Falcon's Flight by Joan Hohl Page A

his freedom.
    Enthrallment with a woman was not Flint’s idea of a fit state to be in; it interfered with a man’s work. Frowning, Flint glanced down at the list of postponed appointments lying on his otherwise cleared desktop. He had canceled the appointments the day after he met Leslie simply because his work was infringing on his time with her.
    Impatient and disgusted with himself, Flint had requested his secretary to reschedule the appointments. A few minutes later he’d countermanded his own orders, thereby thoroughly confusing the superefficient man, who admired Flint above all others.
    Muttering a shocking expletive, Flint spun his chair to face the long expanse of window. The sea and the sky were spread out before him, metaphorically his. It was all Flint needed, or at least it had been all he’d needed until now.
    “Dammit!”
    Kicking his chair back, Flint sprang to his feet and walked to the window. The bright autumn sunlight danced over the undulating waves like gold coins flung to earth by a benign deity. Overhead, the endless stretch of incredible blue sky was unmarred except for a tiny speck and the wispy line of vapor trailing it. It was freedom. It was his. And yet he felt fettered, caged by the tantalizing personality and sweetly responsive body of a woman!
    Flint’s brows were inching together in a Fierce frown when he heard the faint rustle of movement from the room beyond his office door. Leslie. A sensation too similar to happiness flowed through his entire body. Denying the validity of the sensation, Flint forced himself to remain absolutely still when what he longed to do was stride into the bedroom and sweep Leslie into his arms.
    Utter madness! Flint’s instinct for self-preservation sent a message of warning to his besotted senses. It was utter madness to allow his emotions to become frazzled over a mere woman.
    Ah, but what a woman! Even as his mind rebelled against it, Flint strained to hear the soft sounds of her movements in the bedroom. An image of her swamped his senses and tormented his body. It was three-forty in the afternoon, and he wanted her. His sudden need was nothing new; Flint was getting very familiar with the near-constant state of arousal.
    Moving his shoulders in a philosophical shrug, Flint surrendered, savoring the memories they now shared and the anticipation of adding to those memories. There would be time enough to reclaim control of his rioting senses and voracious desire after Leslie was gone, Flint mused confidently.
    Only three more days. The phrase stabbed at Flint’s mind like a poisoned dart. Moving with sudden decisiveness, he turned his back on the window and headed for the connecting door to the bedroom with long, purposeful strides.
    Three days to go.
    Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Leslie paused in her restless circuit around the room to stare at the closed door to Flint’s office. She felt strange, not at all like the rather cynical woman who’d laughed about indulging in a blazing affair if she should happen to run into a certain type of man.
    Well, she had literally run into that certain type of man, and being with him was having a strange effect on her mentally and physically. Just the thought of Flint on the other side of the door caused a tingle in her spine and a weakness in her body.
    Lord, the man’s appetite was insatiable! Her breathing growing rough and uneven, Leslie sank onto the edge of the bed, a mocking smile curving her lips as she recalled her own aggressive behavior in his bed. Falcon’s influence on her was astonishing. Never had she taken the initiative while making love. Never had she reveled in playing the wanton. The self-mocking smile deepened as Leslie decided that should the occasion arrive she could now accept the role of Salome, confident of giving an award-winning performance.
    Quivering in response to vivid memories, Leslie lay back on the enormous bed. Sighing, she closed her eyes. Flint was consuming her,