Falcon's Flight by Joan Hohl

the bathroom. “I worked until three; then I joined you in bed.”
    “But didn’t the casino open at ten?”
    Flint nodded. “Of course. I slept my usual four hours, then went back into my office until it was time for the grand opening.”
    “I see,” she said, beginning to believe that what she really saw was a dynamic, very purposeful man. Leslie pushed aside her half-finished meal and raised her eyebrows as she sipped on the hot coffee. “You only ever sleep four hours at a time?”
    “Generally.” Flint’s smile was suggestive. “There are exceptions to every rule, of course.” His tone, plus his smile, left little doubt in her mind as to what those exceptions were.
    “Of course,” she murmured dryly.
    Flint’s smile deepened. “Any other questions?” “Yes.” Leslie smoothed her palm over the velvet. “About this robe you handed tome...”
    “What about it?” One dark eyebrow slanted arrogantly.
    “It isn’t mine,” she chided softly.
    “It is now.” Flint’s tone hardened warningly; Leslie chose to ignore it.
    “I do not require payment, Flint,” she said, bristling. “I thought I’d made that clear last night.”
    Flint had been lounging in the padded chair. As she spoke he slowly sat up straight. “I didn’t buy the jewelry or the robe as a form of payment, Leslie.” His voice sliced at her like cold steel. “I never pay for services rendered.” Sheer male arrogance defined the tilt of his head. “And I never explain my motives to anyone.” His smile was remote, chilling. “I will make an exception in this case, but I will tell you once and only once. I bought the gifts because it pleased me to do so. Is that completely understood?”
    Not even to herself could Leslie deny the sense of intimidation his attitude and drilling stare sent streaking through her. But she wouldn’t have admitted to the sensation under threat of bodily injury.
    “Perfectly,” she said succinctly, tilting her own head imperiously.
    “Good,” he bit back. “Now, is there anything else you have to say before we close this subject?”
    Leslie pondered a moment, raking her mind for a suitable retort. Then her green eyes began to gleam and she nodded her head.
    “You’re great in bed, Falcon,” she said wryly, “but you really are an arrogant bastard.”
    Six
    You ’re great in bed, but you really are a bastard.
    A smile relieved the unrelenting line defining Flint’s lips. A week and a half had passed since Leslie had made the dry observation, tossing his own words back at him, yet the ghost of a smile haunted his lips every time the echo of her voice teased his memory.
    And Leslie wasn’t even aware of how fitting her epithet really was! Flint leaned back in his desk chair, his lips curving in a soundless laugh. A week and a half. The reminder of time racing by intruded on his amusement. Leslie had told him that she had planned to spend two weeks in Atlantic City, and now those two weeks were almost past. Unless he could convince her to extend her stay, Leslie would be returning to New York in three days.
    The alarm that snaked through Flint both surprised and annoyed him. He had expected to be fully satiated with Leslie long before the end of one week, if not bored to distraction as he always was with any woman. But one week had rushed swiftly into another, and to his chagrin he was neither satiated nor bored. Quite the contrary. Flint could not get enough of Leslie’s body or company.
    Flint moved as if to shrug off the unusual sensation. He didn’t relish feeling any emotion concerning her departure, but most especially he didn’t want this uneasy sense of alarm. Flint Falcon considered his life complete—-he neither needed nor wanted to form what he considered a crippling emotional dependency on any other individual. Emotional involvements and serious relationships infringed on personal freedom—his personal freedom. And Flint had sworn long ago that nothing would ever again infringe on