Falcon's Flight

by Joan Hohl

  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.

  “Leslie?” Flint was obviously puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m probably being imaginative, but...” Leslie smiled without conviction and lowered her voice. “Flint, I believe we’re being followed by those men hovering over there.” She indicated the two men with a brief movement of her head. Her eyes widened in disbelief at the pleasant sound of his soft laughter.

  “I’ll have to talk to my security chief; they’re supposed to be inconspicuous.”

  “You mean they are following us!” Leslie gasped. “Humm.” He nodded once, then turned and continued walking, urging her along by pressing his palm to her back. “They’re my bodyguards,” he explained as she opened her mouth to question him.

  “Bodyguards?” Leslie repeated, stunned and suddenly uneasy. “Why do you need bodyguards?”

  “To protect my body,” Flint replied. Then he added, “My back, primarily.”

  “What from?” she asked, fully aware of the stupidity of her question.

  “Attack. Injury.” Flint shrugged. “Whatever.” Great. Wonderful. Terrific. Leslie shivered as the thoughts tumbled through her mind. Out of all the males frequenting Atlantic City at this particular time, she had singled out a man who required the services of bodyguards! Fantastic. Of course, Leslie hastened to point out to herself, she hadn’t exactly singled him out. Flint Falcon had commandeered her!

  “It’s nothing to go into fits over,” Flint said, slanting a shrewd glance at her expression of consternation.

  “I never have fits.” Leslie’s tone was repressive.

  “Okay,” he shot back with agreeable smoothness, “then it’s nothing for you to be concerned about.” Stopping abruptly, Leslie whipped around to face him. “Really?” she said challengingly. “Since you pay for their services, I must assume you feel a need for the bodyguards. And if you feel that need, then I must assume there is plenty to be concerned about.” She strode away from him, moving toward the entrance of the hotel that had been their destination. Flint’s hand covered hers as she grasped the cold metal bar on the revolving door.

  “Will you listen?” he muttered, pressing his chest to her back in the tiny wedge of space intended for one person. “I’m not concerned,” he continued as they stepped together info the spacious lobby. “My security chief insisted on the guards.” His shoulders moved in a dismissive shrug. “I tolerate them as long as they don’t crowd me.”

  Moving toward the escalator that led to the casino, Leslie spared him a glowering over-the-shoulder glance. “There must be a reason your security chief insisted upon the guards,” she said, her lips tightening in disapproval.

  “Well, of course there is.” Flint was losing patience, and it showed. “Leslie, use your head. I’m in a high-risk business. You knew that from the beginning.”

  So strong was the force of his stare that Leslie nearly missed stepping off the moving stairs when they’d reached the top. Flint’s hands flashed out to steady her when she stumbled slightly. “Thank you,” she muttered ungraciously, veering away from him. She didn’t like it, not any of it. The thought of why he would need bodyguards upset and frightened her. But more than anything else, Leslie was angry.

  She slowed her rapid steps as she approached a bank of dollar slot machines. Leslie felt Flint come to a stop beside her as she fumbled with the catch on her small evening bag. She snagged a nail and cursed in an undertone. Dammit! she wailed inwardly. First the escalator, now this stupid catch! How dare he say she knew he was in a high-risk business from the beginning? He had begun this... this whatever it was, not she!

  “You’re going to play the machines?” Flint’s tone was heavy with disbelief, which merely added fuel to her anger.

  “I’d say that was a pretty dumb question,” she fairly snarled, “since I’m standing directly in front of one.” The silence that ensued was infinitely more frightening than learning about his bodyguards. Already regretting her snide remark and the sharpness of her tone, Leslie suffered his cold silence in remorse.

  “Don’t push your luck, honey.” Flint’s voice was terrifying in its icy softness.

  Feeling the chill to her toes, Leslie didn’t have to be told that he was not referring to the machines or any other games of chance. Tension humming along her nerves, a cloying sense of fear pervading her being, she stood staring sightlessly at the three stilled reels behind the rectangular window on the slot machine. She came to the conclusion that for her Falcon was the biggest gamble in town. In her distraction, Leslie was unaware of her fingers picking at the purse clasp.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, here!” Pulling her hand away from the purse, Flint slapped a hundred-dollar bill into her palm. “Where did you get that bag, Wells Fargo?”

  “I don’t want your money, Falcon.”

  Flint ignored her low, gritty tone and the bill she shoved at him. “I’ve upset you.”

  Trying to collect herself, Leslie crumpled the bill as she curled her fingers into her palm. “Why would you think that?” she sniped in a saccharine tone.

  “Leslie, I’m sorry. I—”

  “/ came to play, remember?” Leslie cut him off, simply because he didn’t sound at all sorry. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Thinking, The hell with it! she held the bill aloft to catch the attention of the change person inside the bank of machines.

  After exchanging the money for dollar tokens, Leslie d
ropped four of the wrapped rolls into the coin tray under a machine and rapped the fifth one sharply against its edge. When the large tokens spilled from the broken wrapper, she immediately fed three into the slot, then pulled the handle jerkily, aware of the man who was leaning against the machine.

  The reels spun, then settled—click, click, click. Nothing. Leslie repeated the process several times with the same results. The greedy machine ate up the first roll of tokens and three-quarters of another without returning even the smallest of hits. Unconcerned, Leslie fed the voracious thing three more tokens.

  “Heavens, this is exciting,” Flint observed, yawning as she yanked on the handle.

  Gritting her teeth to keep from telling him exactly where he could put his observations, Leslie glared at the whirling reels. Her teeth unclenched when the first reel stopped with the double bar on the center pay line. Her breath quickened when the second reel came to a matching halt. Her expression grew superior as the third double bar lined up. Bells rang and the light on top of the machine lit up as the machine began spitting out the payoff of one hundred and fifty tokens. Turning casually, Leslie smiled at Flint. “Actually, I do find it rather exciting, but if you’re bored, please feel free to do whatever excites you.” She raised a hand and moved it to indicate the room.

  Flint was not without humor, and he proved it with a bark of delighted laughter. “Point taken,” he drawled, pushing himself upright. “Tell you what,” he continued, “if you’re going to play the machines awhile, there is someone here I’d like to talk to, not that that will be any more exciting.” He arched an eyebrow quizzically.

  Leslie smiled. “Yes, I’m going to play.”

  “Okay, suppose we meet at the coffee shop in, say, an hour and a half?” Again his eyebrows peaked questioningly.