Falcon's Flight (14 page)

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Reaching across the kitchen table, she grasped Leslie’s hand. “You’re my best friend, and I’m seriously worried. Won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” Leslie’s throat tightened, and tears rushed to fill her eyes at her friend’s obvious concern for her. Every word Marie had spoken was true. Leslie was aware of how she looked and how she felt, and that was, in a word, rotten. She felt sleepy all the time, yet she was sleeping badly. She was excessively tired. Her body ached. She was depressed. And her throat had felt scratchy since right after she’d returned from Atlantic City. She was a mess and she knew it. But talking about it...

“Is it money?” Marie asked softly when Leslie failed to respond. “Are you in financial trouble?” Leslie’s smile was wan. How very characteristic of Marie to think of money as the cause of her problem, Leslie reflected, dredging up a faint but genuine smile. “No, Marie.” She shook her head and winced against a twinge of pain in her throat. “I don’t need money.” “But then what is it?” Marie exclaimed. Her eyes widened with anxiety. “Are you ill?”

“No.” Leslie started to shake her head again but, mindful of the pain, halted the motion. A frown creased her smooth brow. “At least I don’t think so,” she amended. “I have been bothered by a persistent sore throat,” she admitted.

The maternal instincts in Marie rose to the fore. “Have you seen a doctor?” she demanded, jumping up and skirting the table to place her palm on Leslie’s forehead.

“No, Marie, I...”

“I know—” Marie made a face “—you don’t like doctors.” Her eyes narrowed. “I think you have a fever.”

“Marie...” Leslie tried unsuccessfully to get a word in. Turning away, Marie hurried from the kitchen.

“I’ll get the aspirin.”

Leslie sighed with acceptance as Marie’s voice floated back to her from the other room. Moments later, Marie came rushing back, a small bottle in her hands.

“Thank heavens little Tony finally fell asleep,” she mumbled, shaking two pills into her palm. “And big Tony’s glued to the game on the tube.” Stepping to the sink, she filled a glass with water, then turned, proffering both glass and pills to Leslie. “You take these,” she ordered briskly. “Then you and I are going to have a long talk.”

Knowing it would be useless to argue, Leslie obediently swallowed the aspirin, wincing as the pills scraped her tender throat on the way down. Only with Marie, Leslie thought with amusement, could she be invited to dinner and wind up receiving medical attention. Her lips curved into an affectionate smile as she returned the glass to Marie’s waiting hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Marie smiled back. “Could you handle some more wine, or would you like something else? A cup of tea, maybe?” she added before Leslie had a chance to respond.

“Marie, you know I detest tea!” Leslie chided in a dry croak. “But I’d love another glass of wine—if it’s not Tony’s last bottle?” Her eyebrows rose question-ingly.

Marie favored her with what Leslie had always secretly thought of as
the look
and waved her hand dis-missively. “It isn’t his last bottle, but even if it were it wouldn’t matter.” She retrieved the wine from a bottle rack inside the refrigerator and two stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Come on,” she said, heading for the doorway. “Let’s get comfortable.”

“But what about the dinner dishes?”

Marie shrugged. “I’ll clean that mess up later. It’s not going anywhere.”

Leslie stared at her in astonishment. Marie must really be concerned if she was prepared to walk away from a cluttered kitchen, Leslie marveled. Marie was the most fastidious housekeeper Leslie had ever known. Her throat growing thick with emotion again, Leslie meekly followed the other woman into the small, neat living room.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” Marie said in a no-nonsense tone as Leslie settled into a chair opposite her own. “And don’t even try telling me it’s all from your sore throat, because I won’t buy it.” Marie’s face was stern. “Something’s tearing you apart inside, and it shows.” Feeling foolish and very uncertain, Leslie stared into the pale gold wine shimmering in the delicate glass Marie handed to her. She hated the way she was feeling, but she hated the reason for the way she was feeling even more. Mooning like a lovesick fictional heroine over a man, any man, was playing hell with the image of an independent, self-sufficient, mature woman Leslie had worked so hard to create.

“Leslie!” Marie wailed. “You confided in me during that dreadful period with Brad. Why can’t you talk to me now?” Marie’s soft brown eyes held a wounded look.

“This is different,” Leslie muttered. “This was my own fault.”

“What was your own fault?” Marie cried in exasperation.

Leslie played for time by taking a long swallow of wine. Then, assured by Marie’s bulldog expression that she wasn’t about to give up the subject, Leslie sighed in defeat.

“Do you remember what I said to you before I left for Atlantic City?” she asked in a strained voice.

Marie frowned; then her eyes widened. She nodded once, as if confirming her own thoughts. “You met a man,” she stated.

“Yes, I met a man.” Leslie’s sigh held the sound of utter weariness. Marie was quiet a moment; then her eyes widened even more.

“You really had an affair?” she gasped in disbelief.

“Yes.” The husky sound of Leslie’s voice could not be blamed entirely on her sore throat. “I—I met him mere moments after I arrived at the Falcon’s Flight hotel.”

“But...” Marie shook her head as if to clear her mind. “Who is he?”

Leslie took another, longer swallow of wine, then sighed. “His name is Flint Falcon. He owns the hotel.”

“You had an affair with Flint Falcon!” Marie nearly shouted. Her extraordinary reaction brought a frown to Leslie's brow.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Well, certainly. Who hasn’t?” Marie groaned and rolled her eyes. “You mean you hadn’t heard of him— before you met him, I mean?”

“No.” Leslie’s frown deepened. “How could I have?”

Marie gave her a long-suffering look. “You could read a newspaper now and then or catch the news on TV, you know.”

“Flint has been written up in the papers?” Leslie asked faintly.

“And been covered thoroughly on the tube,” Marie retorted.

Positive the coverage had been about his incarceration for rape, Leslie felt suddenly sick. Hadn’t Flint had to bear enough by being imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, she thought angrily, without having his name dragged through every tabloid as well? Absently picking at the upholstery on the chair arm with her restless fingers, Leslie looked directly at Marie. “What did they say about him?”

“Nothing very good.” Marie grimaced. “Since it was some months back, while the hotel was under construction, I don’t remember all of it.”

“The coverage was about the hotel?” Leslie asked hopefully, shuddering with relief when Marie nodded vaguely.

“It was one of those character studies of the movers and the shakers.” When Leslie nodded but remained silent, Marie continued. “The character that emerged of Flint Falcon was not very appealing, and I can’t imagine how you of all people could have gotten involved with him.”

“He’s—er—Flint’s very compelling,” Leslie muttered.

“And if the stories are to be believed,” Marie said, “Falcon is cold, calculating, unemotional, shrewd and single-minded in his drive to succeed.” Her expression turned pensive. “It seems that somehow, nobody knows quite how, he managed to gather enough capital over the last five years to either buy or build a number of casinos and casino hotels. Falcon’s Flight is, if memory serves, his fourth.” Marie paused for breath before adding, “He also is reputed to be hell on wheels with the ladies.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly.

Leslie got the point; in fact, it stuck in her most vulnerable spot. She longed to deny every word Marie had spoken against Flint, but in all honesty could not. Hadn’t she accused him of the same characteristics? Leslie knew she had, yet she burned with the desire to defend Flint to her friend.

“He’s—Flint’s not a bad person,” she said, her eyes showing life for the first time in weeks.

Marie looked less than impressed. “He seems to have done a real number on you,” she observed, scrutinizing Leslie’s flushed face. “I’d like to give a piece of my mind to the son of a—” Marie bit the word back; she never swore.

“Flint is not to blame!” Leslie protested harshly. “I walked into the affair with my eyes wide open.”

“Oh, Leslie.” Sighing heavily, Marie shook her head. “You sure have a lousy talent for picking men.”

Leslie took the opportunity to change the subject. “But I do have a talent for picking the right acting roles,” she said, albeit somewhat wryly. “And I’ve just read a script with a female lead that has me salivating to perform it.”

“You’re thinking of going back to work already?” Marie’s face was a study in consternation.

“I am going back to work,” Leslie corrected her. “I’ve agreed to do the play. My agent is closing the deal.”

“Instead of going to work, you should be consulting a doctor,” Marie chided her. Leslie’s jaw firmed. “I’m going back to work.”

Before that week was out, Leslie discovered that it was one thing to say that she was going back to work and quite another to do it. She felt worse with each passing day. Her throat was inflamed, her glands were swollen, her body ached and, regardless of how many hours she spent asleep, she felt fatigued. She was also becoming more depressed and teary-eyed with each successive day. As Leslie had reached the conclusion that depression and tears produced nothing but tattered emotions and a ravaged appearance, she had scrupulously avoided indulgence in either since she’d put herself together after her divorce. Yet each successive day found her more deeply depressed and more teary-eyed. Near the end of that week, Leslie gave up and made an appointment with her physician.

The doctor took Leslie to task for waiting so long before coming to see him, examined her and then told her he wanted to do some blood tests. Until the test results were ready, Leslie was ordered to stay as inactive as possible. When the results were in, Leslie sighed and accepted the fact that she would not be going back to work for some time. The tests were conclusive.

Somehow, somewhere, Leslie had contracted mononucleosis.

The casino hummed with the muted roar of wall-to-wall humanity.

Standing unobtrusively against one dull black support pillar, Flint surveyed the area through dispassionate, narrowed eyes. Business was more than good; it was excellent. Both the hotel and casino had been packed with eager patrons every day since the opening five weeks earlier. Though pleased by the initial success of his venture, Flint felt none of the bone-deep satisfaction he should have been experiencing.

A light began blinking and a bell ringing on a dollar machine in the aisle to Flint’s left. His face impassive, Flint glanced at the couple in front of the machine. They were laughing and exchanging looks, and the dollar tokens were clanging into the catch tray. Something about the scene sparked a memory in Flint, and a smile softened his tight lips.

Leslie had hit that same type of payoff on the night of her arrival in Atlantic City. Suddenly Flint could see her face, hear her voice, smell her particular scent as if she was standing beside him. The sensation was growing familiar to him. Flint no longer looked around for her, his heart kicking into a joyous beat.

Pushing away from the support, Flint strolled through the huge casino, nodding to pit bosses and floor managers, oblivious now to the sound and press of people in pursuit of gambling pleasure. He walked directly to the private elevator.

As usual when entering the apartment, Flint paused on the wide landing; lately, though, his glance did not lift automatically to the window wall. His eyes dark and brooding, Flint surveyed the place, compelled by a force he couldn’t control. She was not there; he knew she was not there. Still, he searched for her.

He stood on the landing mere seconds, yet the pause was telling. Suppressing a sigh containing elements Flint was unwilling to examine, he walked to the curving staircase and mounted the stairs, heading for his office.

The stack of newspapers, national and international, lay on his desk as they did every afternoon. Ignoring the expanse of window, Flint dropped into his chair and picked up the paper on top of the pile. Quickly reading the articles that interested him and skimming the rest, Flint worked his way through the news, as he did each and every day.

He was over halfway through the pile when he clutched the paper, making it crackle. The paper was a New York daily. The name Leslie Fairfield had seemed to jump out at him from midway into a gossip column. His features rigid, Flint carefully read the three-sentence tidbit of information:

Sorry to hear that the incomparable Leslie Fairfield has had to withdraw from the cast of new play
Crossroads
because of illness. Get well and come back soon, Ms. Fairfield. Broadway misses you.

Because of illness.
Flint read the three words again and again. Leslie was ill? A feeling too similar to panic to be tolerated froze his mind. Leslie was ill! Tossing the paper aside, Flint snatched up the phone. He had to talk to her, find out what was... No! Flint shook his head decisively. He had to see her.

Pressing the disconnect button to cancel the longdistance number, Flint then stabbed his finger on the button that would connect him with the phone in his secretary’s office on the floor below.

Less than an hour later, Flint strode through the plate-glass doors at the hotel entrance and across the rain-spattered pavement to the black stretch limousine waiting with motor purring at the curb.

The sound of rain dancing against the windowpane was supposed to be soothing, Leslie thought, sighing as her gaze followed one wet runnel to the outside sill. But she didn’t feel soothed. She felt restless and moody and... Leslie sighed again. She was missing Flint, more, much more than she ever would have believed it possible to miss any one person.

What was he doing, she wondered, staring sightlessly at the gray sky beyond her bedroom window. Did he ever miss her? Leslie’s lips twisted at the sharp pain that gripped her chest. Of course he wasn’t missing her, she chided herself scathingly. If Flint had missed her he’d have called, as he had said he would. Flint hadn’t called, hadn’t attempted to contact her in any way. Flint had had the affair he’d wanted, and he’d obviously enjoyed their two weeks of pleasurable self-indulgence. But by his remote withdrawal on the morning she’d left the hotel he had also made it obvious that their association was over.