Falcon's Flight (8 page)

“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 experts. 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.”

Five

Leslie came awake slowly to the luxurious feeling of warm comfort and the tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee. Inhaling deeply, she freed her arms from the covers and stretched them over her head, murmuring an appreciative “Humm.”

“Good morning.”

The soft greeting brought Leslie fully alert. Blinking, she focused on the tall man standing by the unfamiliar bed, his long hands curled around steaming cups. Her heartbeat fluttering into a rapid tattoo, she pulled her gaze from Flint’s sardonic expression and glanced around the enormous room.

Where was she? Leslie wondered, frowning. More to the point, how did she get to wherever she was? And even more to the point, what, if anything, had happened between the last she remembered in the living

room and now? The answer to her initial question was obvious, even to Leslie’s sleepy mind. Her gaze shot back to Flint.

“You’re in my bed, in my room,” he said, confirming her conclusion.

“But how..Leslie’s voice failed as he moved to stand by the bed and held one of the cups out to her. “How did I get here?” she continued, frowning up at him.

“I carried you.” Flint smiled wryly at her. “Are you going to sit up?”

“Yes, but...” she began, envisioning the curving staircase.

“Drink first, talk later.” Flint’s sardonic expression dissolved into real, heart-wrenching tenderness. “But to set your mind at rest so you can drink, I’ll assure you that you’re as untouched now as you were when you fell asleep in my arms last night.”

Accepting his word without a shred of doubt, Leslie wiggled to sit up. The covers fell to her waist, revealing her lacy bra. She arched her eyebrows at him as she reached for the cup.

Flint answered her silent query with a question. “You would have preferred to sleep in your dress?” Sitting down next to her, he stared openly at her barely concealed breasts.

Leslie had the uncanny sensation that she could feel his intense gaze; she
knew
she felt the heat from it all the way to her flushed cheeks. “No, of course not,” she finally replied in a dry, crackly voice. Lifting the cup, she gulped the hot coffee.

“Your former husband was a fool,” Flint said, raising his eyes to capture her shifting gaze. “You’re a beautiful woman, Leslie.” He smiled and tilted his cup in a silent salute.

His praise sent pleasure radiating through her to deepen the flush on her cheeks and put a gleam in her exotic eyes. “Thank you, Flint,” Leslie murmured. “You’re beautiful, too.”

Flint’s laughter poured through the room like sparkling sun rays. “No, Leslie, I’m not beautiful.” His teeth flashed in a devilish grin. “I face the beast in the mirror every morning, and I have yet to be confronted by beauty.” He shook his head to silence her when she opened her mouth to protest. “But I like hearing it just the same,” he admitted with amused candor. “Now drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

Unused to taking orders, Leslie stared at him a moment before lowering her gaze to examine his body with frank appraisal. The act of defiance backfired. Leslie felt the heat of sensual arousal suffuse her body at the overwhelming male look of him. Attired casually in a sweater that clung to his broad, flatly muscled chest and brushed-suede slacks that hugged his narrow waist and hips, Flint was most definitely all male. The mere sight of him rattled her senses and loosened her tongue.