Falcon's Flight (7 page)

“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 dropped 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.

“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.