Falcon's Flight

by Joan Hohl

  “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.”

  “I know.” Sighing, Leslie snuggled into his hard strength. Lifting her head, she gazed into his unusual eyes and got lost in the blue-gray depths. “Okay,” she murmured dreamily. “I’ll settle for an hour and a half at one casino—yours. Deal?” His soft laughter added an element of anticipation to her excitement.

  “It’s a deal,” he agreed, brushing his lips over hers. “And when you’ve finished playing, we’ll have a long, relaxing dinner—” he paused to give her a slow smile “—in my apartment.”

  It was not yet two in the afternoon and the casino was packed. Meandering aimlessly through the large room, Leslie felt mildly surprised by her lack of interest in the play around her. Where was the old thrill of anticipation she had expected to feel? she wondered. She had always been able to divorce herself from stress by stepping into any casino. And though she was feeling strong and well again, she was tense. Leslie fully realized that when the doctor released her from his care, he had in effect released her from Flint’s care as well.

  It was time for Leslie to go home, back to her own apartment and back to work. She had infringed on Flint long enough. Glancing around the casino, Flint’s casino, a smile curved Leslie’s lips. She didn’t need this avenue of escape any longer, she thought, turning toward an exit. She had done a lot of growing during the past year, most of it within the weeks she’d spent confined to bed. She loved Flint with every beat of her heart, but if it didn’t work out for them she knew she would not fall apart. It would hurt, but she would survive—without an escape hatch.

  Suddenly eager to get on with her life, Leslie strode from the casino to the lobby, where Flint had said he’d be waiting for her. She needed to call Marie and her agent, and she needed to be with Flint, because she really didn’t know how much time she had left to be with him. She decided that it would be extremely stupid of her to waste precious moments by playing games.

  Flint was waiting for her exactly where he’d said he would be. He greeted her with a smile that caused a major flurry in her midsection. “Lose all your money already?”

  “No.” Leslie returned his smile and slid her arm through his. “I’d like to make a few phone calls in private, and I want that dinner you promised me
.” She tugged on his arm to get him moving in the direction of the elevator. “Besides, there are too many people in there.”

  “Bite your tongue, woman,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, there can never be too many people in my casino.”

  Leslie gazed around at the very elegant interior and the mass of people jostling for position to register at the desk. “It’s already a smashing success for you, isn’t it?” she asked, returning her gaze to his face.

  “Yes.” Flint didn’t smile, and his tone was without inflection, yet Leslie could sense his satisfaction. She did smile, brightly, sincerely.

  “I’m glad.” And she was, even though she knew that Falcon’s Flight, and-what it represented to Flint, was more of a rival than the most enchanting of other women.

  Stepping into Flint’s apartment gave Leslie a warmer sense of homecoming than she’d ever experienced on returning to her own place. Fighting a growing melancholy, she kept her smile bright and her step light. Tossing her purse onto a chair, she walked directly to the phone, arching her brows at Flint as she reached for the receiver. “May I?”

  Heading for the stairs, Flint paused to slant a wry smile at her. “Of course,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time. “I’ll order our dinner from my office phone.”

  Marie was delighted to hear of Leslie’s complete recovery. Her agent was delighted to hear that Leslie was ready to go back to work and that she loved the script he’d sent to her. Leslie was delighted that everyone was delighted. She was inwardly battling encroaching depression.

  Dinner was long and relaxing and utterly delicious. The wine was crisp and refreshing. Flint’s eyes were dark with unspoken promises that set off tiny fires in Leslie’s body that thoroughly consumed her feeling of mellow well-being.

  Gazing into his face, Leslie sighed and held out her arms to him. At that moment she loved him so much, wanted to be part of him so badly, that her bones ached.

  “If you don’t come over here and kiss me at once,” she whispered, “I’m afraid I might have a relapse.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of that.” Flint was out of his chair and bending over her before he’d finished speaking. “You’re like a moody child when you’re ill,” he teased, his hands gentle as he drew her out of her chair and into his arms. “And, though the child is adorable,” he murmured as he lowered his head to hers, “I much prefer the woman.”

  Flint’s mouth was tender yet hungry on hers. His hands moved lightly but restlessly over her quivering body. His heart pounded against hers. Releasing her mouth, he swept her up into his arms and strode toward the stairs.

  “I vowed I wouldn’t rush you,” he said in a strained voice as he walked into his bedroom and nudged the door shut with his heel. “And the last thing I want is to upset you,” he muttered, settling her in the center of the bed and covering her body with his. “But, God, Leslie, it’s been two months, and I’ve discovered I don’t handle celibacy well,” he groaned against her lips.

  Two months! Leslie’s spirits soared with hope. Flint had not been with a woman since the day their affair ended! And she was certain he had not remained celibate because of a lack of opportunity; Leslie had witnessed his effect on women. Bubbliftg with happiness, melting with love for him, she clasped his head with her hands and drew his mouth to hers.

  “You want to know a secret?” she murmured, brushing her lips over his. “I’ve very recently discovered that I don’t handle celibacy well, either.”

  Flint’s soft, sexy laughter sent tingles of excitement scurrying through her body, his stroking touch engulfed her in flames, his kiss sent her senses whirling out of control. Everything that was Leslie was Flint’s, her body, her mind, her soul.

  Freely, joyously, Leslie helped Flint cast off the barrier of their clothing. Then, sighing her pleasure in surrender, she helped him join their bodies in the ancient, most sacred celebration of life.

  A twelve-foot blue spruce blazing with hundreds of tiny white lights stood majestically next to the choir section. A profusion of poinsettia plants flanked the candlelit altar. The organ vibrated with chords of a traditional song about love and devotion. The setting was perfect for the most solemn of vows to be exchanged between a man and a woman. Leslie’s eyes were misty with tears.

  The magnificent old Philadelphia church was rapidly filling with elegantly attired guests, none of whom came close to equaling the man seated beside Leslie. Loving Flint more deeply with each successive day, Leslie was profoundly moved by her surroundings and the occasion requiring her presence in the church.

  A low murmur rippling through the guests drew her attention. Blinking to clear her vision, Leslie glanced around. A soft smile of recognition curved her lips and grew to a smile of delight as her gaze came to rest on a tall, lovely young woman with hair the shade of spun silver. The woman was glowing with pregnancy. The tall, rugged-looking man at her side was beaming with pride.

  “Well, I’ll be—1” Flint exclaimed in a hushed tone. “Do you know them?” Leslie asked in a shocked whisper.

  “Not very well,” Flint responded, watching their progress. “I bought my Lake Tahoe casino from the woman. I was never formally introduced to the man.” Flint frowned. “Do you know them?”

  “Yes,” Leslie whispered. “The proud papa-to-be is my cousin, Logan McKittrick. The woman is his wife and my friend, Kit.”

  “I knew their names,” Flint drawled. “They appear to be very happy,” he went on, slowly, almost reluctantly. “When did they get married?”

  “A year ago,” she murmured, raising her hand slightly to acknowledge the couple’s surprised but pleased reaction as they noticed her. Their startled expressions made it clear that they recognized Flint as well. The usher seated the couple in the pew directly in front of her, and Leslie was leaning forward to murmur a greeting when a stronger rustle moved through the guests. Curious, Leslie glanced around, a warm smile again touching her lips.

  The man and woman would have created a stir in any crowd. The man was extremely tall and extraordinarily handsome, with bronzed skin and a shock of gold hair on his head and a thin line of a gold beard on his firm jaw. The woman was much smaller, her delicate beauty framed by a waist-long mane of shimmering jet-black hair. Yet what drew female sighs were the two identical black-haired infants solemnly gazing at the assemblage out of wide dark-brown eyes.

  “You know them also?” Flint murmured, noting her nod of greeting.

  “The man,” Leslie said. “He is Kit’s half brother, Zackery Sharp. I’ve never met his wife. Her name is Aubrey.”

  “Lovely.”

  Leslie turned to face him, eyebrows arched. “The woman or her name?”

  “Both.” Flint’s lips twitched. “They also appear very happily married.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” she drawled. Before Flint could retaliate, Kit was turning in her seat to whisper to Leslie.

  “The man being seated on the other side is the bride’s brother. His wife is the matron of honor,” she said in a whisper, offering Flint a charming smile. Leslie saw Flint smile in return as she swiveled to look at the new arrivals.

  The tall, dark-haired man came darned close to matching Flint in the appearance of imperious intimidation. He was handsome in an aristocratic, patrician way.

  “Another happily married duo?” Flint wondered aloud.

  “He certainly looks smug and content,” Leslie whispered sweetly.

  “Umm,” he murmured, glancing away. “And who’s this?” he asked a moment later. “A young mother without a husband in tow?”

  Leslie shifted her interested gaze to the beautiful auburn-haired woman being ushered down the aisle, a baby girl of about six months held securely in her arms. An older, fiercely erect woman walked by her side.

  Obviously having overheard Flint’s comment, Kit turned in the pew to offer enlightenment and a gentle reprimand. “Her name is Barbara, Mr. Falcon. The other woman is her Aunt Ellie. The baby’s name is Rita. The husband is no
t in tow because he’s the best man. He’s also my other half brother, the other half of a matched set—Zackery’s twin, Thackery, the groom’s best friend.” Losing the battle against a smile at the sound of her husband’s soft laughter, Kit settled herself decorously on the pew.

  “Zackery and Thackery?” Flint repeated. “Oh, good grief!”

  From in front of Flint came a choking noise; then Logan’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Within seconds, Flint’s shoulders were duplicating the action. Leslie and Kit scolded simultaneously, if softly.

  “Flint!”

  “Logan!”

  Fortunately, at that moment the bride’s mother was seated and the groom and best man came out of a side door and walked to the end of the aisle, upon which two men were quickly unrolling a white runner.

  “Joshua Barnet, I take it?” Flint said, quoting the name that had been imprinted on the wedding invitation.

  “Yes, J.B.” Leslie smiled, studying the sharply angled face of the man who had been the friend she’d needed while recovering from divorce. Unsurprisingly, a similar soft smile curved Kit’s lips.

  Although some inches shorter in height than his best man, J.B.’s dark good looks and whipcord-lean body was in no way overshadowed by the handsome blond giant standing by his side.

  “The other half of the matched set sports a mustache instead of a narrow beard,” Flint observed. “And your friend J.B. has the look of a very tough customer when riled,” he judged astutely.

  Leslie opened her mouth to defend her friend, but at that instant the opening bars preceding the wedding march swelled from the organ. As one, the guests rose and turned to face the back of the church. Her steps measured, her bearing regal, the tall, beautiful matron of honor appeared to glide down the white path, her holly-green gown a perfect foil for her cool blond loveliness. When she had reached the midway point of the aisle, soft ohs and ahs blended with the music. All eyes were riveted on the couple starting down the aisle.