Falcon's Flight (6 page)

White teeth flashing, Falcon laughed aloud. “Believe me, it’s going to get a helluva lot hotter before this night’s over.”

Leslie stopped walking. Her vision filled by the tall, dark man, Leslie was unaware and unconcerned with the shops that lined the broad expanse of floor space and the hotel guests who strolled the carpet from one glittering display window to the next.

“I wouldn’t make book on that, Mr. Falcon.” Her cool tone gave clear indication that flirtation time was over. Flint had struck a nerve, and she was retaliating. “I do not appreciate being taken for granted.” The bracelet circling her slender wrist shot angry-looking sparks at him as she raised her hand to brush her fingers over the necklace and one earring. “Please don’t make the mistake of thinking these stones have bought you a second of my time, in or out of the bedroom.” Her smile was chiding and cold. “I command an excellent salary, and I’m not for sale.”

“If I believed you were, I wouldn’t be here with you now.” Flint’s eyes were as cold as her tone, their color now almost black. “And I don’t appreciate being taken for a fool, Miss Fairfield.” He was also oblivious of the ebb and flow of those passing by. Capturing her hand, he drew it slowly to his hard-looking lips. The mere brush of his mouth over her fingertips induced an alarming weakness in Leslie. Narrow-eyed, Flint observed the tremor that washed over her when he touched the tip of his tongue to her palm. “There’s an explosive chemistry at work between us. I know it, and so do you. So let’s forget the games.” His tongue flicked out again, eliciting a muffled gasp from Leslie. “I want you. I think I’ve made that obvious. You want me, too... and I know it.”

Suddenly hot and cold and much too aware of where she was, Leslie glanced around and murmured a warning. “Falcon! Someone will hear you!”

“Let them.” His shrug said a lot about his confidence and arrogance. “I haven’t got time to concern myself with what others think. Right now, you’re my major concern.” A smile touched his lips, a smile so blatantly sexy Leslie felt the effect in every inch of her body. “I enjoy the flirtation, darling—it adds an exciting edge to the anticipation. But I have no patience for the game-playing.”

Leslie was breathless and more than a little rattled, yet she’d understood what he’d meant. Flint had said she was his major concern
right now.
And, since absolutely the last thing she was looking for was any kind of permanent relationship, his attitude suited her— didn’t it? Made uneasy by her speculative thoughts, Leslie snatched her hand away from his and lifted her chin in challenge.

“I wasn’t aware of playing games,” she said, “or of trying your patience.”

“You’re playing a game right now,” Flint chided. “I believe it’s called dodge ’em.” He reached for her hand again and anchored it to his side by twining his fingers with hers. “Flirt, darling, tease, darling, but no shadow-dancing, please, darling,” he murmured whimsically. “We’re going to have an affair. We both know it.” He flashed his devil grin at her. “Hell, it’s already started.” He stroked the outer edge of her

hand with his finger, and his grin spread when she

shivered. “Let’s dispense with the talk of buying and

selling and get on with the more important issue of mutual giving. Agreed?”

Nonplussed, Leslie stared at him as he slowly raised one dark eyebrow questioningly. By using the direct approach, Flint had very neatly maneuvered her into admitting the truth. Though slightly irritated by his method, Leslie couldn’t deny a sense of amusement. Subtle Flint Falcon wasn’t, but then he wasn’t devious, either.

Her expression wry, Leslie did the only thing she could do; she gave him a rueful laugh. “Agreed.” Until he heard Leslie say it, Flint refused to recognize the tightness in his chest and the breath caught in his throat. With a sensation close, too close, to amazement, he allowed the breath to ease silently through his lips. “The party,” he said, tugging her along as he strode toward a side corridor. “It’s already in progress.”

Carefully not looking at Leslie, Flint headed for wide double doors at the end of the passageway. She didn’t matter to him, he assured himself, shaking off a crawly, confined feeling. At least she didn’t matter in any meaningful way. His interest was purely physical—exciting, sensual, but purely physical. He might allow her to hold him momentarily but there was no way in hell he’d let her cage him. As he consciously reached for the oversized knob on the wide door, Flint unconsciously tightened his grip around the slender fingers entwined with his.

As Flint swung open the heavy door, Leslie had the sensation of being hit by a wall of sound. Combined music and laughter washed over her in a wave of noise, relieving the tension curling along her muscles and nerves. Leslie was not as a rule a party animal. Yet now she welcomed the clatter, chatter and bang attendant to the celebration. Suddenly she wanted to dance, she longed for a drink, but most of all she needed to remove herself from Flint Falcon for a while.

For the first few minutes after their arrival, chances seemed slim to none for Leslie to break free of Flint’s grip. His expression benign yet remote, his handclasp firm, he made a slow circuit of the large ballroom, acknowledging calls of welcome from some, murmuring pleasantries to others, introducing Leslie to but a few.

Leslie’s opportunity for escape came in the form of two men who simultaneously approached Flint from different directions. One of the men was a stranger to Leslie; the other was a blackjack dealer she recalled meeting in Las Vegas the previous fall. The stranger spoke softly to Flint, and the dealer spoke hesitantly to her.

“Miss Fairfield? I suppose you don’t remember me, but...” The man’s voice faded as Flint leveled a brooding, sharp-eyed look at him.

“Of course I remember you,” Leslie said. “Dale Collins, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Dale smiled with boyish pleasure, and sent a wary-eyed glance at Flint, who frowned.

Beginning to feel like Flint’s possession, and resenting it, Leslie bristled inwardly but smiled brilliantly. “It’s nice to see you again, Dale. You’re working here now?” At his affirmative reply, she continued, “How do you like living on the east coast?”

Dale shrugged. “I really haven’t been here long enough to tell.” He laughed ruefully. “But my wife loves being so close to everything New York has to offer.” Suddenly his eyes lit up. “We were in the audience the night of your last performance. It was terrific—my wife cried.”

“Thank you.” Leslie’s smile was misty. “I cried too.”

“I know.” Dale hesitated, then said, “I know Jan would be thrilled to meet you. I don’t suppose you’d—”

“Is your wife here tonight?” Leslie interrupted.

“Yes.” Dale nodded and motioned to a small group of people seated at a table on the far side of the room. “Would you join us for a drink?”

If Flint had his priorities, so did Leslie; she knew the importance of personal contact with her fans. She didn’t pause before responding. “I’d enjoy that.” Turning to excuse herself, she felt her breath catch at the searing intensity of Flint’s narrowed gaze.

“Going somewhere?” Flint inquired.

Leslie wasn’t fooled by his mild tone; Flint was annoyed by Dale’s offer and her acceptance of it. His attitude, along with the speculative interest of the man who had walked up to talk to him, rankled. Unused to having her actions questioned, Leslie grew rigid...and haughty. She returned his stare with sparks flaring from her green eyes.

“Yes.” Leslie let the one clipped word convey her own annoyance. She’d planned to politely excuse herself and say she’d be right back. Instead she gave him a dismissive smile before turning to accompany Dale to his table.

Watching the smooth line of her gently swaying hips, Falcon experienced an unusual combination of emotions deep in his gut. He was feeling inordinately angry and oddly bereft. But there was another sensation as well—it was almost as if someone had taken his most valued possession. The feeling confused him, for though he wryly acknowledged his need to physically possess Leslie, he knew his
most
valued possession was his fiercely guarded freedom. Shying away from analyzing his feelings, Flint casually returned his attention to the man patiently waiting at his side.

Flint heard every word that the man, who happened to be the head of the hotel’s security force, said to him. At the same time, his expression austere and unrevealing, Flint carefully monitored every move Leslie made, his response inward and concealed.

His lips burned when, after taking a sip of wine, the tip of her tongue flicked at a golden drop shimmering on her lip. His stomach muscles contracted when she laughed at something someone had said. His chest seemed to compress when she tossed her head to flip her flaming mass of hair off one shoulder. But, as he soon learned, the worst was yet to come.

Listening intently to his security chief and giving his usual short, terse replies, Flint felt every muscle in his body tighten when Leslie accompanied a member of Dale’s party onto the dance floor. He felt offended by the smile on her lips; he felt murderous at the way she allowed the man to draw her too tightly into his arms; and as if she were pressed to him, he felt his body quicken and harden in response.

Flint was beginning to sweat where it didn’t show by the time Leslie drifted back to him. “Enjoying the party?” he asked in a pleasant tone, restraining an urge to manacle her slender wrist with his strong fingers.

“Yes, they’re nice people,” Leslie said, raising her eyebrows as she glanced around. “Where is your friend?”

“He’s not a friend; he works for me.” Flint’s dismissive tone ended the subject. “What was Collins talking about?” he asked, introducing another topic.

“When?” Leslie responded coolly, put off by his seeming disregard for an employee.

Leslie’s distant tone sent fresh anger surging through Flint. Amazed at the difficulty he had controlling his temper, Falcon injected a note of casual interest into his low voice. “When he said that he and his wife were in the audience the night you gave your last performance.”

“I’m an actress, Flint,” she explained. “I decided to bow out of the play I was in when I realized it was going stale for me. Dale and his wife were in the audience the night of my last performance.”

“How long were you a member of the cast?” Flint asked with interest.

“Not quite ten months.” Leslie smiled. “I loved it, but I was beginning to feel tired, physically tired, and I thought I’d better withdraw gracefully before it showed in my performance.”

Flint stared at her intently. “You’re feeling all right now?” His voice, though low, had sharpened. “You’re not ill?” Even to himself Flint could not have explained the darting pang of alarm he felt.

“I’m fine.” Leslie laughed. “I’ve worked very hard and I needed a break, that’s all.” Her laughter subsiding, she gave him a pointed look. “I came to Atlantic City to play. Didn’t you mention something about making a brief appearance at this party?”

A wry smile eased Flint’s taut expression. “The casino doesn’t open until tomorrow night,” he said. “But I think I could find another kind of game to amuse you.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could.” Suppressing the excitement his insinuation generated, Leslie gave him a prim look and spun away, heading for the door. He was beside her within two strides, his hand curving about her waist in a proprietary way.

“Where are you going, Red?” he murmured at her ear.

Feeling suddenly young and bubbly and full of expectation, Leslie waited until they had swept from the ballroom before tilting her head to give him a sparkling gaze from her long eyes. Then, her lips almost brushing his jaw, she whispered, “Yours isn’t the only game in town, Mr. Falcon.”

• Four
  
• Seven
  

Four

A
gust of cold wind whipped off the ocean to sweep the boardwalk, swirling bits of paper debris into the air. Clamping one hand onto her wildly flying hair, Leslie burrowed her chin into her collar and silently thanked Flint for insisting they return to his apartment for her coat before leaving the hotel.

Deciding she needed some exercise and a lot of fresh air after the smoky warmth inside the ballroom, Leslie had opted to walk to the hotel-casino, which was situated at the far end of the boardwalk. With the realization of how cold the night wind had grown, she belatedly questioned the wisdom of her decision to walk. While one hand was warmly curled inside her coat pocket, the hand anchoring her hair was cold, as were her ears and the tip of her nose. They were still less than half the distance to their destination, and the fact that she was forced to stop every few feet to tug one or the other of the slim heels on her shoes from between the boards slowed their progress considerably. She was pondering on whether or not to request they stop at the casino they were closest to when Flint brought her to a halt by grasping her upper arm.

“Wait a minute,” he said, turning her as he pivoted to put the wind at their backs.

Frowning, Leslie watched as he yanked a white silk scarf from around his neck, the single concession he’d made to ward off the chill of the late-fall evening while stoically insisting that she don her winter coat. When Leslie had taunted him about the scant protection the scarf would give him, Flint had shrugged and said, “I never mind the cold.”

Now, as he released her arm to capture the flapping end of the scarf, Leslie was inclined to believe him. Flint didn’t look cold or even chilly. His statement was further proved when, after sliding the scarf around her head, his warm fingers brushed the tender skin on the underside of her jaw as he looped one end over the other and tugged gently to fasten it.

“There.” Stepping back, Flint cocked his head to survey his work. “That’ll keep your hair from flying all over the place and keep your ears warm as well.”

“Thank you, but now you have no protec—” Leslie’s voice faded as she caught sight of two men from the corner of her eye. In itself, the presence of men on the boardwalk would not have caught her attention; there were many men and women strolling or rushing along the boards at all hours of the day and night, but Leslie had noticed these two particular men before, moments after she and Flint had left Falcon’s Flight.