by Joan Hohl
“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...
The content of her thoughts brought a gasp to Leslie’s lips. What was she thinking? She had no intention of getting to know Flint Falcon! The man had the look of a predator. Leslie shivered in reaction to the image of him that rose in her mind. The only problem was that though she tried to convince herself the shiver was caused by his formidable appearance, Leslie was afraid there was more than a hint of sensual excitement woven through her response.
Uneasy with the direction in which her thoughts were drifting, Leslie spun away from the window, determination stiffening her spine. She had to get out, not only of the suggestive suite but of the hotel itself. But first she had to locate her luggage.
Searching for the phone, her eyes narrowed as her glance settled on the red-and-gold instrument placed on a black lacquered table next to a plush velvet sofa. Decadent, she thought, frowning. The suite was blatantly decadent. Her expression disdainful, Leslie strode to the table. She was reaching for the red receiver when a soft tap sounded on the door and a quiet voice penetrated the panel.
“Bellman, ma’am.”
“And not a moment too soon,” Leslie muttered. Straightening, she turned from the table just as the phone trilled. Dammit! Leslie glanced at the phone, then at the door, then back at the phone as it rang again. Then she sighed in exasperation. “Come in,” she called to the bellman. The door opened as she reached for the receiver. “Yes?” she said impatiently into the phone while trying to motion the bellman to wait.
“Have your cases been delivered?”
All rational thought ceased at the soft sound of Falcon’s voice. A shiver trickled down Leslie’s spine. Although his query was mundane, the tone of his darkly exciting voice seemed to hint at pleasures too exquisite to be mentioned aloud.
“Yes, just now.” Leslie was so intent on concealing the tremor in her voice that she didn’t hear the door closing behind the bellman.
“Good.”
Leslie gripped the receiver. How had he managed to inject such a wealth of sensual meaning into a word as simple as “good”? she asked herself, nervously moistening her suddenly dry lips. A twinge of pain in the fingers clutching the smooth plastic receiver brought her to her senses.
“Mr. Falcon, I—”
“Flint,” he interrupted in that disconcertingly soft tone. “Please.”
His tone was so very polite. Yet beneath that politeness lurked the sensuous intent Falcon had made no attempt to conceal from her earlier. The shiver at Leslie’s spine increased in intensity and spread to tingle the short hairs at her nape. Her heartbeat quickened; her breathing grew shallow. Swallowing convulsively, she opened her mouth to tell him she was
leaving the hotel immediately. Falcon spoke before she could form the first word.
“Leslie?” His tone wasn’t quite as soft or smooth. “Yes?” Leslie paused to gather breath and courage. “Flint, I’m leaving—”
Again he cut her off. “Okay. I’ll be tied up for most of the afternoon with meetings. Will six-thirty be convenient for dinner?”
Of all the overbearing—Leslie’s mind went blank from amazement. His self-assurance was incredible. Anger flared as her senses came together. Did the man actually believe that all he had to do was breathe to command her attention? Worse still, was he convinced he could gobble her up like a tasty tidbit simply by installing her in an opulent suite of rooms? The speculation set fire to Leslie’s temper and brought the actress to the fore.
“Have dinner at your own convenience, Mr. Falcon,” Leslie said in her best haughty tone. “I won’t be here. I’m not leaving to spend the afternoon playing or shopping, as you’ve obviously assumed. I’m leaving the hotel, period. I’m sure I can get a room at the—” Flint again exercised his infuriating talent for interrupting.
“Why are you running away?” he inquired in that same polite tone. “Are you afraid of me, Leslie?”
No more than I’m afraid of a stalking panther, Leslie thought somewhat wildly. But of course the threat of having every one of her beautifully manicured, fashionably long fingernails clipped wouldn’t have forced her to admit to her confusing sense of excited intimidation.
The man laughed. “You’re afraid,” he chided politely. “Or are you playing a variation on a theme of coyness?”
“Playing coy!” Leslie’s tone came to within a hair of being a shout. “I outgrew coy at age six!”
“I’m delighted at having my initial impression of you confirmed,” Flint murmured. “Now, about dinner—”
“I just told you I won’t be here for dinner!” Leslie exclaimed, gratified at the opportunity to interrupt him. “I am leaving this blasted hotel to find a room that doesn’t look like a courtesan’s salon.”
This time Falcon was satisfied with a low chuckle. “The suite does lend itself to the idea of debauchery, doesn’t it?” As he didn’t expect an answer, Flint didn’t wait for one. “I’ll have you moved out of there at once,” he went on in a brisk tone.
Leslie was beginning to feel as if she was trying to clutch at fog. “Mr. Falcon—Flint—listen very carefully,” Leslie said slowly and distinctly. “1 do not wish to remain in this hotel. Have I made myself clear now?”
“Sure,” he drawled. “You’re scared witless.”
“I am not scared,” she denied through gritted teeth. “Ahh, but darling, you should be.”
Leslie’s heartbeat went crazy. Falcon’s low, sexy voice evoked images so erotic that she had to sit down or fall down. “Are—are you threatening me?” she asked, knowing the answer, yet perversely needing to hear it.
“Only with pleasure, darling.” Flint’s soft voice had the impact of a caressing hand. “Only with pleasure.”
Leslie closed her eyes as an intense thrill shook her body. The man was a sorcerer, she thought, pulling the receiver away from her ear to stare at it. If merely hearing him call her “darling” in that dark voice reduced her to quivering willingness, what would making love with him be like? The urgent leap of anticipation Leslie felt answered her silent question. Suddenly she wanted the pleasure he was threatening her with, wanted it with a shocking intensity. In wavering slow motion, she brought the receiver back to her ear when she heard him call her name.
“Falcon, I...” Unaware that she’d used his surname, Leslie paused to draw a calming breath. Flint used that pause to his advantage.
“I like to hear that, darling.” There was a huskiness to his low voice that had a melting effect on Leslie’s bones.
Leslie’s response was a soft, revealing moan.
“I’ll have you moved at once,” he said, repeating his promise. Then, with only the briefest of hesitations, he asked, “All right?”
Leslie had difficulty speaking; she usually did when she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to argue. She wanted to stand firm in her decision to relocate to another hotel. She wanted to give him a resounding no. Instead, she caved in like a warmed marshmallow. “All right.”
“And six-thirty for dinner?” Flint insisted, his tone beguiling now.
“Yes.” For long moments after he’d hung up, Leslie stared at the receiver she held clutched in her hand, trembling as she faced the extent of her acquiescence. She was not a child, nor was she naive. She knew exactly what she had agreed to, and it involved a lot more than a change of rooms and a meal. For whatever reason, Flint Falcon had singled her out, not only as a dinner companion but as a bed partner as well. She was to be the Falcon’s dessert. Leslie knew it, and the knowledge was shocking, simply because it was so very exciting.
Leslie had just remembered to replace the red telephone receiver when the same bellman returned to collect her and her luggage. Following the man in the distinctive black-and-silver uniform along the corridor, Leslie frowned when he bypassed the cul-de-sac containing the guest elevators. Hiding her confusion, she sailed along in his wake, silently wondering where the hell he was leading her.
The bellman’s destination was a small unmarked elevator at the end of a small hall off the main corridor. Leslie was beginning to get an inkling of what to expect as she stepped into the boxlike lift, and for some reason the plain black phone mounted on the elevator wall reinforced her expectations.
The elevator came to a smooth stop, the doors slid apart noiselessly and Leslie trailed the bellman over plush carpeting to a crimson door flanked by tall black-and-silver vases. After inserting a narrow plastic strip into a slot in the door, he stood back, motioning for her to enter. With increasing but concealed nervousness, Leslie crossed the threshold into the
broad foyer of what she was now convinced were Flint Falcon’s personal quarters.
“Quarters” was hardly adequate to describe the apartment. Her breath caught on a silent gasp, Leslie gazed at the expanse of windows opposite the entrance. The view of sky and ocean appeared endless, and was exhilarating and intimidating at one and the same time. Not unlike Flint Falcon himself, she mused, as were the sparse but elegant furnishings. Her gaze drifted from the window to briefly skim lacquered tables and lush, expensive upholstery.
“If you’ll follow me, please?” the bellman asked, jolting Leslie out of her bemusement. At her cool nod, he crossed the wide landing, descended the three steps to the living room and strode to the wrought-iron-railed curving staircase that led to the second level.
Trailing her fingers along the cool metal rail, Leslie felt her stomach muscles tighten as she mounted the stairs. The room the bellman ushered her into brought a sigh of relief to her dry lips. Though spacious and exquisitely decorated in muted red and antique gold, it was obviously a guest room and not the master suite. Nerves eating at her patience, Leslie duly noted the walk-in closets and lavish connecting bath the bellman dutifully pointed out to her before taking his leave with a smile, a slight bow and a polite refusal of the tip she offered him.
Finally alone, Leslie stood motionless in the center of the room, her bemused gaze slowly moving from the gilt-edged white furniture to the double-size chiffon-draped canopy bed, listening to the echo of her own voice of a few hours earlier as she’d made her flippant statement to Marie.
But tall, dark and handsome or not, was she seriously considering an affair with Flint Falcon? Leslie asked herself, suppressing a tremor of anticipation. The man was dangerous, she reminded herself, a shark who would very likely grin as he took huge bites out of her confidence.
Her imagery sparked a memory of Falcon’s flashing white smile, and a delicious shiver jangled Leslie’s nerve endings. Flint’s sex appeal was potent. Leslie felt the allure of his attraction in the most feminine parts of her body. Her lips burned, her breasts tingled, and she experienced a melting sensation inside.
It was ridiculous and crazy, but Leslie was forced to admit that she wanted Flint Falcon, that instant, no questions asked. Shaken, her body suddenly weak, her breathing shallow, she walked to the end of the chiffon-draped bed and sank gratefully onto the edge of the mattress.
Distracted by her churning thoughts, Leslie stared blankly at the rich warmth of the room. The trappings were unimportant; she didn’t see them. Looking inward, she saw a thirty-seven-year-old woman, mature, self-assured, successful in her chosen career and hungry for a man she didn’t know, a man she had met less than two hours before. Ridiculous? It was absolutely insane!
It was also absolute fact. And unless he was amusing himself in some sort of game, Flint Falcon was as hungry for her as she was for him.
The consideration brought a frown to Leslie’s soft lips. What, she wondered, was the untamed Falcon thinking about at that very moment?
* * *
An emerald surrounded by diamonds. Ice encircling fire. The idea appealed to Falcon’s sensual nature and his sense of humor. His decision reached, he acted upon it in his usual swift manner.
“Let’s wrap it up quickly, gentlemen.” Flint sent a narrowed, nearly black glance skimming over the startled faces of the men seated around the long conference table. Once his course was charted, his plans stated, he expected results. He had little patience for executi
ves unable to keep pace with his thinking, and they all knew it. Flint Falcon hadn’t arrived at his present position by being slow and dull-witted—they all knew that as well. “Sum up, please.” Falcon leveled his sharp gaze on the sandy-haired man directly to his right.
As Falcon’s dapper secretary took down every word with lightning speed, the men around the table briefly and succinctly summarized the situation in their respective areas of expertise concerning the enormous job of operating the hotel and casino. When the man seated on his left finished speaking, Flint nodded and pushed back his chair.
“Congratulations, gentlemen. We are now ready to roll.” Standing, Flint again favored each man with a glance. “You’ve worked well together and have formed a cohesive, formidable team.” His thin lips quirked into a smile. “I’m glad you are all a part of Falcon’s Flight.” The expression on each man’s face was a clear indication of how rare, and so how valued, were words of praise given by their employer. “Meeting adjourned.” Inclining his head at the table, he turned and strode from the conference room.
A few minutes later, Flint acknowledged a security guard’s greeting with another nod of his head and, striding by the door the man held open for him, stepped onto the boardwalk. With a definite destination in mind, Flint moved at a rapid clip, his sharp-eyed gaze sweeping the people strolling the boards, missing nothing, yet appearing to be unaware of anything but his own thoughts.
Unobtrusive, yet every bit as sharp-eyed, two well-dressed men followed at a discreet distance behind Falcon.
Three
Leslie stood by the side of the bed, an indecisive frown marring the perfection of her carefully applied makeup. It was 6:05. In the hours since the bellman had relocated her, Leslie had explored the apartment—except for a suite of rooms that was locked— helped herself to a cup of tea in the utilitarian, well-stocked kitchen, unpacked her suitcases, had a long relaxing bath and prepared herself for the evening ahead. Her glorious mane of hair gleamed flame red in the well-lighted, mirrored closet doors. Her slender, taut figure was enhanced by lacy lingerie. Her long, supple legs were encased in hose so sheer they looked bare. The frown line on her brow was caused by her indecision about what to wear.
