Firestorm (19 page)

“Eating alone is…” He hesitated. “Lonely.”

She did look at him then. She couldn't imagine Brett being lonely, but she couldn't imagine him getting staggeringly drunk, either. Or as a little boy, whose mother had sold him…

He smiled coaxingly. She found herself smiling back tentatively.

He set the tray on her lap and uncovered the dishes for her. Storm wasn't very hungry, not after being in bed all day. She picked at the meal.

“Are you feeling ill?”

“No, I'm fine.”

He scrutinized her. “You always eat like a horse.”

She wondered if she should be insulted. “I've slept most of the day.”

“I know, Betsy told me.”

She knew he knew. She was about to push the tray away, then noticed a small wrapped box on it. “What's this?”

He shrugged.

Storm glanced at him, then tore off the paper. It was a small box of chocolates. She loved chocolates. They were a very rare treat, a once-a-year kind of thing, and she actually squealed in delight.

“It's only candy,” he said, but he was smiling.

“I love chocolate, and I never get to eat it. Thank you!” She glowed and popped one in her mouth. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” he said. “Is it good?”

“Very,” she said, smiling again.

“Such a simple thing,” he murmured, shaking his head in bemusement. “Shall I keep you company for a while?”

She hesitated, wanting to say yes, surprised that she wanted him to stay but too proud to admit it. She shrugged.

He proceeded to inform her of the local news and gossip. Sam Henderson, recently from New York, had in
vested in a thousand acres north of town for a vineyard. The common consensus was that he was crazy. Potter's Emporium had been sold, but no one knew to whom. There had been a big brawl last night at a disreputable saloon, resulting in two men dead and five seriously injured. Barbara Watkins was expecting, Leanne St. Claire was being courted by James Bradford, there was a party tomorrow night at the Denoffs', but, of course, they couldn't go now. He had stopped by Paul's and told him about the accident, and Paul was going to come calling as soon as he was allowed, in another two days.

“You told him?” Storm gasped, horrified.

“I told him you fell from your horse.”

Storm looked at him as if he were crazy.

“I also ran into Grant and told him the same thing—they both looked at me the way you are now. However, I didn't think it was anyone's business that you fell out of a tree.”

“You mean that I fell out of your mistress's tree.”

“Yes.”

The rapport between them was suddenly gone, in its place tension, palpable and sharp. Storm had the feeling that Brett was waiting for her to apologize. She would—when hell froze over.

He finally stood. “I'm keeping you up.”

“You can go to the Denoffs' without me.”

“I'd rather not.” He paused at the door. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Have a good time.” She didn't premeditate the comment or the tone, which was very snide.

He had been about to open the door; now he stopped and turned to face her. “What does that mean?” He thought he knew. He had never heard such a sneer from a woman before, but when he looked at her, her expression was angelic. Except for the spitting sapphire blue of her eyes.

“It means have a good time,” she said in a normal tone, flushing.

“
Exactly
what the hell does that mean?”

She raised her chin. “It means I know
exactly
where you're going.”

“Oh?” His tone was cool.

“Yes.”

“Enlighten me as to where you
think
I'm going.” It was a harsh command.

“To
her
.”

The muscles in his face ticked.

“But I don't care—I'm glad. As long as you leave me alone.”

He counted to ten, then continued to twenty. “For your information,” he said slowly, “I'm going to go downstairs to my study to read some papers I didn't get to today—because I lost an hour bringing you breakfast this morning.” His eyes were black flames.

She was momentarily speechless, but he pressed on, losing his precarious control. “Why, Storm? Why do you push me over the deep edge every time? Why even bring her up? Why ruin the pleasantness we just shared?”

“Oh? Is not bringing her up going to make her go away?”

“Is that what you want?”

“No!” she shouted, lying and knowing it. “I send you to her! Go! Go and bed her—I don't care!”

Brett stood immobile with clenched fists. “Maybe that's the goddamn problem.”

She started to cry. “Just go away—just leave me alone!”

“Gladly,” he said, and slammed the door.

“Marcy!”

Storm had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

“Oh, Storm, dear.” They hugged.

“Hello, Storm,” Grant said from behind his wife. “Recovered from your fall?”

Knowing how close Grant and Brett were, Storm flushed but accepted his kiss on the cheek anyway. “Yes,” she managed.

“I'll leave you two alone,” Grant said. “Where's Brett, in the study?”

“I have no idea,” Storm said a touch bitterly.

“Never mind, I'll find him.” Grant left the parlor.

“Are you all right?” Marcy asked.

Storm hated being reminded that Brett existed. Where was he anyway? Where had he been these past two days? Three, if you counted today, which was almost over. She had told him to leave her alone, but she had no idea that his doing so would make her angry, miserable, and wretched in general. Not once had he appeared since their last argument, not once!

“Storm, sit down,” Marcy said, taking her hands and pulling her onto the sofa. “Well, you look fine.”

“I am fine. I've still got three days to go before I'm allowed to leave the house.”

“Concussions aren't to be treated lightly.”

“I'm so glad you came,” Storm burst out. “You're my only friend!”

“Oh, Storm, not true.”

“Yes, it is. Paul lied. He betrayed me. He forced Brett to marry me, and now we're both miserable. Marcy, you're my only friend.” She was starting to feel sorry for herself.

“What about Brett?”

“Don't even mention that bastard's name to me.”

Marcy frowned. “Storm, how on earth did you fall off your horse?”

Storm started laughing. “I didn't fall off my horse. I fell out of a tree!”

“A tree?”

“Yes! And guess whose tree it was?” The laughter had stopped, and tears swam in her eyes.

“Whose?” Marcy asked gently.

“His mistress's tree.” It was a flat declaration.

“What?”

“I was spying on him, but, dammit, I had to know for sure if that's where he goes at night—and believe me, it is. Oh, Marcy, I saw them together. And she's so beautiful!”

Marcy was so furious that for a moment she couldn't speak. She realized Storm was trying not to cry, so she pressed her head onto her bosom and stroked her hair. “It's all right, dear. Cry.”

“I never cry,” Storm said vehemently, lifting her head. “Never. But I've cried so much since I came here…I hate him so much.”

“You don't mean that,” Marcy said.

“I do. Do you know I haven't seen him, not once, in three days? Not once. But I'm glad—we'd just fight anyway. God, I can't wait till Pa comes to take me home.”

Half an hour later, Marcy excused herself and marched through the house to the study. The door stood ajar. She rapped briskly and strode in, giving her husband a brief
glance. Then her eyes went to Brett, shooting daggers. “I want to talk to you, Brett.”

Both men had risen, but Brett's expression grew startled at her tone. “Marcy, hello—”

“How can you be such a brute? Don't you realize Storm's only seventeen, a child, alone in a strange town, with no friends?”

Brett had straightened, the shock disappearing now, a hard expression coming over his face. “You're trespassing, Marcy.”

“She's in the salon crying, dammit!”

Brett started—as surprised by her language as by what she'd said. “Is she hurt?” he asked quickly.

“Her feelings are hurt. Can't you think about her feelings for once instead of your own? Can't you leave that damn mistress of yours alone for a few days and woo your wife? Do you even care that she's still alive?”

“You've gone too far!” Brett exploded. “My mistress is none of your business, and my relationship with Storm has nothing to do with you!”

“I think the sooner her father comes for her the better,” Marcy shouted back. “You haven't even poked your head in her room to see her in three days. You make me want to wring your wretched neck.”

“She told me to stay away,” Brett shouted back. “Every time I try and do something nice she throws it back in my face. She's the most ungracious little wretch…” He grew calm. “I stayed away for her health, not because I don't care. Every time we're in the same room we start fighting. Why is she crying?”

“Because you've neglected her,” Marcy said softly.

He frowned. “That's silly. She told me to leave her alone.”

“Oh, Brett, you fool, sometimes when a woman says one thing she means another, especially when she's as proud as Storm is.”

Brett stared as if trying to comprehend something completely alien and impossible to understand. “Do you really think she's crying because of me?”

“I know so.”

Brett ran a hand through his hair. His heart had done a funny flip at the thought. The past few days had been hell. He had stayed away not because she'd told him to in a fit of anger, but because he wanted her to get well and was afraid she'd suffer a relapse from their fighting. But he'd asked Peter and Betsy half a dozen times a day if she was all right and had everything she needed. At night, when she was asleep, he had peered in on her, the action strangely reassuring, as though, if he didn't, he would wake to find that having Storm in his life was nothing but a dream. He looked at Marcy, no longer angry with her, then hurried from the room.

Storm wasn't in the salon. He knocked lightly on her bedroom door. “Storm? It's me, Brett.” There was no answer. He swung open the door. She had been standing very still by the fireplace, but as he entered, her head turned, like a startled doe's. She was wearing a pale blue silk gown, modestly cut, with creamy lace edging the neckline and wrists. Her hair was loose except for a matching ribbon that kept it away from her face. Her eyes found his; they were wary. Brett managed a slight smile, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. He had the intense urge to sweep her into his arms and just hold her. He had never wanted to just hold a woman before. He quietly shut the door behind him. For a moment neither one spoke; they merely regarded each other.

“You're looking well,” he said softly, then smiled. “A terrible understatement. You're as stunning as ever.”

To his surprise, her mouth trembled, and she glanced away, into the fire, her eyes suspiciously shiny. He moved toward her. She looked at him with that frightened expression again and stepped farther away. Now she stood
at the window, he at the hearth. “What is it?” he asked, his tone still soft and alien to his ears.

“What do you want?”

He had the feeling she said it as rudely as she could. The thought produced a glimmer of anger in him. He quenched it. “Marcy said you were crying.”

“That traitor,” she said, clenching her fists.

“Tell me why.”

She faced him, her eyes overly bright. “Let me go home now, Brett. I miss my family terribly, so terribly.”

He heard himself say, “I can't.”

“I won't let Paul ruin you, I swear!”

He half grimaced. “That's not it.”

“Please!”

He came toward her then, and she stumbled back against the windowsill, her breasts rising and falling rapidly—in fear, agitation? He stopped inches from her, close enough to feel her body's heat. He held her gaze and wouldn't relinquish it. “I don't want an annulment,” he said.

“What?”

His hand went to her cheek and cupped it. “I don't want an annulment,” he said again, huskily. His other hand found her other cheek and he held her face tenderly, his senses singing.

“Brett…” It was a whisper, possibly frightened. Her sapphire eyes were huge and tremulous.

They were so close. Her full mouth, the color of berries, was trembling. He was starting to tremble, starting to feel the force of his desire, which was overwhelming. “I'm bewitched,” he said, and lowered his lips to hers.

She didn't move. He kissed her very softly, very tenderly, a warm but firm caressing. His tongue stroked her full lower lip, again and again. She shuddered. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, seeking and exploring the texture of her teeth, her inner cheeks, her gums. He thrust deeper, holding her face more tightly, and deeper still.
When her tongue rose timidly to parry with his, a jolt of desire shook him. With tremendous will, he stepped slightly away from her, though he didn't release her face.

Her eyes were closed. Her lashes were almost black, long and spiky, and they fanned against her golden skin. Her lips were slightly bruised, still parted, begging for another kiss. The nostrils of her perfect nose were flared. He had never seen such striking perfection in a woman. She opened her eyes.

He smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I'm not supposed to excite you,
ma chère
.”

She regarded him intensely, making his desire rage all the more. God, how he wanted her, now, right now. He released her. “Don't say anything,” he said. He was afraid she'd spoil the moment. He smiled again, then turned and walked out.

She was stunned. Not by his words, but by her body's reaction to his kiss, the tingling of her lips, the wonderfully searing currents racing through her to her loins. Then understanding penetrated. Still standing at the window, she was struck by what he had said.
I don't want an annulment
.

She became rigid. He didn't want an annulment, but what about her! It was so typical, so damn typical of Brett—he was making a decision by himself that affected the both of them, one that affected the rest of their lives. How dare he!

And why was an inner corner of her mind secretly exhilarated? She shoved that unwanted emotion away, burying it beneath anger at his high-handedness. Had he ever sent the damn letter to her parents? Somehow, she thought not.

Storm paced, working herself up to a fury, waiting for him to come upstairs to bed. She couldn't imagine spending the rest of her life with Brett. What had changed his mind? Some whim of the moment? And then another
thought struck her. If he no longer wanted an annulment, then that kiss was just the forerunner of other things to come—consummation of the marriage. At that thought, her breath stuck in her throat and her heart leaped. She could feel his hands, his mouth on her breasts…I am so shameless, she thought.

She had heard that her father was quite a scoundrel before he met and married her mother. So was Nick. It seemed to run in the family, she thought, but it was not proper for her, a woman, to be so wanton. She wished fervently that she could be the old Storm, the one who'd blackened Lennie Willis's eye when he'd dared to kiss her. The one whose body belonged totally and wholly to herself. Not this Storm, this strange person in ridiculous gowns, married to a stranger she despised…but desired.

So absorbed was she in her own thoughts, it took her a moment to realize Brett was in his room. Sucking in her breath for courage, she opened the door between their rooms and stepped inside.

He was standing by the foot of the bed, bare-chested. His head shot up and he turned, a dark flame leaping to his eyes. Storm instantly forget herself, forgot what she was going to say. She stared.

His shoulders were broad, his chest powerfully muscled and darkly furred. There was not an ounce of fat on him. The dark, curling hair wisped to a vee and disappeared into the waistband of his pants. She had seen men shirtless before, even naked. Well, Rathe and Nick, as boys. The sight had never affected her this way, making her mindless, making the air crack and sizzle.

“Storm, you shouldn't be here,” he said thickly.

She looked up, remembering, coming out of her trance. It was a mistake. She saw the hunger in his eyes, saw a pulse beating rapidly in his throat. She knew he wanted to make love to her. The thought thrilled her.

“Brett, you can't make a decision alone that affects me, too.”

He started, visibly surprised, then annoyed. “I take it you're referring to the annulment?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I still want one. I don't want to be your wife until the day I die. A few days was no big deal, but not forever. Oh, no.”

He inhaled sharply, and she knew he was angry. “That's too bad,” he finally said, softly.

She was incredulous. “Too bad? You mean you don't care about my feelings? You don't care that I despise you? You'll keep me your wife against my will?” When he didn't answer, she said, “I'll run away.”

He clenched his teeth. Then he relaxed with visible effort. “Oh, I doubt it, Storm. I think I can make you want to stay.” He smiled. “I know I can.”

There was no mistaking the seductive tone, the sexual innuendo. “You're disgusting,” she said. “Why? Why have you changed your mind?”

“Because I want you, and if marriage is the price, I've decided to pay.”

She couldn't believe it. For a moment she had nothing to say, then she burst out, “But I don't want you!”

He smiled, clearly amused. “You do, and you will. Trust me.” The words were final.

 

Brett had left town, and it was so different without him. Storm stood in the center of his study, almost able to feel his presence. There was the faint odor of cigars and leather. So very faint, practically nonexistent. Brett would be home today.

He had left early the morning after that strangely tender kiss and his declaration that he no longer wanted an annulment. He had business in Sacramento to take care of, he said, and he would be back in three days. The night of his return he was going to take her to a birthday party.
The hostess was a bit older than she was, and Brett thought they'd like each other.

Storm moved behind the big mahogany desk with its black leather top and sat down. She imagined Brett walking in at this moment; he would probably go into one of his black rages, thinking she was going through his papers or something. She had to admit it, she was curious.