Falcon's Flight by Joan Hohl

his throat. With a sensation close, too close, to amazement, he allowed the breath to ease silently through his lips. “The party,” he said, tugging her along as he strode toward a side corridor. “It’s already in progress.”
    Carefully not looking at Leslie, Flint headed for wide double doors at the end of the passageway. She didn’t matter to him, he assured himself, shaking off a crawly, confined feeling. At least she didn’t matter in any meaningful way. His interest was purely physical—exciting, sensual, but purely physical. He might allow her to hold him momentarily but there was no way in hell he’d let her cage him. As he consciously reached for the oversized knob on the wide door, Flint unconsciously tightened his grip around the slender fingers entwined with his.
    As Flint swung open the heavy door, Leslie had the sensation of being hit by a wall of sound. Combined music and laughter washed over her in a wave of noise, relieving the tension curling along her muscles and nerves. Leslie was not as a rule a party animal. Yet now she welcomed the clatter, chatter and bang attendant to the celebration. Suddenly she wanted to dance, she longed for a drink, but most of all she needed to remove herself from Flint Falcon for a while.
    For the first few minutes after their arrival, chances seemed slim to none for Leslie to break free of Flint’s grip. His expression benign yet remote, his handclasp firm, he made a slow circuit of the large ballroom, acknowledging calls of welcome from some, murmuring pleasantries to others, introducing Leslie to but a few.
    Leslie’s opportunity for escape came in the form of two men who simultaneously approached Flint from different directions. One of the men was a stranger to Leslie; the other was a blackjack dealer she recalled meeting in Las Vegas the previous fall. The stranger spoke softly to Flint, and the dealer spoke hesitantly to her.
    “Miss Fairfield? I suppose you don’t remember me, but...” The man’s voice faded as Flint leveled a brooding, sharp-eyed look at him.
    “Of course I remember you,” Leslie said. “Dale Collins, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.” Dale smiled with boyish pleasure, and sent a wary-eyed glance at Flint, who frowned.
    Beginning to feel like Flint’s possession, and resenting it, Leslie bristled inwardly but smiled brilliantly. “It’s nice to see you again, Dale. You’re working here now?” At his affirmative reply, she continued, “How do you like living on the east coast?”
    Dale shrugged. “I really haven’t been here long enough to tell.” He laughed ruefully. “But my wife loves being so close to everything New York has to offer.” Suddenly his eyes lit up. “We were in the audience the night of your last performance. It was terrific—my wife cried.”
    “Thank you.” Leslie’s smile was misty. “I cried too.”
    “I know.” Dale hesitated, then said, “I know Jan would be thrilled to meet you. I don’t suppose you’d—”
    “Is your wife here tonight?” Leslie interrupted.
    “Yes.” Dale nodded and motioned to a small group of people seated at a table on the far side of the room. “Would you join us for a drink?”
    If Flint had his priorities, so did Leslie; she knew the importance of personal contact with her fans. She didn’t pause before responding. “I’d enjoy that.” Turning to excuse herself, she felt her breath catch at the searing intensity of Flint’s narrowed gaze.
    “Going somewhere?” Flint inquired.
    Leslie wasn’t fooled by his mild tone; Flint was annoyed by Dale’s offer and her acceptance of it. His attitude, along with the speculative interest of the man who had walked up to talk to him, rankled. Unused to having her actions questioned, Leslie grew rigid...and haughty. She returned his stare with sparks flaring from her green eyes.
    “Yes.” Leslie let the one clipped word convey her own annoyance. She’d planned to politely excuse herself and say she’d be right back.