Firestorm (20 page)

The past three days, the last of her confinement, had been so peaceful. Serene. Placid.

Boring, she thought glumly.

One thing about Brett—when he was around, life was never boring.

Not that she missed him or was looking forward to his return. She was not about to let go of the annulment issue. He wanted her to meet the woman who was having the birthday, as if it mattered—as if she, Storm, was staying. She was not about to spend the rest of her days as Mrs. Brett D'Archand. That thought was too horrible. She even shuddered.

But there was a part of her that was a traitor to herself, a part that was excited at the prospect of his return. How ridiculous! Brett was arrogant, selfish, demanding, peremptory, high-handed, and bigoted. He had the worst temper she had ever seen. The only thing going for him was his incredible looks, which didn't say much.

No, she wasn't looking forward to his return, not at all.

Realizing with horror what a hypocrite she was being, Storm stood up and hastily left his study.

 

Brett could not deny that he was excited.

Striding down the wharf from where he had just disembarked, he found himself whistling. His good mood had nothing to do with his business trip, which had been mostly an excuse to get out of the house for three days since he didn't trust himself to remain there, not since he
had decided he would remain married, with all that that entailed.

Sian was waiting with King, and Brett promptly grilled him. “Has Storm remained in the house? Has she attempted to go out? To go riding? Does she seem fine?” He was satisfied with all the answers and sent Sian home without him, then rode directly to Audrey's white clapboard house.

She entered the parlor a moment after her maid had let him in. He could see from the expression on her face that she was delighted to see him; he hadn't seen her since the night Storm had fallen out of the tree. “Brett!”

She held his shoulders and kissed him. Brett accepted the kiss, but did not let her melt against him, and he ended the kiss before she could deepen it. For a minute, as she stood inches away from him, her hands having slid down to his waist, they gazed into each other's eyes. “I see,” Audrey said.

“You always were perceptive,” Brett said gratefully. “I intend to give this marriage a go, Audrey. Storm is very proud. Right now is not the time for me to have a mistress.”

“You're in love with her,” Audrey said. “I saw it the other night.”

Brett smiled. “Ah, for once your intuition fails you. No, dear, I am not in love with her, but I do want her. I know this comes suddenly, with no warning. Tomorrow I shall put a generous amount in your account. It will be more than enough until you find another protector.”

She touched his cheek. “Brett, I have several would-be protectors lined up and waiting. The gift is not necessary.”

“Then buy yourself something you want.”

“Thank you,” she said simply. She was clad in a satin wrapper with ermine trim, and the silk gown beneath was
sheer. She gave him an enticing look. “How about one last time for a special goodbye?”

Brett shook his head. She was a gorgeous woman, and her body was perfectly attuned to his, but he wasn't in the least tempted, not even with her standing there, revealing her wonderful charms. Tonight, he thought, and a wonderful, tingling excitement began racing in his veins. Tonight he would truly make Storm his wife. “I think not, Audrey.”

She walked him to the door. “Storm is very lucky. I wonder if she even knows it.”

He laughed. “I wish somebody would tell her. She despises me.”

Audrey was shocked.

“Forced marriages aren't the best way to start out,” he told her.

“Yes, but still. You are—were—the best catch in town. The girl's crazy.”

They kissed again, platonically. “Brett,” Audrey said, “if you change your mind, I'll always be available. Even if just for a night.”

Brett smiled; his eyes danced. “You're good for my self-esteem, Audrey. And who knows? I might take you up on the offer sometime.”

 

“Mrs. and Miss St. Claire to see you, madame,” Peter said formally.

With a frown—why were they here?—Storm lifted her skirts and hurried down the stairs. She had been inspecting the gold satin gown she was going to wear tonight. Marcy had told her that with her coloring, gold was a superb color on her. Storm wanted to look her best tonight although she was furious with herself for wanting to look good for Brett.

“Hello, Storm. Why, you don't look ill at all,” said Mrs. St. Clair.

“Hello, Helen, Leanne,” Storm said. “Peter, please see to some refreshments.” Storm didn't realize how regal she sounded. “Please.” She gestured for them to sit back down.

Leanne looked stunning in a pale pink walking gown which reminded Storm sourly that Brett had squired Leanne around for at least six months before she herself had even arrived in town. Storm felt gawky, too tall, not pretty. She sat stiffly in a chair.

“We didn't have a chance to call earlier, Storm,” Leanne said. “Although we knew about your accident,” she added. “I'm
so
glad you're all right.”

I'll bet, Storm thought, but she smiled.

“Married life seems to agree with you, dear,” Helen said, smiling brightly. “Of course, Brett would agree with just about any woman.”

Storm managed another smile. She wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not, and she had a sinking feeling of dread.

“Are you coming to the Wainscotts' party tonight? It's Suzanne's birthday. Have you met Suzanne?” Leanne said cheerfully.

“No, I haven't met her, but Brett said we would go.” Storm turned gratefully as Peter set down a tray. “Brett's been out of town for a few days, but he'll be back today.” Although she was pouring lemonade, she felt the tense silence that followed. She handed Leanne and her mother their glasses, becoming uneasy. They looked smug.

“Oh, Brett's back,” Leanne said happily. “We saw him this afternoon.”

Storm's apprehension grew, and she set her glass down carefully, her smile becoming fixed.

“He was going up the steps of a pretty white house with a charming picket fence. Thirteen-thirty Sutter Street,” Leanne said merrily.

Storm felt sick. In that instant her whole world collapsed.

“It's so
big
of you, dear, to allow Brett his mistress, and to allow him to be open about it,” Helen St. Clair said pleasantly. “Of course, it's the way of the world. All men have mistresses.”

“Well, when I get married my husband won't have a mistress,” Leanne said. “And Grant Farlane doesn't have a mistress. Isn't it funny that Brett returns after being out of town and goes to see
her
before
you?
”

“Brett can do as he pleases,” Storm said, afraid she was going to burst into tears at any moment. “We're getting an annulment,” she said with vicious intent, knowing the news would be all over town within minutes after her guests left, then wondering if she should have said it, if she'd gone too far. She could barely breathe.

“An annulment!” Helen gasped. “Why, that
is
news!”

A few minutes later they left, Helen solicitously noting that Storm did not look well and perhaps should lie down. Storm managed to walk them to the front door, then found herself in the parlor again, staring out of the French doors at the beautiful garden, a riot of pink and purple and white and yellow. She saw nothing.

“I will not cry,” she said. She already knew about Audrey, so why did she feel this terrible hurt, as if she'd been shot? Had he even gone to Sacramento? Dear God! What if he'd been with her these past three days!

One lone tear crawled slowly down her cheek.

Storm had no idea how long she stood and stared out the window, but when the parlor door opened and closed, she could feel his presence, without even looking. She didn't turn around, not even when he said her name, softly, warmly. “Storm.” It was a verbal caress.

Storm continued to stare at the garden, trying to control her terrible hurt. She focused on the pink azaleas, the purple hibiscus. She heard her name again, this time less
softly, with some pique. She didn't move. Go away, she prayed silently. Just go away.

She heard him approaching and stiffened, then she was turned around abruptly to face his dark face. “I'm touched at your delight in seeing me,” he said grimly.

“Why would you expect delight?” she asked fiercely.

He stared at her. “What's wrong?”

“I must go get dressed for this evening,” she said, attempting to pull away.

His hands tightened. “We don't have to leave until seven.”

She avoided his eyes. “I have to bathe and wash my hair. Please, let go.”

When he didn't, her hands came up to grasp his wrists. “Don't touch me!” she cried, unable to bear it—thinking of his hands on
her
until recently. He let go of her abruptly, and Storm ran out of the room. She could feel him watching her all the way up the stairs.

Brett was hurt, which was ridiculous. He had been eager to see her, but she hadn't cared less. He hadn't felt hurt since he was a boy living at his father's hacienda, and then only in that first year. He had been vulnerable and wary, not knowing what to expect from the man who had taken him from his mother. That wariness had paid off. After that, he'd learned not to let anyone hurt him with their disdain and rejection. He'd learned how to bury hurt and turn it into anger and resentment.

And he didn't like the way he was feeling now—not at all. It was far too reminiscent of those days, and all because he had faced the fact that he was looking forward to seeing his wife again.

Was she still angry about his decision not to annul the marriage? She would just have to accept it, and he knew she would once he bedded her. She would more than accept it then, he was certain. The passion they would share would change her mind, and he had the feeling that passion wouldn't fade for years. By then Storm would be older, and they might even be friends. They'd have children to solidify the bond between them. Why in hell couldn't she be reasonable?

Brett decided to let her sulk, to ignore her hostility. He had been eager to let her know how generous he had been in giving up his mistress, but now he decided he'd tell her
when she deserved to know—and God only knew when that would be. He was annoyed, in general; the bliss of his earlier mood had evaporated.

But when she came downstairs several hours later, he knew it was worth suffering any irritation to have her, and he also knew that he was more than infatuated—he was obsessed. In her low-cut gold gown she looked like a princess out of a fairy tale—no, she looked like a goddess, like Venus, descending to take her place among the mortals. He actually lost his breath. Tonight, he thought, he was finally going to have her. And from the set look on her face it wasn't going to be easy.

But he was a master of seduction.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs without speaking. Her eyes were the bluest he'd ever seen, almost purple. She looked mutinous. He smiled, letting out his breath, and took her hand. “You look ravishing,” he said, meaning it. He turned over her palm and kissed it, touching the soft flesh with the tip of his tongue. When he raised his head, he saw she was staring stonily at him. He knew he had his work cut out for him. “Shall we?”

She didn't answer.

In the carriage, Brett continued to get the cold shoulder. “Shall I tell you about my trip?” he asked civilly. Tonight her hair was up, piled in soft curls atop her head, and he wanted to pull out the pins, one by one, and let the tresses fall. He imagined her riding him, the curtain of her hair draping him. His erotic thoughts produced an eager physical reaction.

She regarded him coolly and shrugged.

He felt anger glimmering. “Do you intend to punish me all evening with your silence?”

“Of course not,” she said. “It's just that I have nothing to say to you on any subject—unless it's to discuss when we get the annulment.”

His irritation was vast. “There will be no annulment, as I have previously stated.”

She stared out the window. “Then we have nothing to discuss.”

“Fine,” he said harshly.

It was a birthday ball. Already the drive was filled with carriages and sleek horses, and inside there were some two hundred people, the women in brilliant gowns and jewels, the men in elegant evening wear. Storm removed her wrap, and Brett led her inside with one hand on her elbow. They paused, glancing around.

Brett escorted her, making introductions, instantly aware of the looks they were getting; there was no mistaking it. When they were face to face with other guests, everyone was pleasant and polite, but Brett could sense keen interest behind the smooth façades. What in hell was going on?

Randolph Farlane came up to them, barely glancing at Brett. “Hello,” he said, his eyes devouring Storm. Brett was instantly annoyed.

“Hello, Randolph,” he said briskly.

“Hi,” Storm said, her face lighting up with pleasure, deepening Brett's annoyance. “Randolph, how come you haven't come to call?”

He smiled then, staring into her eyes, and Brett stood there feeling like an outsider. “I thought it improper considering that you just got married.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous. Brett doesn't care, do you?”

Brett stared. “You mean, do I care if Randolph comes to visit? Of course not.”

“See? Besides, Brett was out of town for the past three days. I would have loved your company.”

Randolph smiled with delight. “I'll come by tomorrow,” he said. He looked at Brett. “With your permission, of course.”

Thinking about the night of lovemaking ahead, and how it would, undoubtedly, extend through the next day, Brett
smiled slightly. “Not tomorrow, Randolph. Another time. Storm will be occupied tomorrow.”

“With what?” she demanded tersely.

“With me,” he said.

She glared, then took Randolph's arm, muttering something beneath her breath that Brett couldn't make out but knew was derogatory. “Let's dance,” she said to Randolph. “Brett doesn't mind.”

Randolph looked at Brett, who was, indeed, minding, more and more every minute. “Go ahead,” he said, for it would be rude to say otherwise. He watched as they moved onto the dance floor, watched how she smiled up at Randolph and how Randolph smiled down at her, watched to make sure they weren't dancing too close together—and he was irritated, immensely so.

He drank a glass of champagne. The dance was almost over, and he realized he had been staring with unconcealed attention at his wife, so he looked away. A man he knew slightly paused at his side to introduce his cousin, who blushed when Brett smiled at her. A new dance began, and when Brett looked for his wife, he found her dancing again, this time in the arms of Lee Scott. Scowling, he helped himself to another glass of champagne.

“Hello, Brett.”

He wasn't in the mood for Leanne, but he gave her a brief smile. “Leanne. How are you?”

“Just fine,” she said brightly, taking his arm and holding it against her side. “Do I get a dance, or do you intend to watch your wife all night?”

Ever the gentleman, Brett finished the champagne and set aside the glass. Wondering if Leanne had purposely inflected the word
wife
, he whirled her onto the dance floor, immediately seeking out Storm. Both she and Lee were laughing, obviously enjoying the dance. Storm never laughed with him. Hell, she never even smiled at him!

Leanne chatted away, and Brett responded without pay
ing much attention to her, unable to do so because of his preoccupation with his wife—and anticipation of the night to come. He was determined to claim Storm as soon as this dance was over, but Leanne clung to him and insisted on introducing him to her cousin, a newly arrived gentleman from Philadelphia. Now Storm was dancing with Robert, another ex-suitor, and Brett was more than irritated, he was incensed.

He debated the possibility that she was trying to make him jealous. If so, it most certainly wasn't working, because he most certainly was not jealous. He grabbed her for the next dance, rudely leaving the cousin from Philadelphia in midsentence. “My turn, sweet wife,” he said.

“I'm afraid my feet hurt,” Storm replied, lifting her big blue eyes and looking straight at him. “And I am so thirsty.”

Brett controlled himself, barely. “Let me fetch you some champagne,” he said stiffly.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The evening was not going according to plan.

When he returned with two glasses of champagne, she was surrounded by Randolph and Lee and Robert, making the same calf's eyes back at them that they were making at her. Brett was about to shove his way to her side when he realized how foolish it would look. He didn't have to compete. She was his wife. “Here,” he said, handing her the glass, and stalked off to do some flirting of his own.

But it was hard to flirt when he was married and obsessed with his own wife. After standing out the one dance he had asked her for, Storm proceeded to dance the next hour away. Brett was so furious at her behavior—for lying about her feet, for snubbing him in public—that he stood and glowered and drank champagne, occasionally waltzing some lady or other around the floor. He was having a horrible time, while Storm had never seemed happier.

“Is it true?”

Brett turned to see Paul Langdon, noting that the man looked grim and angry. “Hello, Paul.”

Paul glanced briefly at Storm. “Is it true, Brett?”

“Is what true?”

“Jesus! The damn rumors are flying around this room so thick—that the two of you are getting an annulment!”

Brett stared in complete shock, then a red rage started creeping over him. No wonder the strange glances. He had told no one. Only Marcy and Grant had been privy to that information, and they both knew he had changed his mind. Which meant…He looked at Storm, truly wanting to strangle her.

“No, Paul, it is not true.”

Paul sighed in relief. “Who in hell started the rumor?”

“I have no idea,” Brett said grimly. He drained the champagne. He was getting drunk. Which was good because if he didn't do something he would drag her home. Drag her home and seduce her and make her his forever. Then he realized that leaving so abruptly would feed the appetite of the gossipmongers. So he stood there drinking champagne, pretending to be having a good time and looking unconcerned over his wife's behavior. Finally he decided he'd had enough, that it was his turn to dance with her.

As casually as possible he cut in on Randolph, who was dancing with her for the third time. Storm immediately stopped smiling, going rigid in his arms.

“Smile,
ma chére
,” he said, smiling himself, “or I will break your neck.” So much for seduction.

He wanted to kick himself.

Storm gasped. The warning in his voice disturbed her, as did the barely leashed tension pulsating through his body. She tried to smile. He pulled her completely against his frame, his hand on her waist sliding down her hip, much lower than was seemly. “Brett, stop,” she said,
acutely aware of the physical contact. Was he trying to embarrass her in front of everyone?

“If you won't smile…” he said. He left the sentence unfinished. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, right there, in front of everyone. This kiss was hard, not brutal yet totally uncompromising. He forced her mouth open to plunder inside with his tongue. Storm felt the rush of blood through her veins and stiffened against it, against him. This was not right. He was angry; she could feel it in the hard tautness of his body, in the barely restrained way he was kissing her. The deliberate control and expertise he was exercising alerted all her instincts for self-preservation. But she didn't dare push him away, not in public.

He lifted his face, smiled in satisfaction, and whirled her back into the dance. “That should give them something else to talk about,” he said.

“Are you drunk?” she demanded, not sure if the breathless quality of his voice was due to nerves or to his effect on her.

“Not quite,” he said, his tone pleasant with effort—too pleasant.

When the dance was over, he took her hand. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. He lifted her hand and kissed it.

 

The pressure on her elbow was possessive, but when she protested and tried to dislodge him, he squeezed even harder. Storm settled back stiffly in the carriage, not looking at him, her heart pounding. He wasn't looking at her or talking to her, which was fine. She had nothing to say to him. She decided to ignore him and his bad mood. She wished the space of the carriage was not so confined, that Brett wasn't sitting so close, his knee brushing hers.

Her feet ached unbearably from hours spent dancing. She had wanted to get back at him for going to his mis
tress, and it seemed she had succeeded. Even though Brett didn't care about her, she had known he would hate to see his wife flirting in front of all the world. Her arms were crossed tightly in front of her.

Once home, Brett helped her carefully from the carriage and up the front walk. He slowed his pace when he realized she was struggling to keep up. Both Betsy and Peter were there to greet them, and Brett sent them away. He turned slowly to Storm.

She instantly knew she was in trouble. “I'm tired,” she began, placing one hand on the banister.

His hand came down on her wrist. “Tell me,
chère
, just whom did you tell about the annulment?”

She swallowed and knew she had to lie. “No one.”

“Then how is it possible, Storm, that our upcoming annulment was the focus of gossip tonight?”

She felt a burning, betraying blush. “I don't know,” she quavered.

“No matter,” he said lightly. “We'll just have to set the record straight.” He turned away, walking with long strides into his study.

She fled up the stairs, extremely apprehensive. She had known the minute she told the St. Clair women that it was a mistake. Was that why he was angry? Because it made him look foolish? Well, good! How did she look when he was at his mistress's, with them married only a week? And why was he hiding his anger behind that guise of politeness when he should be ranting and raving?

“We'll see about setting the record straight,” Storm muttered to herself.

After she had gotten into her nightrail—a high-necked blue silk gown, flimsy and clinging but not nearly as revealing as some of her nightclothes—she dismissed Betsy and crawled into bed. She was exhausted, both emotionally and physically.

She had barely closed her eyes when Brett walked into
their room through the adjoining door. Storm bolted upright when he lit the lamp by her bedside. He looked at her. She knew, then, why he was there, and she shrank against the headboard. His navy silk robe was so carelessly belted she could see his navel and the curling hair descending from it. “Brett, I don't want to talk right now,” she managed.