Firestorm (11 page)

“Storm, dear, are you all right?”

Storm managed to meet Paul's eyes. “Yes.”

“I hope you thanked Brett. Dear God! To think if he had come a few moments later…”

Storm's color deepened. She knew she could have handled it alone. Or, she thought she could have. She had been on the verge of getting her gun. Well, almost on the verge. Maybe she couldn't have handled it. Then a flash of painful memory reminded her that Brett had gone too far by punishing her himself. No, she certainly wasn't beholden to him. “I already thanked him,” she said, her eyes on the linen tablecloth. “May I go upstairs now?”

“Certainly,” Paul said, standing. “If the sheriff wants to ask you some questions, which he most certainly will, I'll call for you.”

Storm nodded, avoided Brett's dark, intense gaze, which was now riveted on her, and started from the dining room. Just as she left the room, she heard Paul say, “How can we keep this quiet? Storm doesn't need another scandal.”

“I'm afraid two dead men assure the whole town will be talking about it,” Brett said grimly.

“Thank God you were with her,” Paul said. “Imagine if this had happened when she was riding alone.”

Storm ran up the stairs, not wanting to hear any more. She didn't want to be the subject of more gossip, but she realized with a sinking heart she had no choice in the matter. She wished she had never come west. She was suddenly miserable, as well as guilty, and she still didn't understand why Brett had protected her. She was astute enough to know that if the real story came out—that she
had been riding alone—the scandal would be ten times worse. Was that why he had lied?

Why would he want to protect her?

 

The scandal broke that afternoon.

Brett had told the sheriff he'd like to keep the incident quiet, and Andrews had nodded. But hoping to catch the remaining assailant, Andrews sent his deputies out asking questions, and before two o'clock Brett found himself being hailed repeatedly on the street as he walked from the Golden Lady to his hotel for a late lunch. Everyone wanted the gory details.

“Hey, Brett! Heard you shot up some riffraff down by the beach!” That from a man he barely knew.

Leanne St. Clair and her mother chose that moment to ride down the street in their carriage. They hailed him, and Brett had no choice but to stop. “Good day, Brett,” said Helen St. Clair. Leanne echoed her mother, smiling coyly.

Brett wasn't feeling very friendly. He was still perturbed because he'd had to kill two men, an act that didn't sit well with him. He had killed before, but not often, and not since his wild gold rush days. He hated taking another's life, even in self-defense. In this case it was even worse, because if the wild little chit had had any sense, none of it would have happened. He was still furious with her.

Now he nodded abruptly, rudely, to Leanne, remembering how she had spread rumors about Storm in the Farlanes' garden. She didn't look half as beautiful today in the daylight, just malicious. He felt disgusted.

“So, Brett, the news is all over town! Tell us,” Helen said excitedly.

“What news?”

“Oh, Brett!” Leanne pouted. “You know. How you defended Storm from being molested. Was she hurt? Is she…ruined?”

“I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about,” Brett said coldly. “Excuse me, ladies, I am late for an engagement.” He nodded and walked by, ignoring Helen St. Clair's gasp at his rudeness.

Unfortunately, two business acquaintances stopped him moments later to ask if it was true—had he gunned down two men in defense of Storm's honor? Brett feigned complete ignorance and did not glance at a soul in the magnificent gold and white foyer of the Hotel Royale. When his own host asked him if the news was true, he almost fired the man on the spot. Instead, seeing heads straining in his direction, Brett changed his mind and turned on his heel, heading grimly, resolutely, back outside. He would skip lunch.

Storm was trouble, spelled with capital letters. As he sought the sanctuary of his own office in the Golden Lady, he wondered if Storm could possibly become a conventional, mild-mannered lady. He doubted it. He still didn't know what had made him lie to her cousin to protect her.

Several hours later there was a knock on his door, and, thinking it was Linda, one of his girls, with a snack he'd asked her to fetch, Brett called out for her to come in. Marcy Farlane closed the door behind her.

Brett immediately stood. “Marcy?” he said, surprised, then worried. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, flashing him a beautiful smile. “Brett, I'm sorry to bother you, but we must talk.”

Brett quickly led her to the sofa, where she gracefully sat, pulling off fine white gloves. “I can't believe you would come here,” he began.

She smiled fleetingly. “Why not? I've always wanted an excuse to see what a place like this looks like.”

Brett scowled. “The downstairs is merely a bar, you know that.”

“But I expected to see naked women running around.”

He relaxed when he saw that she was teasing him. “They only run around naked upstairs.”

She smiled and put an elegant hand on his. “Brett, please, Storm won't talk—what happened?”

“
Et tu, Brute?
”

“What?”

He shook his head. “I've been accosted all day by avid townsmen trying to get the ‘inside story.'”

“I am sorry. But I'm worried about Storm.”

“I know. You've probably already heard the story. We were out riding, my horse pulled up a bit lame, she went on ahead. She was accosted by three men, I shot two of them, one escaped.”

Marcy let out her breath. “Poor Storm! Thank God you were there.”

Brett frowned.

“Brett, she wasn't hurt, was she?”

“No.”

She sighed. Then she looked at him suspiciously. “I find it hard to believe that the two of you were out riding together.”

“What?”

“Storm told me she—well, I won't repeat her words, but she let me understand in no uncertain terms that she would not be friends with you, no matter what our own relationship.”

Anger began to seep through him. “She did, eh?”

“So I find it hard to believe that the two of you were out riding.”

“We were.” He would not tell the truth, even to Marcy, but he was angry now, thinking about that ungrateful brat, Storm. “I have no use for her, either,” he muttered.

“Oh, damn,” Marcy said, startling Brett. “Well, thank God she's all right. Thank you, Brett.”

“You're welcome.”

Marcy held his gaze. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

She sighed. “Storm has begged off the next week's engagements, and both Paul and I agree we've pushed her too far too fast. We're going to try to let this scandal die down before the Sinclairs' ball.”

“Good idea,” Brett agreed.

She stood, and Brett was instantly on his feet, too. “I'm sorry to bother you, Brett.” She shot him another musing glance. “Were you two really riding together?”

“Of course,” he said easily with his bland poker face.

Suddenly she smiled, taking his hands. “Thank you, Brett.” She kissed his cheek.

After she left, he stood gazing at the door for a few moments. Exactly what
had
Storm told Marcy about him?

She wanted to go.

She was apprehensive, though, too—after all, it was her first appearance back in society after her last fiasco. But boredom drew her out of her self-imposed exile. That and the desire to see Brett.

The past week had crept past. She had ridden for hours every day with Bart, and read Shakespeare and Melville and Dickens until they were coming out of her ears. Then restlessness had set in. She was not used to being confined, with nothing constructive to do. When Paul had to go to Sacramento to inspect some holdings there, she had eagerly accompanied him. She had loved the riverboat ride.

But she kept thinking about Brett.

She wanted to ask him why he had lied for her, but she hadn't seen him all week. She had hoped, while carefully not allowing herself to admit she was hoping, that he would call on her. He hadn't. Randolph had called instead, and James, and Lee, and Robert. They had all politely avoided any mention of what had happened—except for Randolph, who had practically demanded the full details. Not wanting to discuss it, Storm had lost her temper, and like the gentleman he was, Randolph had dropped the subject.

Leanne, too, had come calling with her mother. They had tried to pry the story out of Storm while insinuating that she had been molested, or worse. Storm would have
attacked the bitchy girl if Marcy hadn't been there. Marcy had said a few well-chosen words, politely putting Leanne in her place, and the two had left in a huff.

Now Storm stood very still, her heart fluttering, while her maid, Lettie, hooked up the exquisite royal-blue taffeta ballgown. Brett would be there tonight. And she was determined to find out why he had lied for her.

Into her mind there kept flashing an image of how his mouth looked as it was lowering on hers. She shoved it away.

Marcy knocked softly and entered, the picture of elegance in a shimmering gold gown that revealed white shoulders and an expanse of white bosom. The Farlanes would be driving Storm and Paul to the Sinclairs' tonight. “You look wonderful,” Marcy cried enthusiastically.

Storm smiled and turned to face the mirror. Her expression faded. The woman staring back at her was radiant, flushed, her bright eyes as blue as the gown. She was a stranger. Storm reached for the bodice to tug it up. It wouldn't move. “This is scandalous,” she said.

“It's the height of fashion,” Marcy assured her.

“If I bend over, I'll fall out.”

“Why would you bend over?”

“Oh, Marcy! I don't think I can wear this.”

“Storm, you look wonderful, and the men are waiting. We'll be late.”

Storm's color intensified. She couldn't go dressed like this, with her shoulders entirely revealed. The puffed sleeves covered her arms only to her elbows. Almost her entire bosom was exposed. She felt naked.

She found herself settled in the carriage. It was better than standing in front of the mirror. She would pretend she hadn't seen how she looked, or better yet, pretend she had Marcy's elegance and poise and confidence. As if sensing her thoughts, Marcy reached out and squeezed her
hand. Storm wondered if everyone had forgotten the incident on the beach.

In the round driveway they waited for five carriages to discharge their passengers at the front steps before they were able to alight, Paul taking a firm grip on Storm's elbow to help her down. By now, she was used to the high-heeled shoes, and quite adept at walking. She was no longer afraid of falling on her face, and since she refused to wear stays, she didn't think she'd faint, either.

Her heart began to pound. They walked inside, and the ladies handed their cloaks to the butler.

There were a hundred couples at the ball, the crème de la crème of San Francisco society, but the instant they entered the vast ballroom, Storm saw Brett. He was standing not far from the entryway, talking to two gentlemen and a lady, looking impossibly virile in a black tailcoat and silver waistcoat and tie. Their eyes met.

She blushed. Even from the distance of forty feet, she felt the heat of his gaze, saw the brightening of his eyes, then felt breathless as his gaze descended, leisurely, pausing on the expanse of her revealed bosom. She was suddenly glad she was wearing the gown. He liked it. Then she realized Brett wasn't the only one staring. Everyone near the entrance of the ballroom was gazing at her. Dismay replaced her heady elation. They were whispering about her.

Instantly her quartet of suitors was upon her, laughing and exclaiming over her beauty, announcing their pleasure in seeing her. As Robert and Lee began quarreling over the first dance, and Randolph took her arm while James volunteered to fetch champagne, Storm forgot that she was the object of so much scrutiny.

She had no more time to think of Brett, but she was always aware of him. Even as she whirled away in Robert's arms, then Lee's, then Randolph's, even as James brought the champagne and she paused to drink it, she sensed Brett
staring at her steadily, intensely, standing alone now. She realized he had come without a partner, and was thrilled. A man she didn't know asked for a dance, and she agreed. Then James again. She danced and danced and danced, but on the periphery of her line of vision, as she was waltzed around the floor, she was always aware of Brett.

Her feet were beginning to ache, but she barely noticed. She was having a good time. The men were openly admiring, telling her again and again how lovely she was, and she was starting to feel lovely. The moment a dance ended, there was always someone else to claim her; she couldn't even remember their names. Taking a momentary breather, she sipped another glass of champagne, and carried on a conversation with at least six suitors. This time Randolph whirled her away.

It was getting late, and the waltz had barely started when they were interrupted. “Excuse me, but I'm cutting in,” Brett said firmly.

Storm's heart went wild.

He gazed steadily down at her for a moment. She could barely breathe. He took her in his arms, and her body leaped at the exhilarating contact. “Never have I seen a woman so beautiful,” he breathed huskily.

She thought she might faint from sheer ecstasy.

He was graceful, smooth, a wonderful leader, and Storm followed easily. She was acutely aware of his hand on her waist, not light like the other men but firmly there, his splayed fingers making her skin tingle through the taffeta and petticoats. His other hand, holding hers, was large and warm and seemed to throb deliciously over hers. She gazed steadily at his face, really seeing it as if for the first time, taking the opportunity to memorize its bold lines and harsh planes. She found herself staring at his mouth—which was just as bold and sensuously full.

“Do you like what you see?” His voice was warm and deep, huskier than usual. It thrilled her.

“Yes,” she said simply, truthfully. Their eyes met, his flaring with light.

“Storm,” he said, her name a caress.

“Brett?”

He almost smiled. “I think I'm becoming enchanted,” he murmured.

Enchanted. He was becoming enchanted
. The word echoed dreamily again and again. And she was becoming lost and powerless, lost in the warmth and intensity of his presence.

“Why?” Her own voice sounded different, and she coughed to clear it. “Why did you lie to Paul?”

He gave her a lazy smile. “To save your reputation. You could not have weathered the scandal if people had learned you had been accosted while riding alone.”

She looked blankly at him.

“The bitches of this town would say you asked to be raped. Worse, that you were. That I'd arrived too late.”

She flushed. Until now she hadn't fully understood the magnitude of what he'd done. “Thank you.”

Suddenly she realized he was waltzing her through the French doors and out onto the balcony. “Brett!” But her protest was weak. She was trembling, eager to be alone with him.

They stopped, and his arm went around her. “You must be tired,” he murmured, holding her pressed against his side. “You've been dancing all night.”

She smiled gratefully. “I'm not tired, but my feet hurt a bit.”

He threw back his head and laughed. His eyes sparkled as he studied her. One hand touched her cheek, his fingers trembling slightly, or was it her imagination? “Guileless Storm.”

She was too aware of his fingers on her face, of the stillness of the night around them, of the feel of his hip and side and thigh against her. She swallowed.

“Let me get us something to drink,” he said quickly. “Champagne or punch?”

“Champagne.”

As soon as he left, she let out her breath and realized her heart was pounding wildly, her body throbbing deliciously. She leaned over the rail, closing her eyes, lifting her face to the moonlight. The air was chilly, but she didn't care. She fantasized about how Brett would return and pull her into his arms and kiss her. She was aching for his kiss.

He returned with two glasses, smiling warmly at her. Her heart leaped in response. “What were you thinking about? Or were you wishing on the moon?”

She took the glass he held out and sipped, gazing up at the full white orb. “I was imagining how you'd kiss me,” she said, daring to glance at him.

His breath caught. She turned to look fully at him. He took the glass away, setting it aside. “Your wish is my command,” he murmured and took her into his arms.

His body was warm and as hard as she remembered. Never had anything felt so right as being pulled against him. He held her so tightly her breasts were crushed against his chest, and she pressed harder, wanting to lose herself in him. Both his hands slid up her back, to her bare shoulders, and captured her head, oblivious of her carefully piled hair. In the bright moonlight she could see his features as clearly as if it were day. His gaze was so intense it sent a shudder through her, and then his mouth swooped down, covering hers.

She threw her arms around his neck and strained against him. The kiss was gentle and brief. He withdrew. She cried out in protest, and then he was kissing her again, this time with savage strength. She opened her lips beneath the onslaught; he began to probe with his tongue. Storm clung to him, moaning from deep in her chest.

She felt his own shuddering response, and more. His maleness rose between them, hot, hard, insistent, and she
mindlessly ground her belly against it. His hands, callused and searing, roamed over her bare back, kneading her flesh, stroking. Then abruptly he pulled away, forcibly removing her hands and stepping two paces to one side.

“No,” she protested, a whimper of sound.

She saw the strain on his face, the tightly compressed mouth, the pinched nostrils. Then his gaze slipped, and she glanced down to see that her bodice had become askew, revealing one taut, coral-colored nipple. Brett sucked in his breath. Storm just stared dumbly.

She pulled up the bodice with a shaking hand. Then he was there—his hands on hers, taking them away, pulling her against him, and she cried out gladly. His mouth came down again. She kissed him back, frantically, meeting his tongue with her own, and bravely, determinedly, pushing past. She probed deeply and intimately. Brett groaned.

His hands moved from her back to her waist, sliding up to cup her breasts. A searing liquid warmth, bittersweet and demanding, plunged through her. His hands crushed and squeezed, then hard palms slid over her nipples, again and again, making her moan with need and joy. And then his hands were on her back, nimbly unhooking her gown.

He crushed her bare breasts, one in each hand. Beyond all thought, Storm pressed herself more fully against him. His fingers found her nipples and began to caress them until she was shaking with desperate need. He lifted her in his arms.

She knew he was carrying her down steps, into a garden. He laid her down, on her bare back. The ground was wet. “My gown,” she managed, her only coherent thought.

“Storm, tell me to stop,” he begged, holding her face in both hands.

Their eyes met. With one hand she touched his cheek, amazed at his shudder of response. Barely able to breathe, she moved her hand down to his corded neck, then to his
chest, sliding it beneath the layers of clothing until she met his feverishly hot skin and the crisp hair that covered it. He made a choked sound.

His arms went around her waist, lifting her up. His mouth came down, and he began nuzzling and kissing her swollen breasts. When his tongue flicked over one hard peak she gasped and clenched fistfuls of his hair. He teased mercilessly, then took that nipple between his teeth, tugging. She moaned.

“Brett! I'm going to die,” she said, sobbing.

“No, love,” he rasped. “You won't die.” He tugged again, then began to suckle.

Storm thrashed. A hot ache was building, threatening, overwhelming. She felt his hand on her belly, rubbing, and she arched toward it. “Please,” she panted. “Please!”

“Yes,” he said, and his hand moved lower, one finger extended, rubbing.

Storm shuddered.

And then she felt cool air on her silk-clad legs, knew he had raised her skirts, felt his hand traveling up her thigh. Even over her pantalets, his touch was beyond enduring. She thrashed wildly, frantically, and then his hand was there, covering her womanhood, stroking insistently. He slipped one finger into her underwear to the cleft of wet, swollen flesh. His mouth covered hers.

She cried out. The sound was muted because of his kiss, but the sensations weren't—she thought she was dying. The explosion was intense, a brilliant bursting of fiery lights, of mind-numbing spasms that shook her from head to toe, and then blessed relief. She drifted.

“Storm,” he said urgently.

She opened her eyes.

He had both hands on her waist and was kneeling between her spread thighs. His chest was rising and falling as if he had run for miles. “I need you,” he said. “Please.” His hands went to his trousers, hesitating. She
found herself staring at the thick, rigid erection straining against the fabric. He looked at her, waiting for a word, a sign that he should stop.