by Joan Hohl
Sunset was spreading its golden mantle over the earth when Leslie came to her senses and felt Flint’s hand stroking her inner thigh. Raising her heavy eyelids, she gazed into his eyes.
“1 thought you’d fallen asleep again,” he murmured, gliding his hand up to possessively cup her breast in his palm.
“No.” Leslie smiled and settled her body more firmly against his hand. “I was merely attempting to breathe.” Deciding that what was good for the goose, and so forth, she captured him with her fingers; Flint’s surprised gasp made the display of boldness worthwhile. But even as she felt the unmistakable stirrings of renewal, Flint moved away from her.
“Later, darling,” he promised, bending to her to brush his lips over hers. “But now I’m starving, and you must be also.”
“Must I?” Leslie frowned, thinking it odd that she really wasn’t at all hungry. “I suppose so,” she went on quickly when Flint returned her frown. “But more than food, I really^could use a short nap.”
Though he sighed, Flint relented. “All right.” He brushed his mouth over hers again, then rolled off the bed. “I’ll have a snack to hold me until dinner.” He stretched lazily, displaying his muscular body for her inspection. “I feel great,” he said, grinning down at her. “I think I’ll have a swim while you nap.” He started for the bathroom, but paused at the door to shoot a stern look at her. “Stop ogling me and get to sleep.” His tone was as stern as his expression. “You have one hour, Leslie.” Without waiting for either reply or protest from her, Flint strode into the bathroom.
Ogling? Leslie mused sleepily. Had she been ogling his body? Yes, of course she had, she admitted shamelessly. But then, Flint’s body deserved female ogling—among other things! Feeling content in body and amused in mind, Leslie yawned, closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep.
For a weeknight, the casino was exceptionally crowded. Standing at a progressive half-dollar machine, Leslie fed her last five coins into it, pulled the handle, then watched as the four reels spun. She shrugged when the reels settled into place, revealing a bar, a blank and two more bars. Turning away, Leslie glanced down at her hands. She had fed the greedy machine five rolls of halves for a single payout of fifty coins, or twenty-five dollars. The luck, or lack of it, didn’t bother her, but her coin-blackened fingers did.
Pausing to light a cigarette, Leslie smiled and shook her head at a man who politely asked if she was going to play the machine. Stepping aside, she headed for the ladies’ room. Her pace unhurried, she strolled through the casino, her gaze skimming the male faces for a glimpse of Flint, who was somewhere in the large room even though he was not indulging in the games offered.
A soft smile touched her lips as she thought about the seeming contradictions the man presented. She had discovered at the outset that Flint did not gamble, at least not in the casinos. She had also learned early on that although he had a forbidding, unapproachable look about him, Flint was capable of tear-inducing tenderness. And though he projected an image of cold detachment, Flint could generate spine-melting heat with his thoroughly involved lovemaking.
A man of many facets, half of them hidden, Leslie concluded. She sighed with disappointment at not spotting him as she reached her destination. After washing the residue of the coins from her hands, Leslie moved to the long mirror above the vanity countertop. She was brushing clear red color onto her lower lip when two beautiful young women entered the lounge.
“Did you see him?” the one woman, a true blonde, asked the other, a brunette, in a breathless, excited tone.
“Did I see whom?” The brunette responded in a cultured, bored tone.
“The infamous Falcon!” The blonde’s awed reply caught the brunette’s attention. Suddenly Leslie was very interested as well.
Infamous? Leslie questioned silently, listening closely while appearing to concentrate on outlining her lips.
The brunette’s reaction was far from bored. “Flint’s here?” she fairly yelped.
Flint? Leslie’s eyes narrowed, ostensibly on her makeup.
“Flint?” the blonde repeated, wide-eyed now, her awe obviously doubled. “You know him?”
Good question, Leslie thought, playing deaf as she strained to hear the brunette’s answer.
“I’ve met him.” The woman’s smile was smug, too smug to suit her unobtrusive eavesdropper.
In bed? Leslie wondered, beginning to simmer as she waited for the query to be asked aloud.
But the blonde’s mind was not in the bedroom. “Is it true that he’s an ex-con?” she asked in an avidly curious tone.
Leslie nearly dropped the crimson-tipped lipstick brush. Ex-con! Flint? Anger ripped through her. How dare that little fool insinu— “Yes, it’s true,” the brunette said with absolute certainty. “He served three years of a twenty-year sentence in a prison in New Mexico.”
Twenty years! The damning words pounded inside Leslie’s head as she collected her makeup and beat a hasty retreat from the room. As the door shut behind her, she sank back against the wall and drew deep gulps of air into her trembling body. What crime had Flint committed to draw a twenty-year sentence? she thought frantically, skipping her wide-eyed gaze over the faces of passersby. Several women, and more men, gazed at her with concern, but only one detached himself from the throng to make his way to her side.
“Are you feeling sick?” Flint’s dark brows drew together in a frown as he examined her face.
Leslie stared mutely at his tense expression and slowly shook her head.
“Leslie, what’s wrong?” he demanded, grasping her upper arm.
Leslie swallowed. “I—I need a drink.” She swallowed again, fighting back a brackish taste. “Can we find someplace to sit down?”
Though Flint’s frown deepened, he answered at once. “Of course.” Steadying her with his firm grip, he turned and walked with her toward the escalator. “We’ll go down to the restaurant.” Exasperation overshadowed the concern in his tone. “You barely touched your dinner,” he said. “You’re probably halfstarved.”
Food was the last thing on Leslie’s mind, but she didn’t bother to correct him. Shocked and sick to her stomach, she allowed him to usher her to the restaurant. Since she was no longer surprised by the fact that Flint was apparently recognized by every maitre d’ in every restaurant in every hotel in Atlantic City, Leslie accepted the effusive attention shown to them by this maitre d’ as he escorted them to a table. She wasn’t even surprised at the relative seclusion afforded by the table; Flint was invariably seated at a secluded table.
Flint took it upon himself to order a sandwich for her when Leslie merely shook her head at the menu the waiter offered her; he ordered wine for the two of them as well. Even though he maintained his intense scrutiny, she kept silent until the waiter departed after delivering their drinks.
“Damn it, Leslie, talk to me,” Flint said through gritted teeth when the silence stretched into humming tension between them. “Tell me what is wrong with you.”
Leslie moistened her dry throat with a sip of wine. “I, eh, overheard two women talking in the ladies’ room,” she said, her voice low and reedy.
“So?” Flint demanded.
Lifting her head, she met his narrowed gaze. “They were talking about you.”
“So?” he repeated arrogantly. “What did they say?” His gaze held hers.
Leslie inhaled slowly, then threw caution aside—she had to know if what they’d said was true. “The one woman asked the other, who incidentally claimed to know you, whether it was true that you had served time in prison.”
Flint stiffened and his expression froze, but his tone was unruffled. “Continue.”
Leslie had a terrible feeling of foreboding. “It is true, isn’t it?” Leslie didn’t know quite how she’d expected him to respond, but she certainly hadn’t expected him to smile, however faintly.
“Yes, Leslie,” he admitted in a cool tone, “it is true.”
The feeling of foreboding intensified. “Bu
t... why?” she cried in a strangled whisper.
Flint’s gaze remained steady. “I was convicted of rape.”
Rape! For one instant, Leslie stared at him in horror, her throat closing, her senses whirling. Then her intelligence reasserted itself and her mind called a halt to the dramatics. Rape? she thought, doubt growing. She had shared his bed for almost two weeks; she knew his power and prowess. Flint Falcon need never force himself on any woman I As Leslie’s thinking cleared, so did her vision. His features locked into concealment, Flint was watching her, waiting for her reaction to his words. In actual time, he had waited only seconds.
“I don’t believe it.” Amazingly, the instant she said the words, all symptoms of shock vanished.
“It’s true,” he said, still watching her. “I was convicted, and I did serve three years of the sentence.” Leslie shook her head and waved her fingers impatiently as if brushing his admission aside. “I don’t believe you ever raped anyone.”
“Thank you.” Flint’s smile brought the color back to her pale cheeks. “And you’re right—I never raped anyone, physically or any other way.” His head angled into an arrogant tilt. “It’s not my style.”
“But who accused you of such a terrible thing?” Leslie frowned. Before he could answer, she demanded, “Why would any woman accuse you?” Flint sat back in his chair, his expression contemplative. It wasn’t necessary for him to tell her that he was unused to explaining himself to anybody; Leslie already knew that. Yet, to her astonishment, he proceeded to explain himself to her.
“The woman who accused me was my best friend’s...bride.” Flint’s pause over his last word was telling, as was the sneer that curled his lip. “She did so in an attempt—successful, I might add—to cover her own transgressions.” His smile was wry.
Leslie was having enough trouble assimilating the fact that Flint’s friend’s wife would even dream of accusing him without having to contend with his cagi-ness. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You can’t let it go at that,” she insisted. “Why would she—” Leslie broke off as the waiter arrived with their food. The moment the waiter finished, she moved to push her plate away. Flint’s low voice halted her as her fingers touched the plate.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “If you’ll eat every crumb of that sandwich, I’ll try to explain her motives. Deal?” His eyebrows shot into an arch.
“It’s a deal,” Leslie agreed, picking up half of her sandwich and taking a bite.
Flint favored her with one of his spine-tingling smiles. “Okay, you eat, I’ll talk. Don’t interrupt.” His smile flashed again; Leslie almost choked. “It was all rather stupid,” he began in a tone of utter boredom. “As it happened, six months after their wedding, my friend’s wife discovered that she was three months pregnant, which in itself should have delighted my friend.” He paused for a sip of wine while Leslie took note of the fact that he never referred to his friend by name. When Flint continued speaking, his voice was heavy with cynicism.
“But, understandably, my friend wasn’t delighted, since at the time he had supposedly impregnated his wife he was half a world away on special assignment for the oil company that employed him.”
“Why, that—” Leslie exclaimed.
“Precisely,” Flint concurred, “and you’ve only heard the half of it. Upon questioning by her outraged husband, the sweet little bride broke down and admitted that she had been raped.”
“He bought that?” Leslie’s expression was skeptical.
Flint laughed sarcastically. “Not initially. But on further questioning the little woman sobbingly named her rapist.”
“You.”
“Yeah.” Flint sighed the word on a sharp exhale. “He didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence, all circumstantial, appeared to give credence to her story. I had been to see her several times during his absence. It was common knowledge to all our friends that I had dated her a couple times before my friend ever met her.” His lips twisted. “She was very convincing on the stand, weepy and remorseful for being so friendly with me, however innocently.” He nodded solemnly. “She gave a great performance. The jury was out less than twenty minutes.” He sneered. “And twenty was the magic word; they gave me twenty years.”
“Oh, Flint.” Leslie’s lips were dry, but her eyes were wet.
Flint shook his head. “It’s over and not worth your tears.”
Leslie took a sip of her wine and dashed her tears away with her fingers. “You were paroled?”
“I was exonerated.” His smile held a tinge of pity. “I had served three years of the sentence when my friend caught his wife with another man. He finally forced the truth out of her; then he took her to repeat her story to the authorities.” He shrugged. “And here I am—” he inclined his head toward her plate “—waiting for you to finish that sandwich.”
Leslie obediently lifted the second half of her sandwich. “Didn’t your friend ever try to contact you?” she asked, immediately biting into the sandwich.
“He tried,” Flint drawled.
“You wouldn’t see him?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re very hard.”
This time, Flint’s laughter held a biting tone. “With reason, darling, with reason.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But even though he should have believed you,” she argued, wondering why she was playing the devil’s advocate, “he loved her, Flint. She betrayed both of you.”
“Love.” Flint snorted. “If that’s what love does to a man’s brains, I’ll take a rain check, thank you. And anyway, why are you pleading for love? It sure as hell gave you nothing but grief.”
“Too true.” Conceding the point with a smile but wondering why she felt suddenly empty, Leslie polished off her food and wine, then tossed her napkin onto the table. She needed people, faceless people, and action, gaming action. In short, Leslie suddenly needed her escape hatch. Flipping her mane back with one hand, she gave him her most rakish grin.
“I feel wonderful now that I’ve eaten,” she lied. “And now I want to play until they toss me out at closing time.”
Seven
It didn’t work anymore, dammit! It simply didn’t work, Leslie thought, staring disinterestedly at the cards before her on the table. She had been sitting at the blackjack table for nearly two hours. She had even won a tidy sum of money. And she was bored, bored, bored!
Dejected, Leslie fingered two ten-dollar chips, responding automatically to the table play. And the evening had begun with such promise, too, she reflected, suppressing a sigh.
Flint had allowed her to sleep a half hour over his deadline, and when he had woken her it had been with light kisses and teasing admonitions to “Get it in gear, woman.”
He had set the mood, and Leslie had happily gone along with him. The bantering and teasing had continued while they dressed and through dinner. Though Flint’s accusation about her barely touching her meal was correct, Leslie had thoroughly enjoyed herself, laughing discreetly at his droll yet on-target observations concerning the various modes of dress displayed by the other patrons in the restaurant.
From the restaurant they had gone on to a show at the theater in Falcon’s Flight, becoming one with the rest of the audience in their enjoyment of an outrageously funny young comedian who had preceded an aging singer on the program. Still in high spirits, they had left after the show to prowl the casinos. The downhill slide for Leslie had begun when those two women had entered the ladies’ room.
“Dealer pays nineteen.”
Leslie blinked and stared at her cards, an eight, a deuce and an ace. It was time to quit- She didn’t even remember signaling for an additional card! Watching the dealer stack her winning chips into a neat pile, Leslie crushed out the cigarette she couldn’t recall lighting, let alone smoking. Yes, she decided, motioning to the dealer that she was out of the play, it was definitely time to quit.
Scooping the chips into her beaded black silk evening bag, L
eslie smiled at the dealer and turned away from the table. Flint found her at the exchange desk just as the attendant was counting out crisp new bills to the tune of seven hundred dollars.
“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured close to her ear. “Since you got lucky, want to hire my services for what’s left of the night?”
With a mercurial switch, Leslie’s spirits soared again. Laughing, she glanced at the desk attendant. If the young man had overheard Flint’s suggestion, he hid his reaction well behind a bland expression. Stuffing the bills into her purse, she turned to face Flint. His eyebrows were raised slightly, as if in expectation of a reply from her.
Leslie ran a contemplative glance the length of his lean, gorgeous body. “Are you any good?” she asked haughtily.
“No.” Flint grinned wickedly. “I’m very bad.” “Are you very expensive?” Leslie purred.
“No.” Flint’s eyes glittered with devilry. “But I’m very demanding.”
Leslie gave him a slow smile and a smoldering look from her long, shimmering green eyes. “Sold,” she said in a throaty voice, linking her arm through his. “Your place or your place?”
“You’re really ready to leave?” Flint attempted an expression of amazement. “A full forty-five minutes before closing time?”
“I’m really ready to leave,” Leslie said, mimicking his tone. “A full forty-five minutes before closing time.” She paused for effect. “If you will be so kind as to retrieve my stole from coatcheck?”
“Done,” he said, striding away from her. “I’ll meet you at the front entrance.”
“No! Flint, the boardwalk entrance!” Leslie called after him. Flint pivoted to stare at her.
“You want to walk at this hour of the morning?” “I like to walk.” Leslie shrugged. “Besides, I need some fresh air. Okay?”
Flint smiled. “Whatever. A brisk walk in the cold air always stimulates my, er, appetite.”
The air was cold. Leslie stood still on the boardwalk, inhaling the scent of the sea. “Umm,” she murmured, smiling up at Flint. “I love the seashore; the atmosphere, the smell, even the noisy seabirds. But most of all I love the sense of peace and freedom 1 always feel by just gazing at the restless ocean.”
