Falcon's Flight

by Joan Hohl

  “Mrs. Knox.” Flint nodded once. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Falcon.” Mrs. Knox smiled and glanced at Leslie. “If you’ll bring Ms. Fairfield in here—” she indicated the living room to the right of the foyer “—I’ll make her comfortable, then serve dinner.”

  Though Leslie felt extremely comfortable cradled in Flint’s strong arms, his scent and closeness were driving her senses into spasm. Offering Mrs. Knox a hesitant smile, she murmured, “I am hungry.”

  Her small statement activated the trio. Spinning on her heel, Mrs. Knox led the way into the spacious living room. Flint followed the woman. The small man trailed Flint. Mrs. Knox came to a stop near the end of a long couch made up into a bed. Flint came to a stop beside the couch and eased Leslie to her feet. The small man stood by, his expression alert.

  “Do you feel at all rested from your nap in the car?” Flint asked in a low voice as he removed first the lap robe and then her coat.

  Leslie frowned at him, but answered truthfully. “Yes, some.” Her frown deepened as she glanced around. “Where are we?”

  “I’ll explain everything over dinner,” Flint murmured, glancing at the older woman. “As you heard, Leslie, this is Mrs. Knox, my housekeeper.” He turned away as Leslie smiled tentatively at the woman. “If you’ll get Ms. Fairfield settled, Mrs. Knox, I’ll change and be back in a few minutes.” At the woman’s nod, he shifted his gaze to the small man. “You come with me, Keith.”

  Mrs. Knox began fussing over Leslie the moment the men stepped out of the room. Within minutes the woman had whisked off Leslie’s clothing and shoes and was gently bullying her into a nightgown and the emerald-green robe. She smiled at Leslie as she gathered up the discarded clothes.

  “Now you just snuggle under the covers there on the couch, Ms. Fairfield,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll bring you your dinner right after I put these things away.”

  Bursting with questions but with nobody left to address them to, Leslie gave a fatalistic shrug and did as she was bidden. She was stretching her long legs the length of the couch when Flint strode back into the room, his small shadow a pace behind him.

  “Better?” he asked, gazing down at her as he halted beside the couch. Flint had exchanged his dark three-piece suit for casual slacks and a sweater that showed off his trim body and did weird things to her pulse rate.

  “Yes,” she breathed on a sigh. Then she added softly, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he returned as softly, the tension visibly easing from his austere expression. “And you’ll continue to get better from now on,” he assured her. “I’ll see to it.” He angled his head to look at the small man. “Or we will. Right, Keith?”

  “Right, Flint.” Keith’s solemn expression relaxed in a charming smile. “Beginning with the specialist tomorrow morning.”

  “Specialist?” Leslie repeated. “What specialist?” “The one who’s going to examine you tomorrow,” Flint said reasonably. “And don’t argue,” he warned. Then, remembering his oversight, he said, “By the way, Leslie, this is my secretary, Keith Bowers. He keeps my business wheels oiled.” He motioned the man forward. “Keith, say hello to Ms. Fairfield.” “Leslie,” she instructed before he could respond. “Hello, Keith, and do you keep Flint’s wheels well oiled?”

  “Well, let’s say 1 run around behind him with the oilcan. Hello, Leslie.” Leaning over, he extended his hand. Keith’s grip was firm; his smile was friendly. “I’ve admired your work for some time; it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Why, thank you, Keith, I—”

  “Dinner,” Flint interrupted to announce. “Keith, get out of here, and my apologies to your lady friend for making you late. I’ll be in touch in the morning.” As Flint was speaking, he was also arranging a table and chair next to the couch. Keith was leaving through one door while the housekeeper entered through another.

  Mrs. Knox served the meal, then disappeared into the kitchen. Leslie was full of questions for Flint, but the delicious aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding sent every one of them out of her mind. Sitting on the edge of the couch, she dug into the food but very quickly had to slow down, amazed at how tiring the simple act of eating had become. Fortunately, she successfully concealed her weakness from Flint.

  Flint was quiet until after Mrs. Knox had removed the dishes, served coffee and disappeared again. Then, when he did begin speaking, it was to chastise Leslie for not following her doctor’s instructions to the letter.

  “I thought you had more sense,” he concluded, obviously exasperated.

  Leslie’s eyes welled with tears, which she brushed away impatiently. “I did! I do! Oh, I don’t know!” she cried in frustration.

  “Well, that certainly clears everything up,” Flint drawled, lips twitching in amusement.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Leslie demanded.

  “Me?” Flint’s eyebrows rose. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” The twitch tugged harder at his lips.

  Though Leslie fought it, her lips curved into a sheepish smile. “I’ve behaved irresponsibly, haven’t I?”

  “Quite,” Flint agreed, but he softened the cold word with a smile. “That’s why I decided to take over. You do understand that you were only prolonging your recovery,” he continued in a gentle tone, “don’t you?”

  Leslie lowered her gaze from his watchful eyes. “Yes,” she admitted in a whisper. “But I did so want to do that play,” she added on a sad sigh.

  “There’ll be other plays, Leslie,” Flint murmured. “But first you must get well.” His pause was brief. “Will you let me help you do that?”

  Now he asks me! Leslie thought, fully aware that she’d have given him a firm no if he had bothered to ask before. Glancing up, she met his intent gaze. “Yes, Flint,” she responded meekly, proving her willingness by setting her cup aside and stretching out again on the couch.

  “Good.” Flint refilled his coffee cup, then lounged back in his chair. He moved his hand to indicate their surroundings. “We are in Longport, some fifteen or so minutes south of Atlantic City. This house is mine; I inherited it from my paternal grandfather.” His lips firmed. “I intend to keep you here until you’ve completely recovered from this infection—regardless of how long it takes.”

  “Why?” Leslie asked, uncertain if she really wanted to hear the answer. It was not what she’d expected.

  “Why?” Flint grinned, stealing her breath. “Because, as Marie so accurately said, you need a keeper.” Depression settled on Leslie. She didn’t want a keeper. She wanted to be a keeper, a keeper woman, the one woman a Falcon would want to keep by his side for the rest of his life. But if Leslie had learned nothing else over the previous weeks, she had come to the realization that this particular Falcon valued his freedom above all else. Accepting the fact was not easy for Leslie—she loved him. But it was essential that she accept his reasons for helping her. When she was once again well, Flint would return her to New York, then fly away from her.

  “Leslie?” As he had weeks before, Flint called to her softly so as not to wake her if she’d fallen asleep.

  “Yes?” Leslie raised her gaze to his. Flint misread the pain mirrored in her eyes.

  “I do understand how important your independence is to you, and I admire you for it,” he said. “But you do see that you can’t be alone, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Leslie lowered her eyes again.

  “Would you prefer to go to a hospital?” There was a strange tautness to his voice that Leslie couldn’t identify. The sound of it drew her gaze back to his.

  “No,” she said quickly.

  “Okay.” The strange tautness was gone, replaced by an even stranger note of satisfaction. “We’ll take good care of you, Mrs. Knox and I,” he promised.

  It didn’t take very long for Leslie to realize how very well Flint kept his promises.

  “There, is that better?” Flint asked softly, stepping back from the couch.r />
  “Yes.” Leslie lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Ten days of complete rest free from stress had wrought a dramatic change in Leslie. She wasn’t quite as pale and drawn, and the bouts of tears and depression had abated somewhat. She had been cosseted and comforted by both Flint and Mrs. Knox and was showing marked results because of their care.

  Subsiding into the pillows Flint placed behind her head, Leslie examined her surroundings with interest. She had been too ill and too distracted that first night to notice much about the house other than the guest bedroom Flint had carried her to soon after they’d finished dinner. The following morning Flint had bundled her into the limo for the short run into Atlantic City to see the specialist. After a thorough examination and blood tests, the doctor had confirmed the diagnosis made by Leslie’s own physician. He prescribed the same treatment as well, bed rest, an antibiotic to ward off the possibility of bacterial throat infection and aspirin to reduce fever and discomfort. The specialist had also offered Leslie an incentive.

  “If you’ll follow my instructions to the letter, Ms. Fairfield,” he’d said sternly, “you could be well by Christmas.”

  With his words ringing in her head, Leslie had docilely allowed Mrs. Knox to help her into bed on her return to the house. She had spent every day since then in bed.

  “Well?” Seated in a chair he’d drawn close to the couch, Flint smiled wryly as he observed her intent gaze on the portrait above the fireplace.

  “Is that your father?” Leslie asked, frowning as she looked at him, then back at the portrait. The resemblance was uncanny, and had it not been for the difference in hair color, Leslie would have believed the painting was of Flint.

  “My grandfather,” Flint said, his expression softening as he gazed at the portrait. “He practically raised me.”

  While Flint stared at the picture, Leslie stared at him. The change in his usually severe expression was startling. Flint’s face was free of strain and his eyes were dark. Gone was the aura of frightening intimidation. His face revealed painful acceptance. Observing him, Leslie felt a surge of love and compassion for the lonely man gazing out of the eyes of the indomitable Flint Falcon.

  “You loved him very much,” Leslie murmured, blinking against a rush of tears that had nothing to do with her illness.

  “Yes, I loved him very much.” Flint’s lips tilted into a bittersweet smile. “He died three years ago; I think a part of me died with him.” A soft sigh escaped his lips and he continued to speak, softly, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Everything 1 am, everything I have accomplished is a result of his loving care and wise counsel.” He exhaled harshly. “And I don’t even bear his name.”

  “But why not?” Leslie asked. But before he could respond, she said, “Oh! He was your mother’s father?”

  “No.” Flint reluctantly drew his gaze from the portrait to look at her, the more familiar wry smile curving his lips. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Leslie said in a dry tone. Flint’s lips twitched as he ran his gaze the length of her body reclining on the couch. “No, I don’t suppose you are,” he agreed, grinning at her.

  “So indulge me.” Leslie arched her brows imperiously. “Tell me a story.”

  His grin widened and his eyes brightened with a teasing gleam. “Well, once upon a time...” he began in the time-honored way.

  “Falcon,” Leslie said in a warning tone. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she swung her legs to the floor.

  Flint’s amusement vanished. “Leslie, don’t you dare get up!” Springing out of his chair, Flint grasped her legs and swung them onto the couch. “You promised to behave if I brought you downstairs.” His eyes were hard. “Do you want to undo all the progress you’ve made?”

  “No.” Leslie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Flint.” Leslie’s eyes filled with the symptomatic tears she had begun to hope were a thing of the past.

  “Leslie, don’t cry.” Dropping to his knees, Flint drew her into his arms. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I want you to get well.”

  “Oh, Flint!” Hiding her face against his shoulder, Leslie cried softly. “I hate this! I hate feeling weepy and weak and depressed. And I hate taking you away from your work, being a burden on you.”

  “That’s enough!” Tilting her face up, Flint stared into her eyes. “You are not taking me from my work. I can run my business very well with the telephone and the periodic trips I make into Atlantic City.” Lowering his head, he caught an escaping tear with his lips. “And you are not a burden,” he murmured against her cheek. Drawing back, he smiled rakishly at her. “The only burden has been being with you, without being with you.”

  Leslie’s eyes filled again. “I look dreadful,” she moaned. “You couldn’t possibly want me in that way!”

  “I want you in every way.” Flint took her mouth with hungry demand, shocking and alarming her.

  “Flint!” Leslie cried, pulling away from him. “I’m probably still contagious!”

  Flint laughed. “Look at it this way,” he said. “If I get mono, we can recuperate together. At least then we could share the same bed.”

  “You’re terrible,” Leslie laughed.

  “And you love it,” he retorted.

  “Yes, I do,” she admitted, her smile fading. “Because I love you.” The admission had slipped past her guard. Appalled at herself, Leslie stared at him, waiting for his expression to close, locking her out. To her disbelief and wonder, Flint smiled.

  “Are you trying to drive me crazy by telling me that now, knowing I can’t drag you off to my bed?” “No.” Leslie lowered her eyes. “I want you to drag me off to your bed.”

  “You witchy redhead!” Releasing her, Flint sank back into his chair, laughter exploding from his throat. “I believe you really are trying to drive me crazy.” He stopped laughing abruptly. “The damned thing is, I think you’re succeeding.”

  “Am I?” Try as she might, Leslie couldn’t keep the note of hope from her tone.

  “Don’t crowd me, darling, let me work this out for myself. Okay?”

  Leslie nodded. She had no choice in the matter; the wariness was back in his eyes and in his tone. “Okay, Flint.” Sighing, she settled down against the pillows. “I promise I’ll be good.”

  “You already are good; that’s the problem,” Flint muttered. Then his voice turned brisk. “And to help you rest, I’ll tell you a bedtime story.” He smiled wryly. “It’s so boring it’ll probably put you to sleep.” “Try me,” Leslie challenged.

  “You were right on target,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “when you called me a bastard.” He went on to explain when she frowned in confusion, “I am legally a bastard. That’s why I never bore my grandfather’s name.”

  “Oh, Flint, I’m so sorry!” Leslie said softly.

  “I might have been, too, if it hadn’t been for him.” Flint inclined his head toward the portrait. When she frowned again, he smiled. “I’d better begin at the beginning. My father was a geologist and worked for a company with interests all over the world. He met and fell in love with my mother while on assignment in New Mexico.” He paused, then smiled. “My mother is a Navajo and proud of it.”

  “Understandably,” Leslie murmured.

  “Don’t interrupt,” Flint chided. “At any rate, they fell in love and became lovers. He asked her to marry him. She said yes. But before they had time to make plans my father was given another top-priority assignment. Within a few days he was on his way to South America. The corporate plane he was in flew into the side of a mountain during a severe thunderstorm. He never even knew that my mother had conceived his child.”

  “Your mother never saw him again?”

  “No,” Flint sighed. “She had received a letter he had written to her the night before he boarded that plane in Rio. And that might have been the last she ever heard of him, except that he had written to his parents as we
ll. And that’s where my grandfather entered the picture.”

  Flint turned a gaze at the painting. He was quiet a long time, and when he began talking again it was as if he was speaking to the man he so obviously loved. “In his letter, my father had told his parents about the wonderful young woman he had fallen in love with and was planning to marry as soon as possible. And so, after receiving notification of his death, my grandfather flew to New Mexico. He called my mother

  his daughter. They wept in each other’s arms. My mother loved and honored him until the day she died.” “Your mother’s dead, too?”

  The sympathy in Leslie’s voice drew his gaze from the portrait. “Yes. She lived long enough to see me graduate from college. She died loving my father.” His gaze drifted back to the painting. “And his father.” “As you did and still do,” Leslie said softly.

  “Yes.” Flint looked at her and smiled. “I spent every winter here in New Jersey with my grandparents. The summers I spent with my mother in New Mexico.” His smile deepened. “My mother’s father named me Flint because of the odd color of my eyes.” He laughed softly. “He gave me the name Falcon, too. He said there was a fierce wildness about me from the minute I opened my eyes.”

  “Can the Falcon be held?” Leslie asked tightly. Flint’s lips slanted into the familiar wry smile. “The Falcon is wild, you know. Are you sure you want to hold him?”

  “Very sure,” she responded immediately. “I’m just not sure how to do it.”

  “As with all birds that love to soar,” he murmured, “you hold on to them with open hands.”

  Ten

  Feeling feisty, are you?”

  Leslie glanced up from the script she’d been reading, a brilliant smile illuminating her face. “Flint!” A flush of pleasure gave color to her still slightly pale cheeks. “I didn’t hear you come up the stairs.” “Obviously,” Flint remarked dryly, strolling to the foot of the bed. “Going somewhere?” he asked, pointedly scrutinizing her appearance. Her hair gleamed with highlights, her newly manicured fingernails were tinged with pink polish, her lips shimmered with recently applied gloss. In Flint’s unvoiced opinion, the lipstick was a sure sign of Leslie’s rapidly improving health.