Free Falcon's Flight by Joan Hohl Page B

hint.
    “I always wanted to be a stage actress,” she said abruptly. “I wanted it so much I could sometimes taste it.” She paused in case he cared to comment, but Flint merely nodded. For some ridiculous reason, Leslie felt gratified by his understanding. After moistening her dry throat with a sip of wine, she went on, “I never even missed, let alone minded, the sacrifices made in pursuit of my dream. I rarely dated, I seldom went to parties or other social functions, I didn’t go to college and I never even considered marriage until I was thirty-two years old.” Again she waited for a comment from him; again Flint had none to make. “By the time I met him I was established, reasonably successful, more than financially solvent and a prime pushover for a golden-haired, godlike actor capable of wringing tears from an audience with his delivery of Hamlet’s soliloquy.” This time when Leslie paused, Flint did have a comment, which consisted of one succinct word.
    “Him?”
    “Bradford Quarrels, the theatrical darling of New York and London,” Leslie said wryly, “and the boy wonder of almost any lady’s bedroom.” Her smile was self-mocking. “The first fact I knew before I met him.”
    “And the second fact?” Flint prompted.
    “I refused to acknowledge until the day he told me he was leaving me.” Leslie frowned into her glass. The wine was getting to her, inducing a heaviness in her limbs and eyelids. She yawned delicately before adding, “Brad’s confession of infidelity was the final in a series of stunning blows.”
    “Blows?”
    Leslie blinked at him. How, she wondered, had Flint managed to convey such tightly controlled fury in the utterance of one small word? The answer sprang into her mind even as the question was unrolling. “Oh! I didn’t mean physical blows,” she hastened to assure him. “Brad never raised a hand to me.” Her smile was faint. “It probably would have been easier to take if he had... bruises heal rather quickly.”
    Flint’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’d better explain that.”
    Leslie felt tired and sleepy. She didn’t want to dredge it all up again, relive the hurtful memories, but Flint was staring—no, glaring—at her, waiting, and she knew he’d persist until she told him everything. Her sigh was soft but heartfelt.
    “He is really an excellent actor, you know. He told me that the only time I was interesting and attractive was while I was onstage, playing a role. He said I was an uninspired and uninspiring partner in bed, which accounted for his need to seek excitement elsewhere, beginning with the second day of our honeymoon.” Leslie tried to smile; the effort defeated her.
    “And you believed him?” Flint’s voice was raw with disbelief and anger.
    “At the time, yes.” Flint opened his mouth, but Leslie forestalled his protest. “Please try to understand,” she pleaded. “I loved and trusted him. I had convinced myself that we were the perfect match—a meeting of minds, talent and emotions. I completely believed the part he had chosen to play for me... that of charming, intelligent, companionable friend and lover. I bought the whole nine yards. The occasional hints dropped in the trade papers I dismissed as vicious gossip, and although most of my friends knew the philandering bastard Brad really was, they thought to shield me by keeping silent. So yes, Flint, I believed every word and for a while I was devastated.”
    “What did you do?” Flint’s voice was so soft, so gentle, it brought tears to her eyes.
    “I fell apart and ran away.” Leslie blinked again.
    “Where did you run to?”
    “To the same place and person I’d been running to all my life whenever I needed help.” Leslie managed a genuine if weary smile. “I have an older cousin. He has always been my friend and champion.” She laughed softly in remembrance. “He offered to go to New York and relieve Brad of his skin, a narrow strip at a time.”
    “Sounds to me