Falcon's Flight Read Online Free Page B

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?”
    “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