Falcon's Flight (3 page)

As she eased back another step, Leslie narrowed her long, exotic green eyes, intuitively convinced he was lying; instinct assured her that this particular man always watched where he was going. Strangely, as she backed away from him, the combined scent of spicy cologne and pure male overpowered her. Suddenly feeling trapped within the invisible wisps of a fragrance that was uniquely his, Leslie sliced a glance at the busy registration desk

“You’re checking in?” he asked without inflec tion, arching one nearly straight black eyebrow.

“Yes.” Leslie’s voice had roughened to a whisper.

“Allow me.” Briefly flicking his hand to indicate that she should follow him, he pivoted and strode to the registration counter, ignoring the restless crowd waiting to check in with an arrogance the most talented dramatic actor would have envied.

Even while she asked herself why she was obeying his dictate, Leslie followed in his wake, coming to an uncertain stop one step behind him. There were three clerks manning the desk, an extremely attractive middle-aged man, a smoothly handsome younger man and a lovely young black woman. Hurried but unharried, the clerks performed their duties with cool efficiency, for the few seconds oblivious of the dark, silent man observing them. Then, as if feeling the intensity of his regard, the young woman glanced up. Her eyelids flickered with recognition an instant before a dazzling white smile brightened and enhanced the beauty of her face.

“Good afternoon, Delhia,” he said politely. Then, not waiting for his greeting to be returned, he turned to grasp Leslie’s arm, drawing her to his side. “This lady is my guest. If you’ll hand me the card to the Spanish suite, please,” he continued, “I’ll see to the formality of signing in later.” Before he had finished speaking, the unsmiling man held out his right hand imperiously.

Startled, confused and becoming distinctly uncomfortable at the frankly curious stares from the people milling in front of the desk, Leslie drew herself up to her full height, preparing to announce to
him
and everybody else that she would wait her turn. The clerk rushed into speech before Leslie could utter a word.

“Certainly, Mr. Falcon,” she said crisply, spinning away to carry out his order.

Mr. Falcon. The name reverberated inside Leslie’s head. The name of the hotel was
Falcon’s Flight.
Leslie swallowed a groan of dismay. She’d careened into the owner of the damned hotel! She was about to attempt another, more comprehensive apology when another thought ricocheted through her mind. The arrogant, imperious Mr. Falcon had informed all and sundry that she was
his
guest, and that
he
would attend to the formality of signing in later! So, then, what did that make
her
look like?

Distracted by her speculations, Leslie was unaware of two computer-coded plastic cards changing hands. Falcon’s low, politely toned voice jarred her into awareness.

“If you’ll come with me.” Stepping out in front of her, Falcon moved directly into the crowd. Understandably, considering his formidable appearance, those who blocked his path shuffled around to allow him passage.

Feeling the speculative appraisal of every person in the lobby forced Leslie to follow him simply to escape the uncomfortable sensation of being weighed and measured for value per pound. Head up, shoulders back, she tossed her flaming mane like a mettlesome filly and strode after the man who moved with the fluid grace of a soaring bird.

At the bank of elevators, Falcon passed by the other hotel guests waiting for the lifts and walked to the very last set of double doors. There was a small sign marked Private in plain block letters on one of the doors. Dipping his fingers into a pocket, he withdrew a narrow strip of plastic. As Leslie came to a stop beside him, he inserted the strip into a slot in the wall. The doors swooshed open. Inclining his head slightly, he ushered her into the conveyance.

By the time the car began to ascend, Leslie was simmering with an explosive mixture of embarrassment, humiliation and anger. She felt like some man’s kept woman. She felt like
this
man’s kept woman! Leslie didn’t like the feeling.

In a silence that seemed to vibrate with mounting tension, the cubicle swiftly rose to the fifteenth floor, then came to a smooth stop. When the doors slid apart, Falcon motioned for her to precede him into the wide carpeted corridor. His hard, expressionless face revealed not a hint of emotion; his unusual eyes be-

trayed not a shadow of feeling; his lips barely moved as he murmured directions.

“The suite is to your left, the third door along the hallway.”

Sweeping by him, her coat flaring around her like a royal mantle, Leslie strode down the corridor, lips compressed to contain the angry words burning her tongue. At the third door she paused, her back ram-rod-straight, staring at the words Spanish Suite painted in gold script in the center of the crimson door. The red color sparked her simmering anger into fiery rage. Red, the color associated with...

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Falcon said, pushing the door open and again motioning for her to precede him. His low, polite tone broke her reserve.

Quivering with fury, Leslie took three strides into the room, then spun to face him, chin up, eyes blazing. “You deliberately let me walk into you in the lobby, didn’t you?” she said grittily as he shut the door quietly.

“Yes.”

The absolute absence of inflection in his low voice sent an apprehensive chill down Leslie’s spine. The complete lack of expression on his harshly chiseled face increased the tremors, making her quiver. She was a mature, self-confident woman, Leslie reminded herself. Except for one weak period comprised of a few weeks when she’d been devastated by divorce, she had been taking care of herself for a long time. Surely she was not afraid of this dark, silent man? With a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, Leslie acknowledged the fear closing in on her.

“But why?” she demanded, confusion concealing the panic in her voice.

“The obvious reason.” Falcon’s lips tilted in a mocking smile; the mockery was directed at himself. “You swept into the lobby like a queen,” he went on, his voice lowering as he slowly walked toward her. “That fantastic hair swirling around your shoulders, your beautiful face haughty,” he continued, coming to a halt mere inches from her. “And in this place I’m the king,” Falcon concluded, as if his statement explained everything, which, of course, it did.

King!
Leslie fought to control her erratic breathing. More accurately, the man was a devil! She went still as the word settled in her mind, resurrecting the echo of her own flippant remark to Marie.

If I just happen to run into a tall, dark, handsome devil of a man, I just might indulge in a blazing affair.

Well, this man certainly was tall, and he was dark. But handsome? Lowering her lashes over her glittering green eyes, Leslie examined Falcon’s chiseled features one by one. His head was well shaped, his ears nicely formed. His wide brow was partially concealed by a swath of thick, silky-looking straight black hair. His nose was a trifle long, but narrow, and there was an almost delicate flare to his nostrils. His cheekbones were exceptionally high, very prominent, and as hard-looking as his jutting, squared jawline. His lips were unrelentingly thin. The dark, slightly coppery skin that covered all was taut, with the gleaming patina of well-cared-for leather.

Yes, Leslie decided, feeling a strange excitement uncurl inside, this man definitely was handsome—in the way some imagined the devil to be handsome. The realization was both alluring and frightening.

“Not exactly the face a well-bred girl takes home for mother’s approval, is it?” Falcon observed in a dry tone, revealing emotion for the first time. His tone held a hint of amusement, and it sparked her own.

“A concerned mother would grab her daughter and run screaming for police protection,” Leslie retorted, every bit as dryly. His reaction startled and confused her.

Falcon’s features locked and a spasm of something resembling bitterness flickered in his eyes. He suddenly looked very, very large and very, very dangerous. Thoroughly intimidated, Leslie eased one foot back slowly, preparing to bolt if he made a move toward her. His sharp eyes noted her move and his features relaxed, really relaxed, relieving the look of strain.

“Don’t panic, I’m not going to touch you,” he said in a soft, reassuring tone. Then he did something that stopped her breathing entirely: Falcon smiled, and it was like a burst of warm sunlight after a cold rainstorm. “Yet—” he added in a tone so sexy it sent tiny fingers of excitement scurrying madly through her body. “But soon, very soon,” he promised. “And you’re going to love every minute of it.”

Panic sent out conflicting signals that froze Leslie where she stood.
The man was absolutely crazy,
she thought wildly. And so was she—
She believed him!

Denying a sense of inevitability slowly expanding in her mind, Leslie drew in a calming breath and reminded herself that she was an acclaimed actress. And if ever she had been called upon to play a difficult role, it was right here and now. She had to act her way out of this situation, beginning with this damned red suite! Stepping into the role, she tilted her head regally and composed her features into a disdainful expression.

“I seriously doubt that,” she finally responded in a scathing tone every one of her previous directors would have applauded. “I think I’d like to leave now, if you don’t mind,” she continued in a commendably frigid tone. “I’d really prefer another, less crowded, hotel.”

“But I do mind.” This time Falcon’s smile was slow, sensuous, nerve-crackling. Leslie was positive she could hear the little pops at each tiny nerve ending. “You have absolutely nothing to fear, Miss—?” He arched an eyebrow, prompting her.

Leslie hesitated, but decided he could probably find out who she was simply by making a few calls. She shrugged fatalistically. “Fairfield,” she said distinctly. “Leslie Fairfield.” Leslie wasn’t sure if she felt insulted or gratified when he failed to recognize her name. She must have felt insulted, for her husky tone acquired a decided edge. “Is there anything else you’d like to know, Mr. Falcon?”

“Everything,” he returned softly. “Eventually.” Abruptly but smoothly he turned and walked to the door, startling her with the silent swiftness of his movement. “I’ll leave you to get settled in,” he said, pulling the door open. “Your luggage will be delivered momentarily. Feel free to call me if the service is not to your satisfaction.”

“Do you happen to have a first name, Mr. Falcon?” Leslie called as he stepped into the corridor.

“Yes, Leslie.” He turned to favor her with a brief but flashing smile. “The name’s Flint.”

“Figures.”    g

Though her tone had been low-pitched, Leslie heard the sound of his soft, appreciative laughter as he gently shut the door, leaving her to her speculative thoughts in the elegantly appointed suite decorated in i red, black and silver.

That woman’s dangerous.

The thought stopped Flint cold in the act of inserting the plastic strip into its wall slot. Dangerous? To him? A calculating smile flickered over his lips. There wasn’t a woman alive...

The elevator doors parted silently, interrupting j Flint’s thoughts. Stepping into the cubicle, he shot his | wrist from his white French cuff and glanced at the round gold watch covering his pulse. Flint noted his increased pulse rate as he noticed the time. The pulse i was fast; he was late.

Grimacing, he punched the floor button he wanted and glared at the closing doors. He’d been on his way to a meeting when he’d caught sight of Leslie sweep- I ing into the lobby. Her haughty air and regal carriage had literally stopped him in his tracks; the impact of her lovely, elegantly sculpted features framed by that mass of red hair swirling around her arrogantly squared shoulders had hit him with the force of a body blow.

For an instant that seemed to shimmer through him into infinity, Flint stood transfixed, confused, staring into her face, gripped by a gut-deep yearning for... what? Though slightly pale, her skin was living

perfection. Free of artificial color, her lips induced a shivery response within him. Her hair appeared to crackle like a flame, compelling his hands to seek warmth in the silky strands. And her eyes! A silent groan had tightened his throat. Her eyes were the clear green of a summer glade, inviting him to lose himself in the shadowy depths.

That endless instant in time produced the most profound sensation Flint had ever experienced. He had completely forgotten the meeting, the meeting
he
had called. Without hesitation he had moved to intercept Leslie, deliberately allowing her to walk into him. His body still hummed from that brief contact with hers.

The pulse beating beneath the gold watched kicked into high gear. Flint’s lips tightened into a grim line. Dammit! He wanted the redheaded witch! He could feel his body growing taut with sensual excitement. His blood was running wild and hot. He wanted, needed—

Flint clenched his long, tapered fingers into his palms until the knuckles glowed whitely through the coppery skin. Control. Control. Flint forced himself to breathe slowly, deeply, while he silently chanted the I single word. His objective was reached before the ele-i vator doors glided apart at the conference-room floor.

His thin lips curling into a satisfied smile, Flint I stepped out of the elevator and strode along the wide | corridor. There wasn’t a woman alive capable of capturing
this
Falcon, he assured himself confidently.

The memory of his eyes haunted her.

Leslie shivered.
Flint.
What was it about his eyes? she asked herself, moving restlessly to the window.

Falcon’s eyes saw too much while revealing nothing. ' And the color—what was the color? Leslie frowned. Gray, she decided. Falcon’s eyes were gray, dark gray...except at the odd moments when they appeared to be blue or almost black.

Leslie’s lips curved into a wry smile. Like the man himself, Falcon’s eyes defied definition, at least at this point. Perhaps later, after she knew him better...