite how she’d expected him to respond, but she certainly hadn’t expected him to smile, however faintly.

“Yes, Leslie,” he admitted in a cool tone, “it is true.”

The feeling of foreboding intensified. “But... why?” she cried in a strangled whisper.

Flint’s gaze remained steady. “I was convicted of rape.”

Rape! For one instant, Leslie stared at him in horror, her throat closing, her senses whirling. Then her intelligence reasserted itself and her mind called a halt to the dramatics. Rape? she thought, doubt growing. She had shared his bed for almost two weeks; she knew his power and prowess. Flint Falcon need never force himself on any woman I As Leslie’s thinking cleared, so did her vision. His features locked into concealment, Flint was watching her, waiting for her reaction to his words. In actual time, he had waited only seconds.

“I don’t believe it.” Amazingly, the instant she said the words, all symptoms of shock vanished.

“It’s true,” he said, still watching her. “I was convicted, and I did serve three years of the sentence.” Leslie shook her head and waved her fingers impatiently as if brushing his admission aside. “I don’t believe you ever raped anyone.”

“Thank you.” Flint’s smile brought the color back to her pale cheeks. “And you’re right—I never raped anyone, physically or any other way.” His head angled into an arrogant tilt. “It’s not my style.”

“But who accused you of such a terrible thing?” Leslie frowned. Before he could answer, she demanded, “Why would any woman accuse you?” Flint sat back in his chair, his expression contemplative. It wasn’t necessary for him to tell her that he was unused to explaining himself to anybody; Leslie already knew that. Yet, to her astonishment, he proceeded to explain himself to her.