by Joan Hohl
“Fine.” Leslie checked her watch.
Leslie absently scooped tokens from the tray as she watched Flint walk away, his back straight, his head held at a high, superior angle. Flint Falcon was certainly worth the watching, she decided, in more ways than one. Expelling a soft sigh, she turned back to the machine when she lost sight of him.
As a rule, as she had explained to her friend Marie, Leslie could lose herself, shrug off all her nagging cares and considerations, by immersing herself in casino play. But for some reason that evening proved to be the exception. Once started, it seemed the machine was hell-bent on depositing every token in its drum into the coin tray. All manner of bar combinations aligned on the payoff line—a phenomenon that generally would have fascinated Leslie. But, though the tray filled to the edge with tokens, Leslie just couldn’t work up much enthusiasm.
It was all Flint Falcon’s fault, she mused dejectedly, transferring the tokens from the tray to a large plastic container supplied by the change attendant. She’d come to Atlantic City to unwind, and thoughts of Flint had her more keyed up than she’d been in weeks, or maybe months, or even forever!
Bodyguards, for heaven’s sake! Leslie thought, barely noticing the crush of people as she carried the heavy container to the coin-exchange window. What was she doing with a man who required bodyguards? she asked herself, watching disinterestedly as a casino employee dumped the tokens into a counting machine and numbers started mounting on the attached device. Even when the numbers stopped to reveal a total of six hundred and seventy-two dollars, Leslie couldn’t dredge up more than a faint smile. She did, however, respond politely when the employee offered his congratulations along with the crisp bills he very carefully counted out before sliding them across the counter to her.
Now what? Leslie wondered, desultorily stashing the bills into her purse. Glancing at her watch, she sighed, then went still as the soft sound registered on her astounded mind. She was bored! She, Leslie Fairfield, the woman known to derive delight and genuine release from tension by playing at the games of chance, was bored, and she had barely started! And all because of a man! It was downright demoralizing.
Drifting along the aisles in the slot-machine section, occasionally dodging a cluster of people grouped around a single machine, Leslie pondered her distracting problem—namely, Flint Falcon—and exactly how she had managed to get herself into such a predicament in the first place.
For a time, Leslie tried to deny responsibility by maintaining she’d had little choice in the matter; Flint had literally swooped down on her the instant she’d stepped into his blasted hotel. But honesty wouldn’t allow her to continue thinking along that line, simply because she knew she had the option of walking away from him.
So, Leslie asked herself as she moved toward the table games, why not walk away from him?
She quickly answered her silent query. Flint Falcon was the most interesting man she had run across in years—not to mention the single sexiest man she had ever run across! Leslie sighed again and accepted the fact that she wanted to be with Flint in every sense of the term be with.
Okay, so accept all of it, Leslie silently advised herself, pausing a few moments to watch the play at a crowded, noisy craps table. Accept his forcefulness, the dark aura of power surrounding him, the unsettling sense of frightening excitement that emanates from him and the damned bodyguards.
Moving away from the table, Leslie didn’t even hear the shout of victory from a man who had tossed the dice for an important win. She was too involved with listening to the thundering sound of her own increased heartbeat for, having once again glanced at her watch, she realized it was time to meet her fate—in the dark form of Flint Falcon.
Flint was waiting for her, propped with deceptive indolence against the coffee-shop wall. He had been waiting for thirty-odd minutes. Impatience abraded Flint’s nerves, impatience with Leslie and with himself, but mostly with the inner need he felt for her, a need that had been growing at a steady rate into a voracious hunger.
Although Flint had sought out the man he’d wanted to talk to, in actual time he hadn’t spent more than ten minutes conversing with him. Flint had filled the long interval by wandering around the huge casino, his expression forbidding as he fought a silent, inner struggle with himself.
The conflict within Flint was at his most basic, most vulnerable level. In some insidious way, a way Flint couldn’t—or wouldn’t—as yet comprehend, his emotions were getting all tangled up with his desires in regards to Leslie Fairfield. And try as he might to dismiss other than physical considerations of her, his wary emotions kept getting in the way.
Leslie was just another in a long line of women, Flint told himself repeatedly while strolling from the tables to the machines and back to the tables again. And, though his piercing gaze swept the faces of the assortment of females, he also repeatedly assured himself he wasn’t looking for one female face in particular.
By the time Flint propped his body against the coffee-shop wall, he was ready to admit to a feeling of testy impatience. He was also ready to admit that he had been lying to himself. And by the time he spotted Leslie drifting toward him, looking as delicious and inviting as an oasis in the middle of a scorched, parched desert, he was ready to admit that Leslie was not just another in a long line of women. Flint wasn’t ready to examine, never mind admit to, why he felt differently about Leslie.
Freedom, his own personal freedom, headed the list of values in Flint Falcon’s life; all others came below it in order of their importance. If necessary, Flint was prepared to fight, even die, to maintain his freedom. Yet since meeting Leslie, since wanting Leslie, his sense of absolute freedom had felt strangely threatened. Therein lay the cause of Flint’s inner conflict. Flint wanted his freedom. Flint also wanted Leslie. He resolved the inner war by convincing himself he’d have both—his freedom on a permanent basis, Leslie temporarily. Pleased by the resolution, Flint greeted Leslie with a smile and felt every muscle in his body contract when she smiled back.
“Did you win?”
Unable to avoid applying his question to her struggle with her doubts about her association with him as well as to her gambling luck, Leslie’s smile slipped into a satisfied grin. “Yes. Did you locate the man you wanted to talk to?”
“Yes.” Flint inclined his head to indicate the coffee shop. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” When Leslie answered with a quick negative shake of her head, he said, “Would you like to go into one of the lounges for a drink?”
“No, thank you,” she replied, waiting for whatever he suggested next.
Flint’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Would you like to go on to another casino?”
“No.” Leslie smiled and waited, feeling excitement begin to hum along her veins at the speculative expression that came into his face.
“Would you like to return to Falcon’s Flight?” Although he didn’t add “and to my apartment—and my bedroom,” he really didn’t need to; the suggestion was woven through his low, sensual voice. Leslie didn’t hesitate an instant.
“Yes,” she said at once, tired of the games.
It was not until Leslie was standing on the broad landing inside the apartment, breath suspended in awe as she gazed at the panoramic sweep of star-studded night sky afforded by the window wall, that she gave a thought to the bodyguards.
“What happened to your shadows?” she asked, her breathing resuming at an alarming rate as Flint set the lock on the door.
“I told them to catch the next available cab,” he murmured, sliding his hand beneath the heavy mass of her hair as he came up behind her.
“I’ll bet that made them happy.” Leslie shivered at the feather-light touch of his fingers on her nape. The shiver intensified at the sound of his soft chuckle.
“It probably didn’t, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to share our cab with them.” His free hand slid around her waist, drawing her tingling spine into contact with his hard chest. “Forget them, darling. They’re ex
perts. They won’t bother you.”
“Merely knowing they’re around bothers me,” Leslie sighed, savoring his endearment as she let her head rest against his solid strength.
“They’re not here,” Flint murmured at her ear. “We’re completely alone.” He touched the tip of his tongue to her temple. “Or does that bother you even more?”
Leslie was too honest to be less than forthright. “I won’t insult your intelligence by lying to you, Flint.” She shivered again as his tongue stroked the skin at her hairline. “I am—” she swallowed a gasp as his palm moved slowly over her rib cage “—nervous about this arrangement.”
“Why?” Flint’s tone was tinged with genuine puzzlement. His hand found one already aching breast and felt the evidence of arousal in the hardening crest. “We’re both mature, experienced adults,” he reasoned. “What is there for you to be nervous about?” Leslie closed her eyes as his hand grasped her hair to expose her nape, and bit back a moan when his lips caressed the vulnerable skin. “I—I’m unaccustomed to indulging in affairs,” she gasped, shuddering in response to his fingers stroking the taut material shielding her breast. “Besides that fact, I haven’t been with a man in over a year,” she admitted in a breathless rush. “And I’m feeling more than a little uncertain about what I’m doing here.”
Flint went still for a moment before, stepping back, he turned her to face him. “Why?” His voice combined amazement and curiosity.
Thinking he referred to the last part of her explanation, she said, “I told you, I’m unaccustomed...” Her voice faded as he shook his head.
“I don’t mean that,” he said, dismissing her attempt at elaboration. “Why haven’t you been with a man in over a year?”
Surprised by the tight, oddly excited inflection in his voice, Leslie stared at him in utter confusion. His impatient “Answer me!” brought her to her senses.
“Because I went through a rather nasty divorce a year ago,” she snapped, whirling away from him to descend the stairs into the living room. As she neared the center of the large room, Leslie felt him behind her and she spun around to face him again. “I haven’t been having particularly kind thoughts about men in general during the past year,” she said, revealing hidden bitterness she had thought she’d put behind her. She tried a careless shrug and failed miserably. “Unkind thoughts are not conducive to love affairs,” she said, smiling dryly, “which I’m unaccustomed to indulging in, anyway.”
The sensuous mood was broken, at least temporarily. Leslie knew it and, judging by his expression, so did Flint. His lips slanting in a wry smile, he sauntered to the ornately carved credenza.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, opening the long cabinet to reveal a well-stocked bar and a small refrigerator.
“Will I need it?” Leslie’s question earned her a flashing grin from Flint, a grin so blatantly sexy she suddenly tensed with anticipation again.
“If you mean as fortification to face what is definitely going to happen later, then no, you don’t need it.” Flint’s grin softened into a smile. “There’s no hurry, Leslie. We have all the time you require. Now can I get you a drink?”
“Will you be joining me?”
“Of course.”
“Then yes, please. I’ll have a glass of white wine.”
After pouring out two glasses of wine, Flint led Leslie to the long couch positioned in front of the window wall. He waited until she was comfortably seated, then handed her a glass before sitting down beside her and draping his arm around her shoulders. Sipping the wine, Leslie steeled herself for the questions about her marriage and subsequent divorce that she felt positive were coming. She nearly choked on her wine when Flint finally spoke.
“So tell me,” he invited softly, “what do you think of the view?”
Sputtering, laughing, Leslie cradled her wineglass protectively and stared into his gleaming dark eyes. He is a devil, she decided, catching her breath, an enchanting, beguiling devil of a man. And all the more dangerous for it!
“The view is spectacular and you know it.” Leslie’s voice revealed the delight she found in him; somehow she didn’t care.
Flint obviously did care. The deep, exciting sound of his appreciative laughter was nearly her undoing. “Of course 1 know the view’s spectacular,” he admitted, “but the question did break the tension, didn’t it?”
“Okay, 1 give up.” Emitting a dramatic sigh, she settled in for the inquisition. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Flint responded immediately, surprising himself more than her. “Start at the beginning and take it from there.”
Giving him a prim look, Leslie projected herself into the role of a young girl, about to render her first public recitation. “I was born thirty-seven years ago in a small town in—” That was as far as he allowed her to go.
“Leslie.” Flint’s voice was low and tinged with amusement, but it also held a hint of warning. Leslie decided on prudence and took the hint.
“I always wanted to be a stage actress,” she said abruptly. “I wanted it so much I could sometimes taste it.” She paused in case he cared to comment, but Flint merely nodded. For some ridiculous reason, Leslie felt gratified by his understanding. After moistening her dry throat with a sip of wine, she went on, “I never even missed, let alone minded, the sacrifices made in pursuit of my dream. I rarely dated, I seldom went to parties or other social functions, I didn’t go to college and I never even considered marriage until I was thirty-two years old.” Again she waited for a comment from him; again Flint had none to make. “By the time I met him I was established, reasonably successful, more than financially solvent and a prime pushover for a golden-haired, godlike actor capable of wringing tears from an audience with his delivery of Hamlet’s soliloquy.” This time when Leslie paused, Flint did have a comment, which consisted of one succinct word.
“Him?”
“Bradford Quarrels, the theatrical darling of New York and London,” Leslie said wryly, “and the boy wonder of almost any lady’s bedroom.” Her smile was self-mocking. “The first fact I knew before I met him.”
“And the second fact?” Flint prompted.
“I refused to acknowledge until the day he told me he was leaving me.” Leslie frowned into her glass. The wine was getting to her, inducing a heaviness in her limbs and eyelids. She yawned delicately before adding, “Brad’s confession of infidelity was the final in a series of stunning blows.”
“Blows?”
Leslie blinked at him. How, she wondered, had Flint managed to convey such tightly controlled fury in the utterance of one small word? The answer sprang into her mind even as the question was unrolling. “Oh! I didn’t mean physical blows,” she hastened to assure him. “Brad never raised a hand to me.” Her smile was faint. “It probably would have been easier to take if he had... bruises heal rather quickly.”
Flint’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’d better explain that.”
Leslie felt tired and sleepy. She didn’t want to dredge it all up again, relive the hurtful memories, but Flint was staring—no, glaring—at her, waiting, and she knew he’d persist until she told him everything. Her sigh was soft but heartfelt.
“He is really an excellent actor, you know. He told me that the only time I was interesting and attractive was while I was onstage, playing a role. He said I was an uninspired and uninspiring partner in bed, which accounted for his need to seek excitement elsewhere, beginning with the second day of our honeymoon.” Leslie tried to smile; the effort defeated her.
“And you believed him?” Flint’s voice was raw with disbelief and anger.
“At the time, yes.” Flint opened his mouth, but Leslie forestalled his protest. “Please try to understand,” she pleaded. “I loved and trusted him. I had convinced myself that we were the perfect match—a meeting of minds, talent and emotions. I completely believed the part he had chosen to play for me... that of charming, intelligent, companionable friend and lover. I bought the whole
nine yards. The occasional hints dropped in the trade papers I dismissed as vicious gossip, and although most of my friends knew the philandering bastard Brad really was, they thought to shield me by keeping silent. So yes, Flint, I believed every word and for a while I was devastated.”
“What did you do?” Flint’s voice was so soft, so gentle, it brought tears to her eyes.
“I fell apart and ran away.” Leslie blinked again.
“Where did you run to?”
“To the same place and person I’d been running to all my life whenever I needed help.” Leslie managed a genuine if weary smile. “I have an older cousin. He has always been my friend and champion.” She laughed softly in remembrance. “He offered to go to New York and relieve Brad of his skin, a narrow strip at a time.”
“Sounds to me like your cousin’s got his priorities straight,” Flint observed in dry agreement. “But of course you wouldn’t allow it?”
“Of course not,” Leslie concurred, settling her head against the back of the sofa. “But I must admit I was tempted.” Her voice had lowered to a sleepy murmur.
“I must admit, so am I.”
“He’s not worth the effort. You’d only dirty your hands on the slimy jerk.” Leslie lost the battle against her heavy eyelids. A soft sigh breathed through her lips as her body relaxed. The glass in her fingers tilted precariously. “I had heard that confession was good for the soul,” she muttered. “But I had no idea it was so very exhausting.”
“Careful, Red,” Flint murmured, plucking the glass from her limp hand, “you don’t want to stain that dress.”
Leslie was poised on the edge of sleep, teetering uncertainly. She had the vague feeling that she should remain alert, she just couldn’t remember why. Flint resolved her dilemma in the most comforting way; he drew her into the protective warmth of his arms. She heard his voice as if from a great distance as she snuggled into a deeper embrace.
“Sleep, darling. Nothing will hurt you here,” Flint whispered against her silky hair. “Not even me.”