Falcon's Flight (13 page)

But the shower did help, as did the brandy. Calmer, in control again, Leslie sipped the last of the fiery liquid. Avoiding Flint’s intent stare, she set the glass aside and stood up.

“Better?” Flint asked in a strained, unnatural voice.

“Yes, thank you,” Leslie responded politely, like a well-mannered child. “I think I’ll go to bed now.” She was slipping from the robe when she heard his murmured reply.

“Yes, I think we will.”

They lay side by side on the enormous bed, not sleeping, not speaking, not touching. Eyes wide as she stared at the white ceiling, Leslie fought against the conflicting emotions tearing her in different directions. One part of her wanted to escape from this man devoid of emotion, to run as fast as she could to the safety of New York, her own apartment, her friends. Another part of her longed to turn to Flint, to curl her body close to his, to feel again the sheer joy of his kiss, his touch, his possession. When he spoke suddenly, the harsh sound of his voice made her flinch.

“It’s made a difference, hasn’t it? It’s turned you off.”

“What?” Turning her head on the pillow to face him, Leslie frowned in confusion at the tight set of his features. “What are you talking about?” She was positive he had read her reaction to the cold, deadly man he’d revealed to her, but she was wrong.

“Knowing I’m a half-breed has made a difference, hasn’t it?” he demanded through gritted teeth. “You no longer want me touching you.”

“That’s not true!” Leslie denied indignantly. “I never gave it a second thought!” she said truthfully.

“Prove it,” Flint taunted.

“How?” she cried. “What can I say to—”

“Kiss me, caress this body that contains the mixture of blood from a white man and a Navaho woman.”

“Oh, Flint,” Leslie sighed, feeling the pain hidden beneath his rough tone; perhaps he was capable of some emotion after all.

“Do it!” he ordered harshly.

Since it was what she’d been aching to do anyway, Leslie obeyed him, turning her body against his to seek his mouth with her trembling lips. Flint was not easily convinced, but Leslie fully enjoyed the task of erasing his doubt. Slow kisses and gentle caresses eased away the conflict inside Leslie and the constraint between her and Flint. Their loveplay was just heating up when Flint crushed her breasts with his chest and stared at her with eyes that glittered wickedly.

“Shall 1 play the savage for you?” One dark eyebrow arched questioningly.

“What?” Leslie said, laughing and shaking her head in confusion.

“I asked if you’d like me to play the savage for you,” Flint repeated. “Most women love it. Perhaps you would, too.”

Leslie could barely breathe with the pressure from his chest, yet she managed to raise her voice slightly in exasperation. “Flint, please ease up a little—you’re crushing me!” When he propped himself up on his forearms, she sighed her relief. “Thank you. Now will you explain what the hell you’ve been talking about? And don’t categorize me with most women!”

Flint’s lips twitched in amusement for a moment, but flattened when he began to speak. “When I was in my junior year of college, an eastern college, the word spread that I was a half-breed. And though I had never had difficulty finding a date, suddenly I was one very popular
brave
with the ladies.” The contempt in his tone caused a shaft of pain in Leslie’s chest. “Being a fairly bright boy, it didn’t take me long to figure out that, titillated by the books they’d read and movies they’d seen, the girls were panting to be ravaged by the savage.”

“And you were happy to accommodate them,” Leslie said dryly.

“I never was stupid,” Flint retaliated every bit as dryly. “But I was selective even then,” he drawled.

“And did you learn to ravage like a savage?” Leslie inquired blandly.

“Oh, yes, I learned,” he retorted. “They taught me.”

“How?” she asked, already certain she knew the answer.

“Those sweet, innocent, giggling coeds whipped this savage into shape by biting and kicking and clawing bloody ridges into my back. And do you know what I’ve learned since then?”

Leslie bit her lip and shook her head.

“Those college girls have grown-up sisters all over the place, my friend’s bride included.”

“Flint, you didn’t—” she began.

“You’re damned right I didn’t,” he interrupted. “But it wasn’t from lack of effort on her part. He had asked me to look after her for him, and the first time I stopped by to see how she was doing, she was after me.” Flint’s curling lip revealed hard white teeth. “She actually begged me. She wasn’t the first.” His contempt was palpable in the space between them. “She wasn’t the last, either.”

Leslie drew herself together, her spine so rigid it quivered. “And now you expect me to beg like they did?” Cold rejection coated her tone.

“No, Leslie.” Flint smiled sensuously. “But I was hoping you’d want to see the savage.”

“Oh, but you’re not a savage, Mr. Falcon, remember?” Leslie reminded him nicely. “You are a bastard.”

Laughing, Flint lowered his head to hers; then he was laughing into her mouth. “You have my permission to bite me and kick me and even claw me all you want,” he growled. “But only in response to the passion/arouse in you.”

“I won’t!” Leslie gasped, thrilling to the fire his touch sent crackling through her body. But, to her own abashed amazement, she did.

Flint was rarely out of Leslie’s sight during the last two days of her vacation. In truth, he was rarely out of the bed. Yet regardless of how often, how completely he possessed her, he couldn’t seem to get enough, and his lovemaking grew steadily more intense, almost desperate.

As she was beginning to feel somewhat desperate herself, Leslie matched his urgency. And when they occasionally did desert the apartment to go out for dinner or visit the casinos, she was restless and depressed until they returned.

The situation alarmed Leslie. With each passing hour, each passing minute, Flint was becoming more important to her. The realization of how much he was beginning to mean to her scared her witless. She was going to be hurt very badly, and she knew it. She had recognized and identified his character. Flint was a law unto himself—arrogant, competent, self-confident, sublimely male and serenely alone. Though he felt passion, he was cold. Though he could show tenderness, he was detached. Though he could make love, he was immune to the emotion.

After two weeks in his company, Leslie had reached the disheartening conclusion that Flint Falcon merely tolerated women. His experiences with women had left him bitter and cynical. Knowing just a small bit of his history, Leslie both understood and despaired over his attitude.

Leslie felt that if she didn’t get out of his life as fast as her car could take her she would literally wind up begging him to... What? Leslie closed her mind to contemplation of this crucial question.

On the morning she had originally planned on leaving, Leslie stood in the bedroom, suitcase open on the bed, skimming her gaze over the room to doublecheck if she had missed anything. Her gaze came to rest on the window, and a soft sigh whispered through her lips. She’d had the blazing affair she had laughingly promised herself—only now she wasn’t laughing.

The morning sunshine sparkled off the window, dazzling her eyes. Telling herself the light was too bright, Leslie blinked against a tide of warm moisture and glanced away.

How does one say goodbye to a lover? she wondered, swallowing hard to ease the tightness in her throat. She was such a novice at this most intimate of games, and considering how devastated she was feeling, Leslie was positive she would remain a novice. She felt slightly sick and tight inside, and she wanted to fling herself onto the bed and weep. But more than anything else she wanted to stay with Flint. Leslie shivered when the sound of his voice followed her thought.

“You could wait to leave until later this afternoon,” Flint suggested softly from directly behind her.

Fighting an overwhelming temptation to turn and fling herself into his arms, Leslie clenched her teeth and shook her head. “No. I want to avoid the worst of the traffic.” She shut her eyes and bit her lip when his arms encircled her waist.

“And I want you,” he murmured, turning her to face him. “One more time.” His narrowed eyes swept to her mouth as he slowly lowered his head.

“There’s no time!” Leslie protested, terrified that if he kissed her she’d disgrace herself by begging him to let her stay.

“There’s always time,” he argued.

Flint’s kiss was hot and hard and fiercely possessive. His hands were sure and swift. Within minutes her suitcase was in a comer, the tailored slacks and silk shirt, which had been smooth and neat moments before, lay in a rumpled heap on the floor, and she lay naked beneath him on the bed.

Furious with him and herself and aroused beyond bearing, Leslie glared up at him. “You don’t even like women,” she accused on a hissed breath.

For an instant, Flint looked startled. Then he smiled. “I’ve acquired a taste for redheads,” he teased.

“There are dozens of redheads in this city,” she retorted.

“But I’ve acquired a taste for redheaded actresses.” He laughed.

“There are hundreds of redheaded actresses in the world,” she snapped, needing him and hating herself for her need.

“But I want one particular redheaded actress,” he murmured, bringing his mouth to hers.

Leslie returned his kiss, as she had known all along that she would. And even as her hand restlessly skimmed his body as if to impress the feel of him into her skin, Flint drew back to examine every inch of her as if to imprint the sight of her on his memory. His lips' followed the passage his burning gaze had mapped out.

“Leslie, Leslie,” he groaned, crushing her mouth as he thrust into her arching body. “Kiss me, touch me, lo—” His words were lost in the depths of her throat, and Leslie heard nothing more than the muffled sound of his voice calling her name.

Leslie was exhausted. A half sigh, half sob of relief shuddered through her lips as she drove the car into the Lincoln Tunnel. The city traffic was a mess, as it was every day at five-fifteen. She was so tired, so very tired. Brushing tears from her eyes, Leslie missed the light as it turned green and had to endure the blast of a car horn and an obscene shout from the driver behind her.

Leslie, Leslie.

The echo of Flint’s voice hammered in her aching head. Leslie’s lips twisted cynically. How quickly the sound of his voice had changed once he’d attained satisfaction.

Flint had left the bed immediately after his breathing had returned to normal. Ignoring his clothing, he strode from the room, leaving the bathroom for her. Feeling of no more importance to him than his discarded clothes, Leslie crawled from the bed to the shower.

But the woman who faced Flint when he strode back into the bedroom thirty minutes later let none of her pain show. Leslie had the regal look of a queen. Her back straight, her head held high, her red hair draping her shoulders like a mantilla of flame, Leslie played out the most exacting performance of her life. Inside she felt as if some part of her was dying, and she prayed Flint’s cool, piercing gaze would not penetrate the thin veneer of her act.

“I’ve sent the bags down,” she said coolly, indicating the absence of her cases with a graceful sweep of her hand. “And I’ve asked for the car to be brought to the entrance.”

“I’d have done that,” Flint replied tersely.

“Not necessary,” she said, shrugging. “It’s time I left.” Grabbing her coat from where she’d placed it over the back of a chair, she walked to the door.

Flint stopped her as she grasped the doorknob. “No farewell kiss, Leslie?”

“1 assumed you had said your farewell on the bed, Falcon,” she gibed, keeping herself composed by sheer willpower.

“Just one more kiss,” he murmured into her hair. “A kiss between friends.”

“Are we friends?” Leslie turned to stare at him.

“Of course.” Flint’s remote tone and faint smile hurt her heart.

Affecting an equal remoteness, Leslie raised her head, offering her closed mouth to him. His kiss was impersonal, almost chaste, and very nearly destroyed her. Ignoring her protests, Flint escorted her to her car and held the door while she slipped under the steering wheel.

“Goodbye, Falcon,” she said as he closed her in and himself out.

“I’ll call you sometime, friend.” Flint’s tone was remote, and to Leslie’s ears dismissive.

Though she stiffened, she managed to drive away smoothly from the hotel. A mixture of anger and humiliation sustained her throughout the long drive back to New York.

I’ll call you sometime, friend.

He forgot to add:
but don’t hold your breath,
Leslie thought. She grimaced as she missed the curb by a hair when she turned into the garage where she kept her car. Leslie allowed herself no illusions. She had served her purpose, and now her usefulness to him was history. She had been dismissed. Flint would not call.

Home. Closing her apartment door a short time later, Leslie glanced around vaguely. It seemed as if she’d been away a very long while. What was home, she wondered, trailing listlessly into her bedroom. A few walls, a collection of furnishings, a telephone listed under her name? Home was supposed to be love and warmth and shared memories and laughter. She had no home. She had a career.

She was so tired. Dropping her suitcases to the floor, Leslie undressed and slid into bed. She wouldn’t think, she wouldn’t feel, she’d rest and forget him, she assured herself bracingly. Then, curling into a tight ball, Leslie sobbed her misery into the pillow.

Eight

You look ghastly, worse than before you left for Atlantic City.”

“Thanks.” Leslie gave Marie a wry look and took a deep draw on her cigarette. “It’s nice to know that I can depend on my friends to tell me the truth.” She grimaced. The truth was she felt even worse than she looked.

“Well, it is the truth, Leslie, and I’m worried about you!” Marie frowned and peered into Leslie’s face. “You have dark circles under your eyes, your color’s bad and you’ve lost weight,” she said, enumerating the points of concern. “1 thought the whole idea of a vacation was to relax, but you’re in worse shape now than while you were going through the divorce.” Marie paused for breath, but she wasn’t finished. “You’re not eating, and you’re smoking like a forest fire.”