Firestorm (12 page)

“Yes,” she whispered, as a delicious ache began to build and throb again.

“Sweet Jesus!” a woman screamed.

Brett grabbed Storm and yanked her behind him before she was even cognizant of the fact that someone had intruded upon them.

“Brett D'Archand!” the intruder gasped.

Comprehension began to dawn for Storm, and she grabbed her skirts, but they were already down. Half sitting, she yanked up her bodice as the full import of what was happening started to sink in.

“Helen,” Brett said thickly.

Helen St. Clair moved purposefully forward, and Storm looked up to meet her dark, shocked gaze. “I should have known,” she cried triumphantly. “I knew it!” She began to hurry away.

With shock, Storm realized what that lady had seen, what they had done. Dear God! What
had
they done? Horror consumed her.

Brett was kneeling, facing her. “Turn around, let me hook you up,” he said, his tone urgent.

Numbly, Storm shifted, presenting her back. “Oh, God.”

“He won't help us now,” Brett said grimly. “Damn!” His hands were shaking. “There.” He lifted her to her feet.

“I—I can't go back in,” she said fearfully. Her hair had come loose. She was sure there were grass stains all over her gown.

“No, you can't,” he said, holding her gaze. “I'm sorry.” For a moment they stared at each other. Then they heard people coming, and they both turned, Brett instinctively moving in front of her, shielding her from view.

“Where is she?” Paul Langdon roared.

“Relax, Paul,” Brett said evenly. “Nothing happened.”

“Helen St. Clair told me exactly what she saw,” Paul shouted, and before anyone could move, he had thrown a punch, hitting Brett in the jaw and sending him staggering back against Storm.

“Storm, are you all right?” Marcy cried, rushing forward. But her husband grabbed her arm, dragging her back. “Stay out of it,” he warned.

“I'm sorry,” Brett said to Paul Langdon, his tone conversational, as if they were alone. “Nothing happened.”

“Come here, Storm,” Paul said, as if he hadn't heard. His tone was so hard and unyielding that Storm stepped forward immediately, unable to look at anyone. She wanted to die. He grabbed her arm. “We'll go out the back way,” he stated. “Grant, I'll send the carriage back for you.”

“That's fine,” Grant said.

“Maybe I should go with them,” Marcy said worriedly.

“No,” Grant returned.

“Let's go,” Paul said without looking at Brett. Holding Storm's arm, he led her away, while Grant, Marcy, and Brett stood unmoving in the moonlight.

Storm felt numb and detached. She heard Grant say harshly, “Just what the hell is wrong with you?” and she knew he wasn't talking to Marcy, but to Brett. If he responded, she didn't hear.

Paul almost threw her into the carriage, and he didn't say a word during the entire drive home. But once inside the foyer, he spoke, just as she was about to go upstairs. “No, young lady, into my study.”

Feeling great trepidation, Storm obediently retraced her steps and followed him across the room and into the study. He shut the doors behind them and stared at her. “Is it true?”

“What?”

“Helen said you were on the ground, on your back. Is it true?”

She hesitated. She flushed. She wanted to lie. She didn't know what to say.

“Your gown was undone.”

She knew she had to lie. “He only kissed me.”

He didn't look at her. “With your skirts up and your bodice down?”

Storm flushed. That bitch. What else had she said? Who else had she told? Oh, God! She stared at the floor, wishing she could disappear through it.

“Go to your room,” he said then, not looking at her. “I need to think.”

Only by the greatest effort did Storm restrain herself from running out of the study. Once she was on the stairs, she rushed to her room as if seeking sanctuary. But there was no escaping her thoughts. Her mind a whirlwind, she remained too agitated to sleep, too aghast at her own behavior to calm down. She couldn't believe she had been reduced to a quivering, moaning hussy.

She knew she was going to be sent home in disgrace, a thought that almost reduced her to tears. Her parents would be so disappointed in her. She didn't think she could face them, especially her father. She could picture his disbelieving expression when he first found out, the disbelief changing to a vast, reproachful disappointment.

She was sure Paul would explain in a letter just why she was being sent home. Her only hope was to send her own letter as well in which she tried to explain things from her own point of view. The problem was, she had no defense to offer. She had been a too willing participant.

But at least she would go home. She hadn't wanted to come here in the first place. It had been a terrible mistake, a disaster from day one. The sooner she could leave, the better. She knew her reputation was ruined, that she would
never be invited to any social functions again, that she would be shunned. She dreaded the thought of even taking a carriage ride in public. People would point and stare and whisper. Everyone would know what she had done, how shameless she had been.

And then, with horror, she realized it would be close to two months before Derek could arrive to take her home. It would take a month for a letter to reach him, and assuming he left right away to fetch her, almost another month for him to return. Two months! What in God's name would she do for two months in this city where everyone knew about her downfall?

She couldn't face anybody—not all the people she had met, not her cousin, not Marcy, not Brett…Brett. Just the thought of him cooled her fear, bringing a surge of warmth, making her blood race in a way she now understood. She remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, warm, demanding, her own wild response—and she flushed in embarrassment. She thought of how he had lied about the incident at the beach to protect her; how when Helen St. Clair had found them he had pushed Storm behind him before she even knew what was happening, as if to physically shield her. And he had done it again, moments later, placing his powerful body between her and Paul and the others…

But he couldn't shield her from the consequences of her own actions. No one could.

“I'm sorry,” he had said, and she remembered now the fire of his gaze, how it had held her.

She had thought she hated him. Didn't she? Storm placed a hand on her chest as if to still her exuberant heart. She didn't understand what she was feeling.

Her father would be so disappointed.

Brett, her father; Brett, her father…She was tortured by thoughts of the two men. And then, out of the blue,
just as dawn was breaking, she had the most horror-inspiring thought of all. Pa would kill Brett!

She sat up, knowing beyond a doubt that, despite her own guilt, Derek would go after Brett and shoot him for defiling his daughter. He would kill him. Storm felt sick.

She got up and paced her room, truly frightened now. She had to stop him. But how? Nothing she could say or do would stop her father from exacting vengeance. She must warn Brett! She had two months to convince him to get out of town and stay away when Derek came to pick her up. She'd make him listen. She had to!

She sank back against the pillows, trembling. The situation was getting worse and worse. Once she left San Francisco she would never see Brett again. That thought shouldn't have bothered her, but it did.

I don't even like him, she thought in utter, abject confusion. And even though I didn't try to stop him, he should have known better. He should have stopped. It's really his fault. And now I'm going to be sent home, and I'll never see that rutting bastard again.

She started to cry.

She couldn't help it. She was disgraced, ruined, attracted to an arrogant gambler despite herself, stuck here for another two months, two months before she had to face her father, who would try and kill Brett…It just couldn't get worse.

 

Brett poured himself a double brandy and drank half in two gulps. He sank into a heavily padded chair, setting aside the snifter and burying his hands in his face. What in hell was wrong with him?

Never had he lost control like that. Not ever. He had almost taken a young woman's virginity, had almost ruined her with no thought of the consequences. He still didn't know how it had happened. Vividly, he remembered how he had wanted to stop, and how he couldn't.
How he had been overwhelmed with frantic passion, desperate need. How she had wanted him, too, had urged him on, hadn't tried to stop him. Sweet Jesus!

He closed his eyes, his head pounding. He could still see her, half naked, arching for him, her full, gorgeous breasts spilling free of her gown, her thighs spread, welcoming. She had been so wet and ready for him. A small moan escaped him as he remembered how he had brought her to a quick, stunning climax.

Christ! In the Sinclairs' garden!

He stood and paced and finished the brandy. The thought occurred to him that maybe Storm wasn't innocent—maybe she was one of those young ladies from respectable homes who pretended innocence while consorting with men behind society's back. He became very stiff then, staring blindly into the night, trying to determine if that was true. It didn't seem possible.

Yet he remembered how she had urged him on so frantically. No proper lady would do that.

He remembered how she looked when he had first seen her, clad in buckskins like a savage, so unaware of being a woman. But maybe running free as she did, she had been coupling from an early age with the Lennie Willises of Texas. Damn! He didn't know what to think!

If that weren't the case, then why had she urged him on?

It didn't really matter. Her reputation was ruined.
He
had ruined her.

Brett wasn't surprised when the summons came an hour later. Paul Langdon demanded his presence at eight in the morning. Grimly, Brett crumpled the note and tossed it in the fireplace. He did not want to marry her, but it was the only thing to do.

He spent a restless night tossing and turning, and arrived at Langdon's promptly at eight. Bart led him to the study and announced him. Paul Langdon was standing rig
idly amid the plush appointments, and he nodded grimly. “Come in, Brett.”

“Thank you.” Brett stepped nearer and closely examined his friend's hard façade. “Good morning.”

Paul gave him a long, steady look without answering.

“Paul, I'm very sorry,” Brett said sincerely. He felt a stabbing guilt for betraying his friend by almost seducing his cousin. However, since he had already come to terms with the retribution he would have to make, he felt slightly better.

“So am I,” Paul said. “You're one of my closest friends. I trusted you with her. Tell me—were your rides innocent?”

Brett's face twisted. “Damn! You know they were!”

“You'll marry her,” Paul stated without compromise.

Brett's face darkened. Although he had already known it would come to this, Paul hadn't even let him offer to do the honorable thing. The fact irked him, made his spine stiffen.

“She is my responsibility,” Paul said heavily. “I could never send her home in disgrace, especially since it was through my neglect and at the hands of my friend that she was compromised.”

“I did not take her virginity,” Brett said, his black eyes flashing. He was careful how he worded the statement—he still wasn't sure of Storm Bragg's innocence. He would never forget the passion she had shown, and his own uncontrollable response.

“Next Saturday,” Paul said. “We'll keep it small and private, with just the Farlanes to witness the ceremony.”

Next Saturday was only a week away. Brett found he was furious. “I take it this meets with the bride's approval?”

“Of course.”

Brett strode over to the mantel, his back to Paul. Had
it all been a trap from the first moment he'd seen her? Of course Storm would want to marry him, he was the most eligible bachelor in San Francisco. Why should she be any different from all those other simpering young ladies who would love to be caught in an indiscretion with him so he would be forced to wed? He should have known. “Tell me,” he said coldly, turning slightly. “Is this Storm's idea or yours?”

“It doesn't matter,” Paul said just as coldly. “You'll marry her, Brett.”

Brett was furious at himself, at her—and his desire not to wed overcame his brief commitment to doing the honorable thing. “I'm sure there are any number of young men who would be only too willing to marry Miss Bragg.”

“I'll ruin you,” Paul said softly.

Brett stared. “What?” He had heard, but he didn't believe his ears.

“I'll ruin you,” Paul said stridently. “I won't extend your loans. I'll ruin your credit. You have no cash, Brett, and you're overextended. You'll have to liquidate half your holdings.”

Brett's mind was working rapidly. He knew instantly that if Paul turned against him he would have to start over. He wouldn't be poor, but it would be a long crawl back to where he was now—and this time he might not make it. “You'd blackball me.”

“Absolutely.”

“Well,” Brett said, “that makes the decision an easy one. Send someone around to tell me what time I should show up for my wedding.” With long, barely controlled strides, he reached the door and was gone.

No stupid chit was going to cost him his empire, or his respectability—everything for which he had worked so hard. Not because of one moment's passion. He would marry Storm Bragg.

 

Storm ate a late breakfast at noon in her room. She was being a coward—she couldn't face anyone, not yet, not even the servants. She had managed to get a few hours sleep after the sun had risen, but she felt more tired, not less. She could barely eat—an unusual state for her. She was sick with dread, waiting for the summons. It came.