Falcon's Flight Read Online Free PDF Page B

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