Falcon's Flight (5 page)

Hands on her hips, Leslie pondered the two garments spread out on the bed. One of the dresses was a

wool blend in a creamy off-white, the other a figure-hugging sheath in a vivid teal blue. Since she hadn’t the vaguest idea what Flint’s plans for the evening were, choosing one garment over the other was difficult. Raising her right hand, Leslie nibbled on her thumbnail and silently chided herself for making such a big deal out of the whole process.

“Wear the white and spare the manicure.”

A surprised gasp burst from Leslie’s lips, and she spun around to face the doorway and the man who stood in it. All kinds of funny sensations went skittering through her at the sight of him. Looking every bit as dangerous as she remembered, Flint Falcon was positively devastating in dark evening attire and a glaring white dress shirt with tiny pleats. Rattled, Leslie momentarily forgot that her own body was barely covered in lace.

“You startled me!” she said accusingly, unaware of the allure of her heaving chest. “How did you get in here?” Leslie knew the question was ridiculous the instant she blurted it. Falcon’s wry look merely underlined the fact.

“I live here.” His lips curved into a sardonic smile. “Or hadn’t you figured that out yet?”

“Of course I had.” Leslie’s insides clenched as he pushed away from the doorframe and sauntered toward her. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Falcon.” Hiding her her body’s'response to him was impossible. Leslie groaned inwardly as his gaze lowered to the hard peaks pushing against her lacy bra.

“I didn’t think you were, Miss Fairfield.” He slanted a dark eyebrow questioningly. “It is
Miss
Fairfield?”

“Yes, it is Miss Fairfield,” Leslie said, trying to keep her tone even. Never before in her life had Leslie experienced such difficulty in simply breathing. The phenomenon infuriated her.

Falcon chuckled. “Wear the white,” he repeated, drawing a long black velvet box from his pocket. “And wear these with it.” Flipping open the lid, he held the box out to her.

Leslie was not without sophistication, yet the sight of the emeralds and diamonds wrenched a gasp from her throat and widened her eyes. The set consisted of four pieces: a collar necklace, a narrow bracelet and a pair of button earrings, each the size of a quarter. The design was simple and elegant and the stones were brilliant in their perfection. Motionless, Leslie stared at the pieces in stunned bemusement.

“You don’t like them?” Falcon asked, his soft tone jarring her into alertness.

“They’re beautiful, but—”

“You prefer other stones?”

Leslie shook her head. “No! It’s just—”

Falcon again spoke over her hesitant words, “I chose the emeralds because they match your eyes, and the diamonds because they reflected your cold facade.”

His phrasing broke the spell of bemusement. “Cold facade?” Unconsciously Leslie drew herself up to her full height. “What do you mean?” Her eyelids narrowed over green eyes that were beginning to glitter as brilliantly as the gems in the velvet box.

Falcon’s lips twitched. “The facade you’re presenting to me now,” he drawled, turning to stroll to the door. “Wear the white, and the baubles, darling.” He paused in the doorway to sweep a dark-eyed gaze over her body. “Unless you’d be willing to indulge my desire to see the gems adorning your naked body?”

Leslie was at once incensed and excited. Ignoring his question, she snapped the box closed. “I can’t accept them,” she said with what she thought was commendable firmness.

Falcon looked unimpressed. “Of course you can.” His thin lips curved into a smile of sheer enticement. “Now get dressed, darling, before I decide to give in to a stronger appetite and cancel our dinner reservation.” He shut the door on his final word.

The man’s absolutely mad!
The condemnation joined the mass of conflicting emotions swirling around in Leslie’s astounded mind. Did he actually believe— She cut the thought short. Of course he did. And, in all honesty, Flint Falcon had every reason to believe she’d not only accept his gift but earn it as well! She had meekly allowed herself to be ensconced in his apartment. What else was the man to think?

Releasing the catch on the box, Leslie glared at the sparkling gems. The man had taste, she’d give him that. And, really, he couldn’t possibly know about her disinterest in jewelry. Smiling, Leslie tossed the box onto the bed. What the hell, she thought, scooping up the white dress. She had committed herself to an affair with Falcon when she’d crossed the threshold into his apartment; she might as well face the fact.

His back to the room, Flint gazed through the window at the expanse of night sky beyond the artificial lighting along the boardwalk. Although his indolent posture gave the impression of ease, inside he was at war with himself. The silent battle raged for and against involvement with Leslie Fairfield.

There was still much to be done in the launching of the hotel-casino; the last thing he needed was to get mixed up with a woman, any woman, but most especially a white woman.

But, that pale-skinned redhead certainly had extracted an instantaneous response from deep within him.

On the other hand, he couldn’t afford the time required to conduct an interesting affair.

But considering the woman in question, any amount of time spent, no matter how brief, would be worth the effort, and probably more than merely interesting.

A searing shaft of intense desire put an end to Flint’s inner turmoil. The arguments pro and con were academic, anyway. Falcon knew nothing could now make him veer away from the course he’d set. He wanted Leslie Fairfield, wanted to possess her with an intensity that was almost shocking, and he had every intention of doing so.

Leslie’s light tread as she descended the curving staircase drew Flint from his introspection. His decision made, he shrugged off considering the possible consequences of his liaison with her. Idly wondering if she had condescended to wear his gift, a dry smile in place in the event she hadn’t, Flint turned away from the window.

The view inside the living room was worthy competition to the endless sweep of night sky. His breath catching in his chest, Flint stared in open admiration at the woman standing poised at the foot of the stairs.

The white dress gleamed in stark contrast to her ti-tian mane, the draped bodice of the garment enhancing the full curves of her breasts and the skirt swirled gently around her shapely calves. Her eyes reflected the glitter sparked off the precious stones by the indirect ceiling lights. But the dress and the jewelry were only the setting for the magnificence of Leslie, who in Flint’s opinion was the gem without price.

“Lovely.” Falcon was unaware of having murmured the compliment aloud, and of the note of near awe in his low voice. “Absolutely lovely.”

“Thank you.” Leslie swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat. “They are exquisite pieces.” Flint frowned. Then he began walking toward her* an amused smile tilting his lips. “I meant you,” he said, reaching out to lightly touch the collar circling her smooth throat. “They are stones, cold and inanimate.” The tip of his finger slid from the collar to her silky skin. “The warmth of your flesh gives them fire and life.” His finger drew a feather-light line down the edge of the dress where it draped the curve of her breast.

Leslie felt a chain reaction of tiny explosions from the spot where his fingertip rested to the most secret reaches of her body. She had been complimented before, touched before, yet never had she felt such an immediate, urgent response. A cool shiver trickled down her spine. A breathy sound whispered through her parted lips.

“Flint, I...” Her voice faded in the heat from his passion-darkened gaze.

Moving slowly, Flint trailed his finger up to her neck. He lowered his head as his hand curled around her nape. Mesmerized, Leslie stared at the miniature reflection of herself in his eyes and parted her lips. From a distance she imagined she heard a low, ravenous growl.

“I’ll muss your makeup.” His mouth hovered over hers. His breath misted on her trembling lips.

“I don’t care.” Her voice was faint, reedy, a wisp of sound that went no farther than his mouth.

“I told the maitre d’ to expect us at six-thirty.” He moved his head to brush his lips over hers.

“1 don’t care.” She lifted her head in a fruitless attempt to capture his mouth.

“Later, darling,” Flint promised in a sexy, bone-melting tone. “There’s an employees’ party tonight, and I must put in an appearance.” Rueful amusement edged his voice. “And unless I get you out of here within the next few seconds, I’ll be tempted to say the hell with dinner, the party and the entire world.” Removing his hand from her nape, Flint stepped back. A groan rumbled from deep in his throat when he caught sight of the liquid green fire in her eyes. “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll chuck my good intentions to take you to dinner,” he warned, taking another step back.

Leslie sighed, then came to her senses. The spell was broken, but the melting heat lingered on to warm her body. “I am hungry,” she admitted with a small, self-conscious laugh.

“For me?” He gave her a glimpse of his devil grin.

“Flint!” Leslie wailed in protest.

Moving quickly, he walked over to her again. Bending, he placed his open mouth against the curve of her neck. “I like to hear you call me Falcon.” His tongue teased her quivering flesh. “It arouses something atavistic in me.” With a final gentle nip with his teeth, he quickly moved away from her. This time he indicated the door with a sweeping motion of his arm. “I’ll claim a larger bite later,” he murmured, laughing softly as she swept by him regally.

Situated on the third level of the hotel, the restaurant was elegant in decor and lighted by muted chandeliers and by flickering candles placed in the center of each table. The cuisine was French.

Displaying the gallantry and flair of one of the queen’s musketeers, the maitre d’ escorted them to the secluded table kept for Flint’s exclusive use. Declining a before-dinner drink, they began the meal with onion soup with bite-size croutons floating beneath a thick cheese topping. From the soup they progressed to the chef’s specialty of tender medallions of veal in a burgundy sauce served with tiny browned potatoes and thick spears of white asparagus. Of course, they were treated to the Caesar salad, prepared in grand fashion at their table by the fussy maitre d\

Conversation was limited to generalities throughout the consumption of the meal, which suited Leslie; she used the time to regain her composure. Feeling more in control, she allowed herself to relax over the rich coffee and the fiery liqueur Flint ordered for both of them.

“You mentioned an employees’ party?” she probed, raising the small liqueur glass and taking a sip. The liquid ran down her throat with a pleasant burning sensation.

“Yes.” Lifting his glass, Flint silently toasted her before tasting the drink. “There are too many of them for a single bash, so I divided them in half. We had the first one last night.” The fine wool material of his suit coat moved with the light shrug of his shoulders. “It’s my way of welcoming them all as employees of Falcon’s Flight.”

“It’s very considerate of you,” Leslie observed, and she meant it.

Flint’s smile was dry. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but considerate is usually not one of them.” He tossed off the last of his drink, then set the glass down. “At any rate, they’ll earn it.” His smile turned sardonic. “Don’t make the mistake of casting me in the role of considerate white knight. I assure you I’m not.”

Exchanging her glass for her cooling coffee, Leslie cradled the delicate gold-edged cup in her hands, brought it to her lips and stared at him over the rim. Her lips curved into a chiding smile. “Okay. You’ve told me what you’re not; now tell me what you are.”

“Tough, ambitious, ruthless and determined to achieve the goals I set for myself,” he answered without hesitation.

Though his bluntness chilled her, Leslie maintained her composure. “I understand ambition, I have more than my share myself.” She sipped her coffee, savoring the full-bodied taste before continuing. “Perhaps I should have asked you who you are instead of what you are.”

Flint glanced at his watch. “We must leave soon,” he said. “There’s not nearly enough time to swap life histories.”

Leslie arched one delicately curved eyebrow. “Would you tell me anything if there were time?” Her skeptical tone indicated her doubt.

“You can always try me sometime when we’re alone,” he invited softly. Then, insinuatingly: “I fully intend to try you.”

“Falcon.” Leslie’s tones was sharp with warning; her unsteady hand rattled the cup as she placed it in the saucer.

“You know, I get all kinds of wild thoughts and reactions when you call me that.” His soft laughter negating his assertion, he got to his feet and moved to the back of her chair. “Are you ready?” Bending over her solicitously he whispered, “For the party, and whatever else comes to mind?”

Rising slowly as he eased the chair back, Leslie tilted her head to give him a cool look. “Gambling comes to mind, Mr. Falcon, I came to Atlantic City to play.” Head high, she swept from the restaurant, silently congratulating herself on attaining the exit without humiliating herself by tripping over her own strangely unsteady feet. Her feet nearly betrayed her when Flint murmured close to her ear.

“There are games and then there are games, Miss Fairfield.” His hand came to rest at the small of her back. “What is your specialty?” Applying a light pressure, he guided her toward the escalator that would take them down to the second level of the hotel.

Moving with all the outward appearance of a queen while inwardly trembling like a teenager daring to flirt with an older, more experienced man, Leslie stepped onto the metal stair. Angling her head, she gazed up at him from wide, innocent, amusement-sparkled eyes. “Why, I don’t have a specialty, Mr. Falcon.” Her dark eyelashes fluttered down, then up again. “You see, I’m extremely proficient at all the games.” As she turned to step off the moving stairs, his low chuckle followed her.

“Cagey.” His murmur had the impact of a brazen caress. “And flirtatious. You do realize that you’re playing with fire?” He slanted an eyebrow at her. Leslie smiled. “I recognize the heat.”