by Joan Hohl
One delicate hand resting on the arm of her distin-guished-looking father, the bride, Nicole Vanzant, walked down the aisle like a queen, her bright gaze never veering from the tanned face of her groom. Her gown was an artist’s creation of white silk and handmade lace. Her pearl-encrusted headpiece crowned her dark hair. The filmy veil covering her face could not conceal the perfection of her features.
Slowly turning as she followed the bride’s progress, Leslie felt a knot of emotion fill her throat as she caught sight of J.B.’s face. His expression was etched into lines of near-adoration for the woman walking to him. Unabashed love blazed from his dark eyes.
Tears rolled unchecked down Leslie’s face as she listened to the couple exchange their vows. She felt as if the depth of meaning of the words was being inscribed on her soul.
“With this ring I thee wed.”
Then the voices faded, and Leslie’s heart seemed to stop beating as Flint’s palm slid over hers and he gently entwined their fingers, symbolically joining them just as the pastor’s voice broke through her bemusement.
“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”
It was obvious upon arrival that the wedding reception had been carefully planned to be a rather formal affair. Fortunately, the groom’s assortment of family and friends swiftly turned it into a congenial, enjoyable celebration.
With Flint by her side, Leslie circulated among the guests, introducing him to her family and her friends, smiling as she and Flint were in turn introduced to those she was unacquainted with. Strangely, Flint was utterly charming to everyone outside Leslie’s own small circle of friends, yet exchanged cool, wary glances with the men within that circle. Caught between bafflement and amusement, Leslie watched the male measuring process with fascination.
Logan McKittrick was terse, but not exactly hostile; Flint responded in kind.
The blond twin giants Thack and Zack Sharp scrutinized him from shrewd, narrowed eyes; Flint returned their scrutiny with eyes as unaffected and remote as the North Sea. Even Nicole’s brother, Peter Vanzant, ran a haughtily appraising glance the length of Flint’s impeccably attired person; Flint’s namesake eyes glittered with a like assessment. But the most thorough and comprehensive examination of Flint was made by the groom, the tough-looking police captain, J.B. Barnet. Flint endured the visual dissection for a full sixty seconds. Then, slowly moving his steady gaze around the circle of unfriendly male faces, he effortlessly broke the ice with J.B. and the rest of the men.
“Would you care to step outside as a group or one by one?” Flint drawled sardonically.
Logan broke first. A blatant male grin curved his lips. “If any of you decide to accomodate him,” he said, echoing Flint’s drawl, “I suggest you wear your armor.” He sliced an amused glance at Flint. “I’ve seen the way this man handles a knife.”
For Leslie, the party was a smashing success. By the time it was over, Flint had been completely accepted by her family and friends, old and new. In fact, a stranger could have been forgiven for mistaking Flint, Logan, J.B., Thack, Zack and even Peter for drinking buddies of long standing. Though happy, Leslie was also thankful for Flint’s insistence on being driven to Philadelphia in the limo.
At two o’clock Christmas morning, the limo delivered them to the curb in front of Leslie’s Manhattan apartment. Flint sent their driver to a hotel, then followed her to her apartment, her suitcase in one hand, her fingers encased in the other.
For two days, Leslie and Flint did nothing but eat and sleep and make love. And if they ate and slept very little, well...their lovemaking was all the nourishment and rest they seemed to need. Without the words being spoken aloud, Leslie knew that Flint would not stay with her any length of time. She didn’t have to hear the words; he said it with the intensity of his lovemaking. She had steeled herself to accept the words when they finally were spoken late on their second night together.
“I must leave in the morning. I have appointments I can’t put off any longer.” Flint’s voice was low and strained, but steady as a rock. “The car will be here for me at seven.” He hesitated, then added softly, “I would like you to sleep in.”
“All right,” she agreed, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder. Leslie knew why he’d made the request; Flint was afraid that at the last minute she would beg him to stay with her. And Leslie wanted to—Lord, how she wanted to—but she hadn’t forgotten her question to him of how to hold on to a falcon, nor had she forgotten his answer.
Leslie didn’t have to break her promise to Flint to sleep in, simply because they never went to sleep in the first place. But she did remain in bed, watching his every move as he prepared to leave. At seven exactly he glanced out the window, then turned and walked to the bed. His kiss was so very tender it brought tears to her eyes. It was also very brief.
“This time I will call you,” he whispered against her trembling lips. “I promise I will.”
“I know you will.” Smiling at him, Leslie deliberately opened her hands, releasing the hold she had on either side of his face. And then he was gone.
Flint stood unmoving before the window wall in his office. All was silent; the sound of revelry from far below could not penetrate the heights to his private aerie. Flint knew that noise and merrymaking filled the casino and every lounge, ballroom, private suite and room throughout the hotel. He knew and did not care. Through the window before him, clouds scurried across a black winter sky and the moon cut a swath of silver into the restless ocean. And it was his, but there was something missing.
Flint Falcon had defined the difference between being alone and being lonely. Narrowing his eyes, Flint projected images onto that black panorama. He could see a church ablaze with Christmas splendor, and a woman in glistening white walking toward a man with love shining from his eyes. He could see a brilliantly decorated ballroom, and five couples united and ready to face anything together, even a cynical Flint Falcon.
Flint closed his eyes and saw the image he wanted to see above all others: Leslie, laughing as she sent a sideways look at him from her long, green eyes. Leslie, curling her arms around him to draw him into the silken warmth of her body. Leslie, raising her chin and refusing to cry when he stepped away from the bed to leave her. Leslie.
He had dreaded leaving, afraid she’d weep and plead with him to stay. Flint had dreaded it because he’d been afraid of what seeing her cry, hearing her plead, would do to him. But Leslie had not wept, she hadn’t pleaded. She had released him, her smile confident with belief in his promise to call her. Leslie had not shut the door on the silken cage, she had opened it.
Lifting his head, Flint stared for long seconds at his vision of freedom. Then, decisively, he turned his back to it to stride purposefully to his desk. Reaching for the phone, he punched in a long-distance number. His gaze drifted to the small desk clock as he heard the first ring. The slim second hand was making the upward sweep from the nine.
“Hello?” Leslie said at the instant the second hand aligned with the other two hands on the clock.
“Happy New Year, darling. 1 love you.” Flint’s voice was low but resolute. “Will you marry me?”
“For after all, in the end, isn’t love the only thing that matters?”
There was an instant of quivering silence, and then a growing swell of applause and shouts of approval as the audience rose to their feet.
Standing in the middle of the uproar, Flint stared up at the stage as the actress receiving the acclaim sank into a graceful bow. Watching her take bow after bow, Flint felt a warmth of pride spread throughout his body. Leslie’s performance had been nothing less than magnificent. Flint’s eyes filled and he blinked to clear his vision, coolly unconcerned with whomever might witness tears rolling down his sharply sculpted face. He stood thus through eight curtain calls and continued to stand while the enthusiastic patrons slowly left the theater. When all but a few stragglers were gone, he made his way backstage.
Flint didn’t approach the
dressing room, which was surrounded by laughing, chattering people. Instead, he strolled to the stage door to pass the time in conversation with the guard. Propped indolently against the wall, Flint went unnoticed by the departing well-wishers, except for several interested glances from bright feminine eyes.
Flint waited a long time, but when the star finally left her dressing room, she walked directly to him.
“Was I all right?” Leslie asked coyly, gazing up at him and fluttering her eyelashes. The guard chuckled. Flint frowned.
“Just for being cute,” he said coolly, drawing her arm through his, “I’m going to make you wait until we get home to hear my opinion.” Calling a goodnight to the guard, he hustled her out the door and into the waiting limo.
“You’re a bully,” Leslie informed him, smoothing her hair with one hand. “And a sorehead, too.” “Sailing on an adrenaline high, are you?” Flint inquired politely.
“Yes.” Leslie stroked her hand down from her hair to the mink coat draped across her shoulders. “And I want to party.”
Flint laughed softly. “I hate to be trite, but oh, darling, have I got a party for you.” He was still smiling suggestively when the limo glided to the curb in front of a posh uptown address. “Out, woman,” he ordered as the driver pulled the door open. “I’m anxious to get this party started.”
In true star fashion, Leslie swept from the car, across the sidewalk and into the elegantly decorated lobby of the large building. Catching Flint around the waist with one arm and grasping his hand, Leslie waltzed Flint to the elevator and, ever the gentleman, Flint obliged. In the elevator, she made do with holding his hands and swaying back and forth. She literally danced along the wide corridor to their apartment door.
“I’m going to have to think of something to gentle you down from cloud nine,” Flint observed, following her rhythmically moving body into the ornate foyer. Leslie tangoed into the white-carpeted living room, then spun to face him.
“I’ve been known to gentle very quickly from a sizzling kiss,” she purred provocatively.
“From whom?” Arching one eyebrow, Flint walked slowly toward her. As he closed in on her, her expression altered from euphoria to uncertainty.
“Did you really enjoy my performance, Flint?” “What’s this?” Sliding his arms around her, Flint drew her into a loose embrace. “You were radiant, glorious,” he said with frank admiration and honesty. “And you don’t need to hear me say it to know it’s true.”
“You’re wrong, Flint.” Unmindful of the mink, which had slipped from her shoulders to the floor, Leslie gazed up at him with her love glowing from her eyes. “You are the only one I need to hear it from. I like to hear it from the others,” she admitted with a smile, “but I need to hear it from you.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you.” Flint gazed intently into her eyes. “While I stood there with the rest of that clamoring audience, tears of pride ran down my face.” Leslie’s eyes widened with shock as she absorbed the magnitude of her husband’s confession. Flint Falcon had wept! The mere concept staggered her. She had caused tears to fall from her Falcon’s eyes! Incredible!
“Flint?” Leslie couldn’t quite decide if she was thrilled or terrified.
“You were that good, darling, and I love you until it hurts.” A slow smile slanted his lips. “But I want to know who in hell has been giving you sizzling kisses?” Bubbling again, Leslie glanced at him. “Well, you see, there’s this deliciously sexy gambler from Atlantic City and—Flint!” she squealed, laughing as he swung her into his arms and made for the bedroom with long strides.
“Deliciously sexy, umm?” Flint murmured as he undressed her with haste.
“Oh, yes,” Leslie sighed, performing the same service for him.
“And does this gambler lay claim to other attributes?” he inquired, easing her onto the bed and under him.
“Many,” Leslie whispered, stroking her palm over his warm skin. “But the most important is, he can lay claim to me.”
“And he will.”
And he did.
*****
Get reacquainted with characters featured in Joan Hohl’s trilogy for Desire in FOREVER SPRING—Paul Vanzant and Karen Mitchell's story. Don’t miss it— available in March from Silhouette Special Edition!
Table of Contents
Four
Seven
