Falcon's Flight (17 page)

“My grandfather,” Flint said, his expression softening as he gazed at the portrait. “He practically raised me.”

While Flint stared at the picture, Leslie stared at him. The change in his usually severe expression was startling. Flint’s face was free of strain and his eyes were dark. Gone was the aura of frightening intimidation. His face revealed painful acceptance. Observing him, Leslie felt a surge of love and compassion for the lonely man gazing out of the eyes of the indomitable Flint Falcon.

“You loved him very much,” Leslie murmured, blinking against a rush of tears that had nothing to do with her illness.

“Yes, I loved him very much.” Flint’s lips tilted into a bittersweet smile. “He died three years ago; I think a part of me died with him.” A soft sigh escaped his lips and he continued to speak, softly, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Everything 1 am, everything I have accomplished is a result of his loving care and wise counsel.” He exhaled harshly. “And I don’t even bear his name.”

“But why not?” Leslie asked. But before he could respond, she said, “Oh! He was your mother’s father?”

“No.” Flint reluctantly drew his gaze from the portrait to look at her, the more familiar wry smile curving his lips. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Leslie said in a dry tone. Flint’s lips twitched as he ran his gaze the length of her body reclining on the couch. “No, I don’t suppose you are,” he agreed, grinning at her.

“So indulge me.” Leslie arched her brows imperiously. “Tell me a story.”

His grin widened and his eyes brightened with a teasing gleam. “Well, once upon a time...” he began in the time-honored way.

“Falcon,” Leslie said in a warning tone. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she swung her legs to the floor.

Flint’s amusement vanished. “Leslie, don’t you dare get up!” Springing out of his chair, Flint grasped her legs and swung them onto the couch. “You promised to behave if I brought you downstairs.” His eyes were hard. “Do you want to undo all the progress you’ve made?”

“No.” Leslie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Flint.” Leslie’s eyes filled with the symptomatic tears she had begun to hope were a thing of the past.

“Leslie, don’t cry.” Dropping to his knees, Flint drew her into his arms. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I want you to get well.”

“Oh, Flint!” Hiding her face against his shoulder, Leslie cried softly. “I hate this! I hate feeling weepy and weak and depressed. And I hate taking you away from your work, being a burden on you.”

“That’s enough!” Tilting her face up, Flint stared into her eyes. “You are not taking me from my work. I can run my business very well with the telephone and the periodic trips I make into Atlantic City.” Lowering his head, he caught an escaping tear with his lips. “And you are not a burden,” he murmured against her cheek. Drawing back, he smiled rakishly at her. “The only burden has been being with you, without being
with
you.”

Leslie’s eyes filled again. “I look dreadful,” she moaned. “You couldn’t possibly want me in that way!”

“I want you in every way.” Flint took her mouth with hungry demand, shocking and alarming her.

“Flint!” Leslie cried, pulling away from him. “I’m probably still contagious!”

Flint laughed. “Look at it this way,” he said. “If I get mono, we can recuperate together. At least then we could share the same bed.”

“You’re terrible,” Leslie laughed.

“And you love it,” he retorted.

“Yes, I do,” she admitted, her smile fading. “Because I love you.” The admission had slipped past her guard. Appalled at herself, Leslie stared at him, waiting for his expression to close, locking her out. To her disbelief and wonder, Flint smiled.

“Are you trying to drive me crazy by telling me that now, knowing I can’t drag you off to my bed?” “No.” Leslie lowered her eyes. “I want you to drag me off to your bed.”

“You witchy redhead!” Releasing her, Flint sank back into his chair, laughter exploding from his throat. “I believe you really are trying to drive me crazy.” He stopped laughing abruptly. “The damned thing is, I think you’re succeeding.”

“Am I?” Try as she might, Leslie couldn’t keep the note of hope from her tone.

“Don’t crowd me, darling, let me work this out for myself. Okay?”

Leslie nodded. She had no choice in the matter; the wariness was back in his eyes and in his tone. “Okay, Flint.” Sighing, she settled down against the pillows. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“You already are good; that’s the problem,” Flint muttered. Then his voice turned brisk. “And to help you rest, I’ll tell you a bedtime story.” He smiled wryly. “It’s so boring it’ll probably put you to sleep.” “Try me,” Leslie challenged.

“You were right on target,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “when you called me a bastard.” He went on to explain when she frowned in confusion, “I am legally a bastard. That’s why I never bore my grandfather’s name.”

“Oh, Flint, I’m so sorry!” Leslie said softly.

“I might have been, too, if it hadn’t been for him.” Flint inclined his head toward the portrait. When she frowned again, he smiled. “I’d better begin at the beginning. My father was a geologist and worked for a company with interests all over the world. He met and fell in love with my mother while on assignment in New Mexico.” He paused, then smiled. “My mother is a Navajo and proud of it.”

“Understandably,” Leslie murmured.

“Don’t interrupt,” Flint chided. “At any rate, they fell in love and became lovers. He asked her to marry him. She said yes. But before they had time to make plans my father was given another top-priority assignment. Within a few days he was on his way to South America. The corporate plane he was in flew into the side of a mountain during a severe thunderstorm. He never even knew that my mother had conceived his child.”

“Your mother never saw him again?”

“No,” Flint sighed. “She had received a letter he had written to her the night before he boarded that plane in Rio. And that might have been the last she ever heard of him, except that he had written to his parents as well. And that’s where my grandfather entered the picture.”

Flint turned a gaze at the painting. He was quiet a long time, and when he began talking again it was as if he was speaking to the man he so obviously loved. “In his letter, my father had told his parents about the wonderful young woman he had fallen in love with and was planning to marry as soon as possible. And so, after receiving notification of his death, my grandfather flew to New Mexico. He called my mother

his daughter. They wept in each other’s arms. My mother loved and honored him until the day she died.” “Your mother’s dead, too?”

The sympathy in Leslie’s voice drew his gaze from the portrait. “Yes. She lived long enough to see me graduate from college. She died loving my father.” His gaze drifted back to the painting. “And his father.” “As you did and still do,” Leslie said softly.

“Yes.” Flint looked at her and smiled. “I spent every winter here in New Jersey with my grandparents. The summers I spent with my mother in New Mexico.” His smile deepened. “My mother’s father named me Flint because of the odd color of my eyes.” He laughed softly. “He gave me the name Falcon, too. He said there was a fierce wildness about me from the minute I opened my eyes.”

“Can the Falcon be held?” Leslie asked tightly. Flint’s lips slanted into the familiar wry smile. “The Falcon is wild, you know. Are you sure you want to hold him?”

“Very sure,” she responded immediately. “I’m just not sure how to do it.”

“As with all birds that love to soar,” he murmured, “you hold on to them with open hands.”

Ten

Feeling feisty, are you?”

Leslie glanced up from the script she’d been reading, a brilliant smile illuminating her face. “Flint!” A flush of pleasure gave color to her still slightly pale cheeks. “I didn’t hear you come up the stairs.” “Obviously,” Flint remarked dryly, strolling to the foot of the bed. “Going somewhere?” he asked, pointedly scrutinizing her appearance. Her hair gleamed with highlights, her newly manicured fingernails were tinged with pink polish, her lips shimmered with recently applied gloss. In Flint’s unvoiced opinion, the lipstick was a sure sign of Leslie’s rapidly improving health.

“Well, I had considered joining Donald Trump for lunch,” Leslie replied in a dry tone, casting a significant glance over her nightgowned form ensconced in the bed. “But then this script arrived from my agent—” she held the article aloft “—and I simply forgot about lunch.” Leslie sighed. “I’m sure he’s crushed.”

A teasing smile quirked Flint’s lips. “Serves him right for inviting my lady to lunch in the first plaee,” he observed, mildly amazed at his inner reaction to the bantering remark. Flint was unfamiliar with the uncomfortable sensations aroused by jealousy, yet he identified the emotion immediately. Jealous! Him? Ridiculous. Refusing to acknowledge the mere thought of himself as a jealous lover, Flint walked to the side of the bed to place a large manila envelope by her side.

“What’s this?” Leslie arched her brows and set the script aside.

“The mail that’s been accumulating at your apartment. Marie sent it to my office.” Flint shrugged. “I was going to send somebody down with it, but since I was planning to come down anyway, I decided to hold it and bring it with me.” Flint consoled himself with the fact that at least part of his urbanely delivered statement was true. The literal truth was that he’d been raking his mind for an excuse to visit her. Not that he needed an excuse, he had repeatedly reminded himself; it was, after all, his house. But, for the past seventeen days, ever since Leslie had told him she was in love with him, Flint had kept his distance. It wasn’t that he was hiding out in his aerie in Atlantic City, he assured himself confidently, it was merely that he needed some time to adjust to the change in status between them. Complicating his emotional dilemma was the very real and uncomfortable hunger he had for her, a hunger that increased painfully with each successive visit he made to the house. Flint had decided that it would be more dignified to keep his distance than to abase himself by joining her in her sickbed.

Now, watching in silence as she riffled through her correspondence, Flint experienced a startling but pleasant glow of inner warmth. Leslie was almost well. He could discern shadings of her former vibrance and animation. The sparkle of life was back in her fabulous green eyes. And only now, some four weeks since he’d rushed to her after reading that notice in the gossip column, could Flint acknowledge the depth of alarm he’d felt at the sight of her pale appearance.

Strangely, though he could feel the silken threads beginning to close around him, caging him in, Flint felt no threatening sense of entrapment. Studying Leslie’s rapt expression as she read what appeared to be some sort of invitation, Flint felt relief because of her improving physical condition and an odd but rather pleasant sense of contentment.

“J.B.’s getting married!”

Leslie’s exclamation scattered Flint’s introspective thoughts. “That’s nice. Who’s J.B.?” he asked, smiling in response to the delight shining from her eyes.

“A very caring, thoughtful friend,” she murmured, her eyes growing misty with memory. “I met him in Las Vegas last year. I’m glad he has found someone. I only hope she’s good enough for him.”

Flint could feel his hackles rising as envy of this
caring, thoughtful
friend of Leslie’s started to fill him. Telling himself to cool off, Flint managed to keep his smile in place. “I assume that’s an invitation to the wedding?” He inclined his head to indicate the oversized card in her hand.

“Yes.” Leslie held it out to him. “It’s a Christmas wedding. It should be beautiful,” she said enthusiastically.

“Umm,” he murmured, lowering his gaze to read the elaborate print. The invitation requested the honor of Leslie’s presence at the Christmas Eve candlelight ceremony of marriage to be held in a church in Philadelphia. “It probably will be beautiful,” Flint agreed, handing the invitation back to her.

“I want to go.” Flint stiffened, but before he could respond she grasped his hand and went on, “Flint, please, can we go?”

Her use of the plural
we
was his undoing. Ridiculously pleased by having her link them as a unit, he felt the tension ease out of him and he smiled. “We’ll ask the doctor when you go in for your appointment next week. If he says it will be safe for you to go, I’ll take you to Philadelphia.”

“Oh, Flint, thank you!” Leslie cried, tossing off the covers and flinging herself into his arms.

As a reward, Flint reflected, crushing her warm body to his chest, Leslie’s form of showing gratitude beat breaking the bank at Monte Carlo.

What a Christmas present! Shivering with excitement, Leslie could barely sit still in the limo’s back seat. Moments before, she had fairly danced to the car from her doctor’s office. That wonderful man had pronounced her cured! She didn’t want to sit in regal state inside the black stretch limo; Leslie wanted to run and play!

“I want to go to the casino,” she said imperiously, deliberately banishing the entreating tone that had colored her voice while she’d been weak and ill. She had determined she would not deal with Flint on any other than equal terms. Tilting her head, Leslie gave him an arch look. For all her assumed haughtiness, Flint Falcon took her breath away.

“Really?” he drawled, raising one dark eyebrow. “Any casino in particular?”

Though she did try, Leslie couldn’t maintain her air of cool indifference. She simply felt too, too—
healthy
! “Oh, Flint, I feel so good!” She laughed. “I want to visit every casino, but yours in particular.”

Raising his hand, Flint slid his fingers into the silky strands of her hair, tugging gently to urge her closer to him. “I understand how you feel,” he said, leaning over to touch his lips to her glowing cheek. “But remember, the doctor told you not to overextend yourself. Moderation, Leslie,” he cautioned, drawing her into his arms. “You should conserve your energy. We’ve got that trip up to Philly at the end of the week.”