Falcon's Flight by Joan Hohl Read Free Book Online

having murmured the compliment aloud, and of the note of near awe in his low voice. “Absolutely lovely.”
    “Thank you.” Leslie swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat. “They are exquisite pieces.” Flint frowned. Then he began walking toward her* an amused smile tilting his lips. “I meant you,” he said, reaching out to lightly touch the collar circling her smooth throat. “They are stones, cold and inanimate.” The tip of his finger slid from the collar to her silky skin. “The warmth of your flesh gives them fire and life.” His finger drew a feather-light line down the edge of the dress where it draped the curve of her breast.
    Leslie felt a chain reaction of tiny explosions from the spot where his fingertip rested to the most secret reaches of her body. She had been complimented before, touched before, yet never had she felt such an immediate, urgent response. A cool shiver trickled down her spine. A breathy sound whispered through her parted lips.
    “Flint, I...” Her voice faded in the heat from his passion-darkened gaze.
    Moving slowly, Flint trailed his finger up to her neck. He lowered his head as his hand curled around her nape. Mesmerized, Leslie stared at the miniature reflection of herself in his eyes and parted her lips. From a distance she imagined she heard a low, ravenous growl.
    “I’ll muss your makeup.” His mouth hovered over hers. His breath misted on her trembling lips.
    “I don’t care.” Her voice was faint, reedy, a wisp of sound that went no farther than his mouth.
    “I told the maitre d’ to expect us at six-thirty.” He moved his head to brush his lips over hers.
    “1 don’t care.” She lifted her head in a fruitless attempt to capture his mouth.
    “Later, darling,” Flint promised in a sexy, bone-melting tone. “There’s an employees’ party tonight, and I must put in an appearance.” Rueful amusement edged his voice. “And unless I get you out of here within the next few seconds, I’ll be tempted to say the hell with dinner, the party and the entire world.” Removing his hand from her nape, Flint stepped back. A groan rumbled from deep in his throat when he caught sight of the liquid green fire in her eyes. “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll chuck my good intentions to take you to dinner,” he warned, taking another step back.
    Leslie sighed, then came to her senses. The spell was broken, but the melting heat lingered on to warm her body. “I am hungry,” she admitted with a small, self-conscious laugh.
    “For me?” He gave her a glimpse of his devil grin.
    “Flint!” Leslie wailed in protest.
    Moving quickly, he walked over to her again. Bending, he placed his open mouth against the curve of her neck. “I like to hear you call me Falcon.” His tongue teased her quivering flesh. “It arouses something atavistic in me.” With a final gentle nip with his teeth, he quickly moved away from her. This time he indicated the door with a sweeping motion of his arm. “I’ll claim a larger bite later,” he murmured, laughing softly as she swept by him regally.
    Situated on the third level of the hotel, the restaurant was elegant in decor and lighted by muted chandeliers and by flickering candles placed in the center of each table. The cuisine was French.
    Displaying the gallantry and flair of one of the queen’s musketeers, the maitre d’ escorted them to the secluded table kept for Flint’s exclusive use. Declining a before-dinner drink, they began the meal with onion soup with bite-size croutons floating beneath a thick cheese topping. From the soup they progressed to the chef’s specialty of tender medallions of veal in a burgundy sauce served with tiny browned potatoes and thick spears of white asparagus. Of course, they were treated to the Caesar salad, prepared in grand fashion at their table by the fussy maitre d\
    Conversation was limited to generalities throughout the consumption of the meal, which suited Leslie; she used