Instead she gave him a dismissive smile before turning to accompany Dale to his table.
Watching the smooth line of her gently swaying hips, Falcon experienced an unusual combination of emotions deep in his gut. He was feeling inordinately angry and oddly bereft. But there was another sensation as well—it was almost as if someone had taken his most valued possession. The feeling confused him, for though he wryly acknowledged his need to physically possess Leslie, he knew his most valued possession was his fiercely guarded freedom. Shying away from analyzing his feelings, Flint casually returned his attention to the man patiently waiting at his side.
Flint heard every word that the man, who happened to be the head of the hotel’s security force, said to him. At the same time, his expression austere and unrevealing, Flint carefully monitored every move Leslie made, his response inward and concealed.
His lips burned when, after taking a sip of wine, the tip of her tongue flicked at a golden drop shimmering on her lip. His stomach muscles contracted when she laughed at something someone had said. His chest seemed to compress when she tossed her head to flip her flaming mass of hair off one shoulder. But, as he soon learned, the worst was yet to come.
Listening intently to his security chief and giving his usual short, terse replies, Flint felt every muscle in his body tighten when Leslie accompanied a member of Dale’s party onto the dance floor. He felt offended by the smile on her lips; he felt murderous at the way she allowed the man to draw her too tightly into his arms; and as if she were pressed to him, he felt his body quicken and harden in response.
Flint was beginning to sweat where it didn’t show by the time Leslie drifted back to him. “Enjoying the party?” he asked in a pleasant tone, restraining an urge to manacle her slender wrist with his strong fingers.
“Yes, they’re nice people,” Leslie said, raising her eyebrows as she glanced around. “Where is your friend?”
“He’s not a friend; he works for me.” Flint’s dismissive tone ended the subject. “What was Collins talking about?” he asked, introducing another topic.
“When?” Leslie responded coolly, put off by his seeming disregard for an employee.
Leslie’s distant tone sent fresh anger surging through Flint. Amazed at the difficulty he had controlling his temper, Falcon injected a note of casual interest into his low voice. “When he said that he and his wife were in the audience the night you gave your last performance.”
“I’m an actress, Flint,” she explained. “I decided to bow out of the play I was in when I realized it was going stale for me. Dale and his wife were in the audience the night of my last performance.”
“How long were you a member of the cast?” Flint asked with interest.
“Not quite ten months.” Leslie smiled. “I loved it, but I was beginning to feel tired, physically tired, and I thought I’d better withdraw gracefully before it showed in my performance.”
Flint stared at her intently. “You’re feeling all right now?” His voice, though low, had sharpened. “You’re not ill?” Even to himself Flint could not have explained the darting pang of alarm he felt.
“I’m fine.” Leslie laughed. “I’ve worked very hard and I needed a break, that’s all.” Her laughter subsiding, she gave him a pointed look. “I came to Atlantic City to play. Didn’t you mention something about making a brief appearance at this party?”
A wry smile eased Flint’s taut expression. “The casino doesn’t open until tomorrow night,” he said. “But I think I could find another kind of game to amuse you.”
“Yes, I’m sure you could.” Suppressing the excitement his insinuation generated, Leslie gave him a prim look and spun away, heading for the door. He was beside her within two strides, his hand curving about her waist in a proprietary way.
“Where are you going, Red?” he
Watching the smooth line of her gently swaying hips, Falcon experienced an unusual combination of emotions deep in his gut. He was feeling inordinately angry and oddly bereft. But there was another sensation as well—it was almost as if someone had taken his most valued possession. The feeling confused him, for though he wryly acknowledged his need to physically possess Leslie, he knew his most valued possession was his fiercely guarded freedom. Shying away from analyzing his feelings, Flint casually returned his attention to the man patiently waiting at his side.
Flint heard every word that the man, who happened to be the head of the hotel’s security force, said to him. At the same time, his expression austere and unrevealing, Flint carefully monitored every move Leslie made, his response inward and concealed.
His lips burned when, after taking a sip of wine, the tip of her tongue flicked at a golden drop shimmering on her lip. His stomach muscles contracted when she laughed at something someone had said. His chest seemed to compress when she tossed her head to flip her flaming mass of hair off one shoulder. But, as he soon learned, the worst was yet to come.
Listening intently to his security chief and giving his usual short, terse replies, Flint felt every muscle in his body tighten when Leslie accompanied a member of Dale’s party onto the dance floor. He felt offended by the smile on her lips; he felt murderous at the way she allowed the man to draw her too tightly into his arms; and as if she were pressed to him, he felt his body quicken and harden in response.
Flint was beginning to sweat where it didn’t show by the time Leslie drifted back to him. “Enjoying the party?” he asked in a pleasant tone, restraining an urge to manacle her slender wrist with his strong fingers.
“Yes, they’re nice people,” Leslie said, raising her eyebrows as she glanced around. “Where is your friend?”
“He’s not a friend; he works for me.” Flint’s dismissive tone ended the subject. “What was Collins talking about?” he asked, introducing another topic.
“When?” Leslie responded coolly, put off by his seeming disregard for an employee.
Leslie’s distant tone sent fresh anger surging through Flint. Amazed at the difficulty he had controlling his temper, Falcon injected a note of casual interest into his low voice. “When he said that he and his wife were in the audience the night you gave your last performance.”
“I’m an actress, Flint,” she explained. “I decided to bow out of the play I was in when I realized it was going stale for me. Dale and his wife were in the audience the night of my last performance.”
“How long were you a member of the cast?” Flint asked with interest.
“Not quite ten months.” Leslie smiled. “I loved it, but I was beginning to feel tired, physically tired, and I thought I’d better withdraw gracefully before it showed in my performance.”
Flint stared at her intently. “You’re feeling all right now?” His voice, though low, had sharpened. “You’re not ill?” Even to himself Flint could not have explained the darting pang of alarm he felt.
“I’m fine.” Leslie laughed. “I’ve worked very hard and I needed a break, that’s all.” Her laughter subsiding, she gave him a pointed look. “I came to Atlantic City to play. Didn’t you mention something about making a brief appearance at this party?”
A wry smile eased Flint’s taut expression. “The casino doesn’t open until tomorrow night,” he said. “But I think I could find another kind of game to amuse you.”
“Yes, I’m sure you could.” Suppressing the excitement his insinuation generated, Leslie gave him a prim look and spun away, heading for the door. He was beside her within two strides, his hand curving about her waist in a proprietary way.
“Where are you going, Red?” he
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