total of six hundred and seventy-two dollars, Leslie couldn’t dredge up more than a faint smile. She did, however, respond politely when the employee offered his congratulations along with the crisp bills he very carefully counted out before sliding them across the counter to her.
Now what? Leslie wondered, desultorily stashing the bills into her purse. Glancing at her watch, she sighed, then went still as the soft sound registered on her astounded mind. She was bored! She, Leslie Fairfield, the woman known to derive delight and genuine release from tension by playing at the games of chance, was bored, and she had barely started! And all because of a man! It was downright demoralizing.
Drifting along the aisles in the slot-machine section, occasionally dodging a cluster of people grouped around a single machine, Leslie pondered her distracting problem—namely, Flint Falcon—and exactly how she had managed to get herself into such a predicament in the first place.
For a time, Leslie tried to deny responsibility by maintaining she’d had little choice in the matter; Flint had literally swooped down on her the instant she’d stepped into his blasted hotel. But honesty wouldn’t allow her to continue thinking along that line, simply because she knew she had the option of walking away from him.
So, Leslie asked herself as she moved toward the table games, why not walk away from him?
She quickly answered her silent query. Flint Falcon was the most interesting man she had run across in years—not to mention the single sexiest man she had ever run across! Leslie sighed again and accepted the fact that she wanted to be with Flint in every sense of the term be with.
Okay, so accept all of it, Leslie silently advised herself, pausing a few moments to watch the play at a crowded, noisy craps table. Accept his forcefulness, the dark aura of power surrounding him, the unsettling sense of frightening excitement that emanates from him and the damned bodyguards.
Moving away from the table, Leslie didn’t even hear the shout of victory from a man who had tossed the dice for an important win. She was too involved with listening to the thundering sound of her own increased heartbeat for, having once again glanced at her watch, she realized it was time to meet her fate—in the dark form of Flint Falcon.
Flint was waiting for her, propped with deceptive indolence against the coffee-shop wall. He had been waiting for thirty-odd minutes. Impatience abraded Flint’s nerves, impatience with Leslie and with himself, but mostly with the inner need he felt for her, a need that had been growing at a steady rate into a voracious hunger.
Although Flint had sought out the man he’d wanted to talk to, in actual time he hadn’t spent more than ten minutes conversing with him. Flint had filled the long interval by wandering around the huge casino, his expression forbidding as he fought a silent, inner struggle with himself.
The conflict within Flint was at his most basic, most vulnerable level. In some insidious way, a way Flint couldn’t—or wouldn’t—as yet comprehend, his emotions were getting all tangled up with his desires in regards to Leslie Fairfield. And try as he might to dismiss other than physical considerations of her, his wary emotions kept getting in the way.
Leslie was just another in a long line of women, Flint told himself repeatedly while strolling from the tables to the machines and back to the tables again. And, though his piercing gaze swept the faces of the assortment of females, he also repeatedly assured himself he wasn’t looking for one female face in particular.
By the time Flint propped his body against the coffee-shop wall, he was ready to admit to a feeling of testy impatience. He was also ready to admit that he had been lying to himself. And by the time he spotted Leslie drifting toward him, looking as delicious and inviting as an oasis in the middle of a scorched, parched desert, he was ready to
Now what? Leslie wondered, desultorily stashing the bills into her purse. Glancing at her watch, she sighed, then went still as the soft sound registered on her astounded mind. She was bored! She, Leslie Fairfield, the woman known to derive delight and genuine release from tension by playing at the games of chance, was bored, and she had barely started! And all because of a man! It was downright demoralizing.
Drifting along the aisles in the slot-machine section, occasionally dodging a cluster of people grouped around a single machine, Leslie pondered her distracting problem—namely, Flint Falcon—and exactly how she had managed to get herself into such a predicament in the first place.
For a time, Leslie tried to deny responsibility by maintaining she’d had little choice in the matter; Flint had literally swooped down on her the instant she’d stepped into his blasted hotel. But honesty wouldn’t allow her to continue thinking along that line, simply because she knew she had the option of walking away from him.
So, Leslie asked herself as she moved toward the table games, why not walk away from him?
She quickly answered her silent query. Flint Falcon was the most interesting man she had run across in years—not to mention the single sexiest man she had ever run across! Leslie sighed again and accepted the fact that she wanted to be with Flint in every sense of the term be with.
Okay, so accept all of it, Leslie silently advised herself, pausing a few moments to watch the play at a crowded, noisy craps table. Accept his forcefulness, the dark aura of power surrounding him, the unsettling sense of frightening excitement that emanates from him and the damned bodyguards.
Moving away from the table, Leslie didn’t even hear the shout of victory from a man who had tossed the dice for an important win. She was too involved with listening to the thundering sound of her own increased heartbeat for, having once again glanced at her watch, she realized it was time to meet her fate—in the dark form of Flint Falcon.
Flint was waiting for her, propped with deceptive indolence against the coffee-shop wall. He had been waiting for thirty-odd minutes. Impatience abraded Flint’s nerves, impatience with Leslie and with himself, but mostly with the inner need he felt for her, a need that had been growing at a steady rate into a voracious hunger.
Although Flint had sought out the man he’d wanted to talk to, in actual time he hadn’t spent more than ten minutes conversing with him. Flint had filled the long interval by wandering around the huge casino, his expression forbidding as he fought a silent, inner struggle with himself.
The conflict within Flint was at his most basic, most vulnerable level. In some insidious way, a way Flint couldn’t—or wouldn’t—as yet comprehend, his emotions were getting all tangled up with his desires in regards to Leslie Fairfield. And try as he might to dismiss other than physical considerations of her, his wary emotions kept getting in the way.
Leslie was just another in a long line of women, Flint told himself repeatedly while strolling from the tables to the machines and back to the tables again. And, though his piercing gaze swept the faces of the assortment of females, he also repeatedly assured himself he wasn’t looking for one female face in particular.
By the time Flint propped his body against the coffee-shop wall, he was ready to admit to a feeling of testy impatience. He was also ready to admit that he had been lying to himself. And by the time he spotted Leslie drifting toward him, looking as delicious and inviting as an oasis in the middle of a scorched, parched desert, he was ready to
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