Falcon's Flight (16 page)

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.

“Mrs. Knox.” Flint nodded once. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Falcon.” Mrs. Knox smiled and glanced at Leslie. “If you’ll bring Ms. Fairfield in here—” she indicated the living room to the right of the foyer “—I’ll make her comfortable, then serve dinner.”

Though Leslie felt extremely comfortable cradled in Flint’s strong arms, his scent and closeness were driving her senses into spasm. Offering Mrs. Knox a hesitant smile, she murmured, “I am hungry.”

Her small statement activated the trio. Spinning on her heel, Mrs. Knox led the way into the spacious living room. Flint followed the woman. The small man trailed Flint. Mrs. Knox came to a stop near the end of a long couch made up into a bed. Flint came to a stop beside the couch and eased Leslie to her feet. The small man stood by, his expression alert.

“Do you feel at all rested from your nap in the car?” Flint asked in a low voice as he removed first the lap robe and then her coat.

Leslie frowned at him, but answered truthfully. “Yes, some.” Her frown deepened as she glanced around. “Where are we?”

“I’ll explain everything over dinner,” Flint murmured, glancing at the older woman. “As you heard, Leslie, this is Mrs. Knox, my housekeeper.” He turned away as Leslie smiled tentatively at the woman. “If you’ll get Ms. Fairfield settled, Mrs. Knox, I’ll change and be back in a few minutes.” At the woman’s nod, he shifted his gaze to the small man. “You come with me, Keith.”

Mrs. Knox began fussing over Leslie the moment the men stepped out of the room. Within minutes the woman had whisked off Leslie’s clothing and shoes and was gently bullying her into a nightgown and the emerald-green robe. She smiled at Leslie as she gathered up the discarded clothes.

“Now you just snuggle under the covers there on the couch, Ms. Fairfield,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll bring you your dinner right after I put these things away.”

Bursting with questions but with nobody left to address them to, Leslie gave a fatalistic shrug and did as she was bidden. She was stretching her long legs the length of the couch when Flint strode back into the room, his small shadow a pace behind him.

“Better?” he asked, gazing down at her as he halted beside the couch. Flint had exchanged his dark three-piece suit for casual slacks and a sweater that showed off his trim body and did weird things to her pulse rate.

“Yes,” she breathed on a sigh. Then she added softly, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he returned as softly, the tension visibly easing from his austere expression. “And you’ll continue to get better from now on,” he assured her. “I’ll see to it.” He angled his head to look at the small man. “Or we will. Right, Keith?”

“Right, Flint.” Keith’s solemn expression relaxed in a charming smile. “Beginning with the specialist tomorrow morning.”

“Specialist?” Leslie repeated. “What specialist?” “The one who’s going to examine you tomorrow,” Flint said reasonably. “And don’t argue,” he warned. Then, remembering his oversight, he said, “By the way, Leslie, this is my secretary, Keith Bowers. He keeps my business wheels oiled.” He motioned the man forward. “Keith, say hello to Ms. Fairfield.” “Leslie,” she instructed before he could respond. “Hello, Keith, and do you keep Flint’s wheels well oiled?”

“Well, let’s say 1 run around behind him with the oilcan. Hello, Leslie.” Leaning over, he extended his hand. Keith’s grip was firm; his smile was friendly. “I’ve admired your work for some time; it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Why, thank you, Keith, I—”

“Dinner,” Flint interrupted to announce. “Keith, get out of here, and my apologies to your lady friend for making you late. I’ll be in touch in the morning.” As Flint was speaking, he was also arranging a table and chair next to the couch. Keith was leaving through one door while the housekeeper entered through another.

Mrs. Knox served the meal, then disappeared into the kitchen. Leslie was full of questions for Flint, but the delicious aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding sent every one of them out of her mind. Sitting on the edge of the couch, she dug into the food but very quickly had to slow down, amazed at how tiring the simple act of eating had become. Fortunately, she successfully concealed her weakness from Flint.

Flint was quiet until after Mrs. Knox had removed the dishes, served coffee and disappeared again. Then, when he did begin speaking, it was to chastise Leslie for not following her doctor’s instructions to the letter.

“I thought you had more sense,” he concluded, obviously exasperated.

Leslie’s eyes welled with tears, which she brushed away impatiently. “I did! I do! Oh, I don’t know!” she cried in frustration.

“Well, that certainly clears everything up,” Flint drawled, lips twitching in amusement.

“Are you laughing at me?” Leslie demanded.

“Me?” Flint’s eyebrows rose. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” The twitch tugged harder at his lips.

Though Leslie fought it, her lips curved into a sheepish smile. “I’ve behaved irresponsibly, haven’t
I?”

“Quite,” Flint agreed, but he softened the cold word with a smile. “That’s why I decided to take over. You do understand that you were only prolonging your recovery,” he continued in a gentle tone, “don’t you?”

Leslie lowered her gaze from his watchful eyes. “Yes,” she admitted in a whisper. “But I did so want to do that play,” she added on a sad sigh.

“There’ll be other plays, Leslie,” Flint murmured. “But first you must get well.” His pause was brief. “Will you let me help you do that?”

Now he asks me! Leslie thought, fully aware that she’d have given him a firm no if he had bothered to ask before. Glancing up, she met his intent gaze. “Yes, Flint,” she responded meekly, proving her willingness by setting her cup aside and stretching out again on the couch.

“Good.” Flint refilled his coffee cup, then lounged back in his chair. He moved his hand to indicate their surroundings. “We are in Longport, some fifteen or so minutes south of Atlantic City. This house is mine; I inherited it from my paternal grandfather.” His lips firmed. “I intend to keep you here until you’ve completely recovered from this infection—regardless of how long it takes.”

“Why?” Leslie asked, uncertain if she really wanted to hear the answer. It was not what she’d expected.

“Why?” Flint grinned, stealing her breath. “Because, as Marie so accurately said, you need a keeper.” Depression settled on Leslie. She didn’t want a keeper. She wanted to be a keeper, a keeper woman, the one woman a Falcon would want to keep by his side for the rest of his life. But if Leslie had learned nothing else over the previous weeks, she had come to the realization that this particular Falcon valued his freedom above all else. Accepting the fact was not easy for Leslie—she loved him. But it was essential that she accept his reasons for helping her. When she was once again well, Flint would return her to New York, then fly away from her.

“Leslie?” As he had weeks before, Flint called to her softly so as not to wake her if she’d fallen asleep.

“Yes?” Leslie raised her gaze to his. Flint misread the pain mirrored in her eyes.

“I do understand how important your independence is to you, and I admire you for it,” he said. “But you do see that you can’t be alone, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Leslie lowered her eyes again.

“Would you prefer to go to a hospital?” There was a strange tautness to his voice that Leslie couldn’t identify. The sound of it drew her gaze back to his.

“No,” she said quickly.

“Okay.” The strange tautness was gone, replaced by an even stranger note of satisfaction. “We’ll take good care of you, Mrs. Knox and I,” he promised.

It didn’t take very long for Leslie to realize how very well Flint kept his promises.

“There, is that better?” Flint asked softly, stepping back from the couch.

“Yes.” Leslie lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”

Ten days of complete rest free from stress had wrought a dramatic change in Leslie. She wasn’t quite as pale and drawn, and the bouts of tears and depression had abated somewhat. She had been cosseted and comforted by both Flint and Mrs. Knox and was showing marked results because of their care.

Subsiding into the pillows Flint placed behind her head, Leslie examined her surroundings with interest. She had been too ill and too distracted that first night to notice much about the house other than the guest bedroom Flint had carried her to soon after they’d finished dinner. The following morning Flint had bundled her into the limo for the short run into Atlantic City to see the specialist. After a thorough examination and blood tests, the doctor had confirmed the diagnosis made by Leslie’s own physician. He prescribed the same treatment as well, bed rest, an antibiotic to ward off the possibility of bacterial throat infection and aspirin to reduce fever and discomfort. The specialist had also offered Leslie an incentive.

“If you’ll follow my instructions to the letter, Ms. Fairfield,” he’d said sternly, “you could be well by Christmas.”

With his words ringing in her head, Leslie had docilely allowed Mrs. Knox to help her into bed on her return to the house. She had spent every day since then in bed.

“Well?” Seated in a chair he’d drawn close to the couch, Flint smiled wryly as he observed her intent gaze on the portrait above the fireplace.

“Is that your father?” Leslie asked, frowning as she looked at him, then back at the portrait. The resemblance was uncanny, and had it not been for the difference in hair color, Leslie would have believed the painting was of Flint.