Falcon's Flight

by Joan Hohl

  Leslie was standing at the living room window, scarcely aware of the increasing intensity of the rain, when a key was turned in the lock on her apartment < door and Marie stepped into the room. A look of astonishment spread over her face as she caught sight of Leslie.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” Marie demanded, holding a dripping wet umbrella away from her body.

  “I’m tired of lying in bed,” Leslie mumbled, wincing inwardly at the petulant sound of her voice. “I’ll go out of my mind if I have to stay in that bed much longer, Marie!”

  “It’s only been one week, Leslie.” Though Marie sighed, her expression softened. “I know the inactivity grates on you more than most. You’re always on the run,” Marie commiserated. “But Leslie, you’ve got to stop fighting this. You’re only prolonging your recovery.”

  “Yes, I know,” Leslie murmured, acknowledging the wisdom of her friend’s advice. “I’m sorry for causing you so much worry and trouble.”

  Marie scowled. “What trouble?”

  Leslie met her scowl with a soft smile. “This is the third time this week that you’ve stopped by to check on me.”

  “No big deal.” Marie grinned. “My mother-in-law is loving it. She’s spoiling the very devil out of little Tony.” She shrugged, and the movement shook cold drops of rain from the umbrella onto her legs. Marie grimaced and glanced down. “I’d better put this in the sink,” she said, turning toward the small kitchen. “Can I get something for you?”

  The very devil. The phrase bounced around in Leslie’s mind, and a rueful smile shadowed her lips. She had met the very devil—and his name was Falcon. A shiver rippled through her body.

  “Leslie?”

  Marie’s anxious voice pierced Leslie’s distracted thoughts. “Yes?” Blinking, she focused on Marie, who was hovering in the kitchen doorway, brow knitted in alarm.

  “Are you all right?” Marie demanded.

  Leslie caught her lower lip between her teeth. Her behavior was deplorable, and she knew it. She was giving Marie the nervous fits. Crossing the room to her, Leslie grasped Marie’s hand. “Yes, dear friend, I’m all right. I’ve been wallowing in self-pity, and I’m sorry.”

  “You’re the least self-pitying person I know,” Marie protested in a suspiciously husky voice. “Now,” she went on with determined briskness, “how about a snack and a cup of coffee?”

  “Okay,” Leslie whispered, blinking rapidly to contain a fresh surge of tears. “If you’ll let me have it in the kitchen and not that damn bed,” she temporized, smiling and sniffing at the same time.

  Marie shook her head and gave Leslie’s hand a quick squeeze before releasing it and striding into the kitchen. “Boy, you don’t give up, do you?” she chided, setting her umbrella in the sink. Turning around, she leveled a stern look at Leslie’s wan face. “Will you at least sit down!” she exclaimed, shrugging out of her raincoat.

  Positive that Marie would insist she return to bed the moment she’d finished eating, Leslie played for time by nibbling at her snack and raising different topics of conversation. When she ran out of chatter, she stalled by asking for more coffee.

  By her expression, Marie made it clear to Leslie that she was on to her ploy. Still, she went along with it for a few minutes. “I’ll run over next Thursday to bring you dinner,” she said, getting up to refill Leslie’s cup and then beginning to clear the table.

  “Next Thursday?” Leslie repeated blankly.

  Marie rolled her eyes. “Thanksgiving,” she said distinctly. “You do remember Thanksgiving, don’t you?”

  Leslie frowned. “It is next Thursday, isn’t it?” But before Marie could respond, Leslie shook her head vehemently. “No, Marie, it’s not necessary. You’ll have more than enough without worrying about me.” She held up her hand when Marie would have argued. “I know you always have a houseful of relatives for the holiday. You’ll be rushed off your feet. Besides, I have decided to contact an employment agency to hire someone to cook for me for the duration of this blasted illness.”

  “But—”

  “Marie, I’ll be fine,” Leslie insisted. “You just enjoy the day with your family.”

  Marie was quiet as she finished clearing the dishes away. When they were stacked in the dishwasher and the kitchen restored to order, she stared at Leslie. “Speaking about family,” she said. “Have you told your cousin Logan about your illness?”

  “No!” Leslie exclaimed. “I know Logan McKit-trick. If I called him, he and his wife Kit would very likely come tearing from Nevada to New York like a shot.”

  “Well, then, call him!” Marie said urgently. “He’s all the family you have, and you need family now.” “No.” Leslie’s tone was adamant. “I imposed on Logan enough when I went running to him during the divorce. He and Kit aren’t even married a full year, and they have the ranch to run.” Her lips firmed. “I won’t dump my troubles on him, Marie.”

  Knowing it was useless to argue with her friend, Marie subsided with a defeated sigh. “Boy, you certainly are bullheaded,” she groused, then grinned. “But I can be just as determined.” She pointed at the doorway. “Get back to bed,” she ordered in the same stern-parent tone she used to correct her eighteen-month-old son.

  Leslie exhaled dramatically, but gave in nonetheless. “Yes, mother,” she muttered, rising and walking into the living room. She was nearing the short hallway that lead to her bedroom when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Marie called, dashing out of the kitchen.

  Tired but curious, Leslie paused in the hallway door, supporting her body by grasping the frame. Everything inside her seemed to freeze at the sound of the voice she heard when Marie opened the door.

  “I’d like to see Ms. Fairfield, please. The name’s Falcon.”

  Flint stared impassively at the young woman as her soft brown eyes widened in shock. Suppressing a dry smile and his mounting impatience, he waited silently for a response.

  “Ah, hum, Leslie?”

  The stuttering reply tested Flint’s control. “Yes, Leslie,” he said evenly. “She is here?” As he arched one dark eyebrow, he squashed an inner burst of panic. Leslie had to be here!

  “Yes, she’s here, but she’s ill.”

  Flint let his pent-up breath escape on a soundless sigh of relief. “1 know she’s ill,” he replied. “That’s why I want to see her.” Flint very deliberately narrowed his eyes. “May I come in?” His cool tone implied that there’d be hell to pay if she answered negatively. Satisfaction shimmered through him as the young woman backed up, pulling the door open as she did so.

  “Well, I—yes, I guess so.” As he crossed the threshold, she turned to glance over her shoulder. “Leslie, Mr. Falcon is here to see...” Her voiced faded as he walked by her.

  Flint took two long strides into the room, then stopped cold, his narrowed gaze riveted on the woman who appeared to be clinging to the frame of a doorway leading off the living room.

  Leslie! Flint stared at the pale imitation of the vivacious woman who had tormented every one of his hours, waking and sleeping, ever since he had watched her drive away from him five weeks ago. Leslie’s vibrant beauty was now muted, like a bright day suddenly cast into shadow. The creamy skin Flint remembered had a fragile appearance, and her lips were colorless. The long, brilliant green eyes that had teased his memory were now dull and lifeless. The gorgeous flaming mane that he could still feel sliding silkily through his fingers had lost its luster.

  What in God’s name was the matter with her? he wondered, raw fear closing his throat. Flint was immobilized for an instant, gripped by a sense of stunned despair, a sensation he had not experienced since his trial, when he’d faced the jury and heard himself pronounced guilty as charged. At that long-ago time, Flint’s despair had been swiftly overcome by raging anger. Now despair gave way to decisive action.

  Striding to her, Flint caught Leslie’s chin with carefully gentled fingers. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded in a tone made
deliberately harsh to conceal his clawing fear.

  Leslie slowly lifted her chin away from his fingers. “I have mononucleosis,” she answered in a choked voice. “And please don’t ask me which college boy I’ve been kissing.”

  Affected more than he would have believed possible by her rejection of his touch, Flint’s tone grew even more harsh. “I’m not a fool, Leslie. I’m aware of the growing number of diagnosed cases of mono in young adults and even middle-aged persons.” His frown was fierce. “What I want to know is why aren’t you in a hospital? You look awful.”

  “Thanks,” Leslie muttered resentfully.

  “Her doctor wanted to hospitalize her,” the browneyed woman offered, “but she refused to go.”

  Flint glanced at the smaller woman, then back at Leslie with brows raised questioningly. Leslie responded to the prompt.

  “Marie, as you already know, this is Flint Falcon.” Staring into his eyes, she said, “Flint, my dearest friend, Marie Ferrini.” Performing the introductions seemed to exhaust her. Alarm spread throughout Flint’s body. It didn’t show.

  “You’re caring for Leslie, Marie?” he asked, fighting hard to remain calm.

  “No.” Marie shook her head. “I stop in to see how she’s doing.”

  Flint’s lips tightened as he turned back to Leslie, but before he could comment, she jumped to her friend’s defense.

  “Marie has her own family to care for.” She glared at him for a moment, reminding him vividly of the Leslie who’d shared his bed. Then the glitter in her green eyes faded, her lashes fluttered down and she sagged against the doorframe, scaring him into a fury.

  “You’re alone here?” he asked too softly.

  The answer came from the woman behind Flint. “Yes, and she shouldn’t be alone. She won’t rest. I swear she needs a keeper.”

  “She just got one,” Flint said with hard finality.

  Leslie’s eyes flew open. “1 can take care of myself!”

  “Oh, sure,” Flint retorted grittily, “about as well as an hour-old infant.” His lips twisted. “Lord, Leslie, you should see yourself. You look ready to fold up.” He turned away as she opened her mouth to argue. “I’m taking her with me,” he informed Marie in a flat tone. “I’d appreciate it if you’d help her pack some things.”

  “No!”

  Leslie’s protest went unheard by the man and woman staring at each other.

  “You’ll take care of her, make her rest?” Marie finally asked, apparently satisfied with whatever she saw in his expression.

  “No.” Leslie tried again and was again ignored.

  “You have my word,” Flint said firmly. Then a near-smile twitched his lips. “But, in addition to my word, if you’ll give me your number I’ll keep you informed as to her progress.”

  “No,” Leslie moaned, turning her face to the wood frame.

  “I’ll help her get ready,” Marie said, moving around him to go to Leslie.

  Nine

  You look awful. Ensconced in luxurious warmth in the back seat of the limo, Leslie listened to the swishing song of the tires on the rain-washed highway in a vain attempt to blot out the recurring sound of Flint’s harsh voice echoing in her tired mind.

  Why had he come to her now? she cried silently, burrowing into the silky fur lap robe Flint had so solicitously tucked around her after carrying her from her apartment to the car. Fur! The fingers clutching the robe flexed, digging into the sumptuous pelt. And not just any fur or fake fur, Leslie thought resentfully. Not just any common ordinary fur for Flint Falcon’s comfort while traveling. His lap robe was fashioned of Russian lynx—silver, of course—which complemented the limo’s black interior.

  Why had he come to her now, when she looked awful? And why had he swept her away from New York after solemnly promising Marie he’d take care of her? Not once since their affair ended had Flint bothered to contact her. Why was he bothering now, when she looked and felt awful? The questions played leapfrog with the echo of Flint’s harsh voice, exhausting her. The only answer that presented itself exhausted her even more.

  Pity. The hateful word stabbed at Leslie’s mind, and she flinched as if from a physical blow. She could not tolerate pity!

  “Are you in pain?”

  Leslie flinched again at the sound of Flint’s voice. He was so near, seated so close to her in the roomy car that she could feel his thigh through the thick pile on the robe, so close and yet so far away. His nearness was the reason for her tightly shut eyes.

  “Leslie, are you in pain?”

  A demand for response underlined Flint’s low tone, a demand her weakened resistance was not up to challenging. Refusing to look at him or answer vocally, Leslie moved her head back and forth against the seat, silently rejecting his presence and the compassion evident in his voice. She didn’t want or need his damned pity or his compassion or his elegant black limousine with its ostentatious lap rug! Not now, when she could not meet him on equal terms, with equal strength.

  Why had Marie abandoned her to him? The cry rang inside Leslie’s head like the bewildered wail of a lost child. She had wept in the privacy of her bedroom, pleading with Marie to send Flint away. But, murmuring soothing words of assurance, Marie had bustled around, packing a suitcase, coaxing Leslie into slacks and a sweater, ignoring her pleas. She had stopped weeping when Marie had opened the bedroom door to call “She’s ready” to Flint.

  Hurt by her friend’s betrayal, angered by Flint’s arrogant imperiousness and drained of her last reserves of strength, Leslie retreated into resentful silence, refusing to respond in any way, even to Marie’s fierce hug and tearfully whispered goodbye when the limo glided to a stop in front of Marie’s apartment. Leslie had maintained her silent withdrawal throughout the hour they had been traveling since then, while inwardly screaming in protest.

  “I know you’re awake.” Flint’s quiet tone held infinite patience. “And 1 know you’re angry with me for taking over the way I did.” His sigh was barely perceptible, yet Leslie heard the long-suffering sound of it and her temper flared. “But, dammit, Leslie, what else could I do?”

  Leslie didn’t hear the odd, frightened note in Flint’s voice. In her anger and her weakened condition, what she thought she heard was the lashing out of a man who felt himself trapped. “No one expected or asked you to do anything,” she said in the coldest tone she could muster. “But right now you could have your driver turn around and take me home.” Leslie had not given him the courtesy of opening her eyes to look at him while she spoke. Compounding the insult, she turned her face away from him. She clenched her teeth when she heard him sigh again.

  “I can’t do that,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “We’ve got a long drive ahead. I suggest you try to sleep.”

  Sheer fury tore through Leslie, and with it a burst of energy. Her lashes swept up and the fire of rage glittered in her green eyes. Her voice was heavy with disdain.

  “And I suggest that you go to hell, Mr. Falcon.” “I’ve been there.” Flint’s face was expressionless except for the wry smile that curved his thin lips. “It’s a small place,” he went on softly, “enclosed by three solid walls and a fourth made of bars.”

  Leslie immediately felt ashamed and would have apologized if he’d given her time, but he didn’t.

  “Go to sleep, Leslie.” A flick of his hand indicated the space he’d put between them. “There’s plenty of room for you to stretch out and get comfortable.” Swallowing against the lump of abject misery lodged in her inflamed throat, Leslie turned her head away again, this time in humiliation. Yet, resentment of his high-handedness burned within her and, determined not to fall asleep, she ignored his invitation to get comfortable. The minutes and miles spun by as Leslie fought the growing weight of her eyelids, but sleep claimed the final victory, easing her pain by possessing her consciousness.

  The cessation of movement woke Leslie. Her body cramped, her mind confused, she stared at the dark tinted window. Where was she? Attempting to focus her
bemused thoughts, she glanced around. A sense of relief and pure joy unfurled inside her as her gaze came to rest on Flint.

  “Hello,” he said, smiling gently. “We’re here.” Here? Where? Leslie wondered. Then, in a rush, her senses cleared, her mind focused and reality slammed

  into her joy, shattering it into sharp shards of piercing disappointment.

  “And where,” she asked in a pain-dulled tone, “is here?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Flint said briskly, pushing the door open. “Right now, I want to get you into the house and into bed.” He stepped out of the car, issuing a terse order she couldn’t hear to a person she couldn’t see.

  A moment later, the door next to her swung open and Flint leaned inside to carefully gather her into his arms, fur lap robe and all. Then, as carefully, he backed out of the car. Knowing it would be useless to do either, Leslie didn’t struggle or protest.

  It was dark and still raining, and to Leslie’s wide-eyed surprise Flint’s driver walked beside them, sheltering her beneath a large golf umbrella. Positioned between Flint and the driver, Leslie could see little except the outline of several buildings. But she could hear the sound of the surf and smell the distinct scent of the seashore. In that instant Leslie realized they were somewhere along the Jersey coast and, in all probability, not far from Atlantic City. Flint confirmed her conclusion when he dismissed the driver as he stepped through the open doorway into a house.

  “Thanks, Rod,” he said, glancing at the man over Leslie’s head. “I won’t need you anymore tonight. You may return to Falcon’s Flight.”

  Leslie didn’t hear the man’s soft response; she was too busy studying the man and woman standing inside the small foyer. The man was small and slim, with shrewd eyes behind the dark-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his long, thin nose. The woman was tall and full-figured, with bright hazel eyes glowing in her smooth, attractive face.

  “Is everything prepared?” Flint asked the man. “Exactly as you ordered, Flint,” the man replied at once. “Mrs. Knox has everything under control,” he said, turning toward the woman.