Falcon's Flight

by Joan Hohl

  Though Marie’s expression was blatantly skeptical, she again nodded her head.

  “Well, I haven’t,” Leslie said with flat emphasis, her grin fading. “Believe it or not, I win quite often and break even as often as 1 lose.” She lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug that caused her glorious mane of deep red hair to ripple like a living flame. “I’d judge I’ve spent about as much as it would cost for a good analyst—” her soft lips curled cynically “—and I’ve had a lot more fun.”

  “An analyst!” Marie exclaimed, her eyes wide with alarm. “I didn’t know you were thinking about consulting an analyst.”

  “I’m not,” Leslie said soothingly.

  “But you just said—”

  “I said that I derive more enjoyment from time spent in the casinos than I would lying on a couch telling my sad tale of woe to an analyst,” Leslie clarified.

  Marie sighed. “I simply don’t understand you, Les.”

  “I know.” Leslie smiled. “But don’t worry about it; I understand me perfectly.”

  “But are you sure you’re not just kidding yourself?” Marie argued. “Don’t most addicts claim that they really don’t need their fix?”

  “Oh, I never said I don’t need it,” Leslie replied at once. “I do need it, and I know it.”

  “But—” Marie began.

  “But it isn’t the gambling I need,” Leslie said, interrupting the other woman again. “It’s the escape that I need.” Her lips tilted up as Marie’s curved down in a frown of confusion. “It’s the ambience of the casinos, the atmosphere,” she explained. “For some inexplicable reason I forget everything else while I’m there, whether I’m actually playing or merely drifting around observing others at play.” She laughed softly. “I’m probably not explaining this very well, but while I’m there there is no pressure, no stress, no sense of time either running out or closing in. While there, I feel unencumbered....” She hesitated a moment, then murmured, “Free.” Leslie’s green eyes glowed as she smiled at Marie. “I have no idea how long it will last,

  but for now the casinos are my boit-hole, my hideout. And yes, I do need that escape.”

  “And you don’t consider it a weakness?” Marie studied her friend carefully, for the first time noting the taut lines of strain bracketing her fantastic eyes and the vulnerable look about her sculpted lips. She felt a pang when those vulnerable lips parted to release a weary-sounding sigh.

  “You’ll never know how much I appreciate your concern, Marie,” Leslie said, her eyes brightening suspiciously. “But for now, my periodic escapes are the only thing keeping me strong.”

  “Then go to it!” Marie urged intensely. “And to hell with the cost!”

  Leslie’s laughter burst around them like a sudden shower of shimmering sunlight. The advice was completely out of character for her frugal friend, and as such it was all the more warming to hear. Grasping her hand again, Leslie smiled directly into Marie’s serious brown eyes. “Thank you, friend,” she murmured around the thickness closing her throat.

  “For what?” Marie’s voice was also husky.

  “For your support, even though you’re not convinced that I’m doing the right thing.”

  Five days later, Leslie tossed her luggage into the midsize car she rarely got the opportunity to drive and paid a small fortune to garage, and put her defensive-driving lessons into practice weaving in and out of the congested Manhattan traffic. Once clear of the city, she loosened her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and relaxed to enjoy the relatively short run to Atlantic City.

  Since she’d deliberately chosen the off-peak hours to make the trip, traffic was light and moved smoothly on the New Jersey Garden State Parkway, allowing Leslie some leeway to ruminate on the events of the night before.

  Surprisingly, since the role she’d been doing for nearly a year had begun to stagnate for her, there had been an electricity to Leslie’s final performance that had brought the audience to their feet with a standing ovation for her as the final curtain had been lowered. She had been presented with four bouquets of roses, and numerous single blossoms had been tossed onto the stage at her feet. Laughing, crying, Leslie had taken three curtain calls and had greeted what seemed to her to be a horde of well-wishers in her dressing room afterward.

  After the crowd had finally dispersed, she had barely had time to remove her stage makeup and change before being whisked from the theater to a cab and then into the current in nightspot, where a party for her had been arranged by the cast and crew of the production company.

  Marie and her husband had been waiting there for Leslie’s arrival along with most of her other friends. There had been music and an abundance of food, a few more tears and a lot of laughter before the party had wound down in the early hours of the morning. As the group had parted company, there had been reminders called out to Leslie to keep in touch, and there had been warm handshakes and even warmer hugs and again a few more tears. And then Leslie had gone home.. .alone.

  Blinking against a surge of tears, Leslie steered the car onto the off ramp, then onto the Atlantic City Expressway. With her first glimpse of the tall buildings etching the Atlantic City skyline, Leslie recalled the last few moments of the phone conversation she’d had with Marie before leaving, and an impish smile tilted her lips.

  “Have fun, but get some rest, too,” Marie had admonished her like a mother hen. “I don’t want to see a single line of strain on your face when you get back.” “I’ll work at it,” Leslie had promised. Then, half teasing, half serious, she had added, “Who knows? If I just happen to run into a tall, dark, handsome devil of a man, I just might indulge in a blazing affair.” Leslie was still smiling at the memory of Marie’s encouraging laughter as she brought the car to a stop alongside the Valet Parking sign outside the Falcon’s Flight hotel.

  Two

  Unaware of the appreciative male glances that skimmed the length of her legs as she stepped from the car, Leslie draped her coat over her shoulders like a cloak, offered the doorman a brilliant smile along with a generous tip, then swept through the entrance and across the lobby as if she owned the hotel. Then, glancing briefly over her shoulder to see if the bell captain was following with her bags, Leslie strode into the broad, rock-hard chest of the man who did own the hotel.

  Thrown off balance, Leslie whipped her head around as strong hands grasped her upper arms. A startled gasp became lodged deep in her throat as she gazed into the dark, expressionless face of the most intimidating male Leslie had ever had the misfortune to run into—literally or otherwise.

  “I, ah, that is, I—” Leslie was very seldom at a loss for words... until now. There was something so formidable about this man that she could barely think coherently, let alone translate her jumbled thoughts into decipherable language. Instead of her usual precise speech, what stuttered out of her mouth was a garbled attempt at apology. “I am, ah, I—I’m sorry!”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m finding it rather pleasant.”

  The man’s stonelike visage didn’t alter by so much as a crack. Not a hint of a smile softened the severity of his thin male lips. There wasn’t a shadow of emotion in his shuttered gray eyes to reveal his thoughts. If it hadn’t been for the fine thread of sensuality woven through his low tone and the gentle flex of his fingers into her tender flesh, Leslie would have misunderstood his meaning entirely.

  But there was that thread of sensuality, and that thread drew the dangling ends of Leslie’s frayed thoughts together. As the realization that the upper part of her body was pressed tightly to his hard chest exploded in her mind, tiny flares of response ignited spontaneously throughout her body.

  Suddenly feeling overwarm, Leslie blushed, then stiffened. He removed his grip on her upper arms at the same instant she moved to step back. Leslie found her voice in that same instant.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, attempting a cool response. “I’m afraid I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Cringing inwardly at the
throaty sound of her normally husky voice, Leslie forced herself to meet his direct stare.

  He didn’t return her smile. He didn’t relinquish her gaze. But his lips did move—fractionally.

  “There is no need for an apology.” The tone of his voice was now as remote as the expression in his eyes. “I’m afraid I wasn’t watching where I was going, either.”

  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 conce
rned 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?”