Firestorm (23 page)

“Oh, Brett,” she breathed, and he felt her hand on his arm.

He looked into her eyes, warm and compassionate, and was completely startled. But…he liked her looking at him this way, without anger, mutiny, or hostility. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“Are you all right?” she said softly, tightening her hold on his arm, her voice filling with tenderness. “I'm so sorry.”

Brett realized what was going on. She had no idea he didn't know his relatives. She did not know his family history. She was close to her family and assumed it was the same for him. Her touch on his arm, warm even through his shirt, was meant to comfort him. He looked down so she couldn't see his eyes. “I…Storm.” His voice was broken and husky because he was aching so badly for her.

She moved closer, her hand going to his neck. Her palm was warm and soft, barely callused now. He closed his eyes, and somehow her fingers moved to gently touch the side of his face. His body felt as finely tuned as a bowstring. A shudder took him.

“What can I do?” she whispered.

He reluctantly opened his eyes, having never been offered such comfort from a woman before, and forced himself to raise his head. God, her hands…He could imagine them drifting over his chest, his shoulders, lower, stroking his hard shaft, which was already alive and pulsating. “Thank you for your understanding,” he whispered, ignoring a tad of guilt.

An idea was forming in his head, a wonderful idea.

With two carriages and three servants it took four days to make the trip to the Hacienda de los Cierros. The trip was pain free, achieved effortlessly in the smooth barouche, but Storm found it disturbing nevertheless. For those four days Brett was always at her side. He rode in the carriage with her. When she rode astride, to break up the monotony of the trip. Brett chose to do so, too. He placed his bedroll next to hers at night, and when she awoke in the darkness, she was curled up against the hard length of his body with his arm possessively around her.

She couldn't help it—she felt sympathy for him. A great tragedy had struck his family. Storm knew she would grieve endlessly if anything had happened to her own brothers or her parents, and Brett was so stoic, trying to act as if nothing had happened. Now and then, when he wasn't aware she was studying him, she could see the pain cross his face. She wanted to hold and comfort him and help him forget his tragedy. Once or twice Brett goaded her into losing her temper, but she was instantly contrite. She would as soon kick a crippled animal as fight with Brett when he was suffering from his personal loss.

The Hacienda de los Cierros had once claimed the entire valley, but the gold rush had brought hordes to the territory, Brett told her. After the frenzy had died down, many had become squatters, turning to ranching and farm
ing, settling on sections of the vast land grants owned by the Californio families. The Monterros did have an original land grant that dated back to the first expedition sent by Spain, led by Portola in 1767. But California's admission to the Union in 1850 marked a death knell for the Californios, because the squatters, mostly Americans, now had legal rights to the land they had claimed. Many old Californio families were losing land that had been theirs for centuries. Because of the high cost of ranching, most of the families could not afford the cost of years of litigation. Even those who had come only since independence from Spain were losing their land in the courts to the new settlers. Brett told her all this dispassionately, as if he were a detached observer, not the son of the haciendado.

Storm looked down at the magnificent valley, lushly green after all the winter rains, speckled pink and yellow with wildflowers, dotted here and there with cattle and horses, and rimmed by majestic hills. On a high rise sat the hacienda, of white adobe and red-tiled roofs. There were many buildings—stables and smaller villas—but the majestic villa of the Monterros, covered with bougainvillea, dwarfed everything, as large as a castle, Storm thought. She felt a moment's apprehension. Was she ready to meet Brett's family?

Some time later, their small cavalcade moved into the courtyard, where servants came running to help them alight. Brett assisted Storm down, his face tense and dark, and Storm felt his unease and knew she must be mistaken; grief must be responsible for his reticence. His bearing became even more rigid when she heard a woman calling his name, and they turned to look toward the villa. Storm took Brett's hand in hers and blushed when he glanced at her, lifting one brow sardonically. Embarrassed, she made to release her hand, but he held on to it tightly.

“
Caro mío!
Dear, dear Breton!
Como esta usted?
How was your trip?”

Storm looked at the beautiful woman, her hair jet black, her brown eyes huge, her face the color of ivory. She was clad in black for mourning, and Storm wondered if this was Brett's mother. She had never asked about his family, and Brett had volunteered little information. He released her hand to take the one the beautiful woman had offered and bowed over it. “Indeed, Tía Elena, this is a…pleasure.” He lifted her fingers to his lips without touching her delicate white skin.

“So gallant! And who, dear Breton, is this?”

Storm flushed when she realized Brett's aunt did not know she was his wife. He gave her an apologetic look, and Storm realized with shock that he hadn't even told his family about their marriage. How could he! Deeply embarrassed, she felt her face flame even more when the woman studied her assessingly.

“My wife, Storm. This is my aunt, Tía Elena.”

Storm managed a smile.

“You must be tired,” Elena purred, expertly hiding her surprise. “Ah, here come the rest of the family.”

Storm was so humiliated, she wished she didn't have to stand there and greet them.

“Brett!”

“Tío Emmanuel,” Brett said, and a genuine smile flashed upon his face.

The two men stood facing each other. Storm stared at Brett's uncle, then tried not to look stricken as the kindly, gray-haired gentleman turned to her. “And who is this, nephew?”

“Uncle Emmanuel, this is my dear wife, Storm.”

“Ah, you have married. And such a beautiful woman, with such an unusual name,
niña
.” He gave her a warm smile.

“Brett!”

Storm looked at the young woman who had spoken and felt instant dismay. She must be Tía Elena's daughter, for she was an exact but younger version of Brett's beautiful aunt. She was perfectly gorgeous, black-eyed and black-haired, of average height but voluptuously curved, with the smallest waist Storm had ever seen. Her lips were ruby red, and were now smiling seductively at Storm's husband. His voice a caress, Brett said, “Well, well. If my cousin Sophia hasn't grown up.”

“And you also, Brett,” she flirted, holding out a delicate white hand.

Storm glanced at Brett, saw the smile, and failed to catch the mocking light in his eyes. Her heart turned over. She had the insane notion that he and this woman had been childhood sweethearts. She was so beautiful, any man would love her. And Brett was staring at her, looking at her—she knew that look.

Then he did a surprising thing. He stepped closer to Storm, taking her hand in his. “Sophia, my wife Storm.”

Sophia looked her up and down with disdain, almost tossing her glossy black head. “How nice,” she murmured, as if she were repulsed. “You are so…tall.”

“And you are so…plump,” Storm heard herself say, wanting to scratch her eyes out.

Sophia stared, stunned, then smiled, thrusting her chest forward. “Perfectly so,” she said, removing her gaze from Storm. She looked at Brett, into his eyes, her lips pouting invitingly, then at his chest. Her gaze traveled lower and stroked his thighs, shocking Storm. She had never seen a woman stare so lustfully at a man, at his groin. She had the urge to smack Sophia's pout right off her perfect face.

Brett chuckled, his arm going around Storm's waist, pulling her against him. “We are extremely tired,” he said.

“Of course,” Elena said. “It already grows late. I shall
have bathwater sent to your rooms. Perhaps you would like a dinner tray brought up?”

“That would be fine,” Brett said. “Tío Emmanuel, I hope everything can wait until morning.”

“Certainly, Brett. Your father is asleep right now. He takes laudanum for his ease. He will sleep until the morrow.”

“I am sorry about your grandson, Tío…Tía,” Brett said. “I am sorry, Sophia.”

“Thank you,” Sophia said, looking suddenly stricken. “He was only a baby…”

Elena put her arm around her daughter. “And Sophia just widowed, too. Come, daughter, help me see to the comfort of your cousin and his wife.”

Storm was shocked to realize Sophia was a widow and a mother, and older than she thought. Compassion for her cousin-in-law replaced her earlier hostility.

Sophia paused at the threshold of the villa, glancing over her shoulder. She flashed Brett a marvelous smile, fluttered inky black lashes over her eyes, and swept away, her rounded hips swinging. One glance at her husband confirmed for Storm the fact that he was watching Sophia walk away with intense concentration, and Storm felt as if someone had stabbed her in the heart. She was suddenly so tired, she felt the urge to cry, and she leaned against him.

“You are exhausted,” he murmured, his grip on her tightening. Storm saw warmth his eyes and was flustered. She didn't understand this man who was her husband, not at all.

They were shown into a suite of rooms. Brett retired to the sitting room so Storm could bathe first, with Betsy to aid her. Storm was exhausted, hungry, and still mortified that Brett hadn't bothered to tell his family of their marriage. She did not linger in the tub but washed quickly, dried herself, and slipped on an emerald silk gown and
negligee adorned with delicate cream lace. She began to brush her hair, listening to Betsy inform Brett he could take his bath now. Brett told her she was dismissed, and when Storm looked up, he was standing in the doorway, watching her comb out her wet tresses. She met his glance in the mirror and was touched deep inside when he smiled. He moved forward, pulling off his shirt.

For a moment, Storm stared at his chest, then she pulled herself together. “Excuse me,” she murmured.

He was unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning the fly to his breeches. Storm's eyes widened; she colored and fled. She thought she heard him laughing softly, but she wasn't sure.

A tray of food was waiting, but it would be rude to eat without him, so Storm sank into a plush chair and poured herself a glass of wine. The sitting room was huge and plush and elegant. There were three sofas, a settee, many chairs, and a desk. The floors, which were made of pine, were covered with Oriental rugs. All the furniture was upholstered in thick brocades or fine silks. The curtains were velvet. The room reminded her of her own home in Texas—very European.

The downstairs, however, had been Spanish, from the red-tiled floors to the heavy walnut furniture and beamed stucco ceilings. It suddenly occurred to Storm that Brett was French, his family Spanish. She frowned at this—even his last name was French. Then she understood. His father must have been French, and he had married the Spanish daughter of the hacienda, who had been the sole heir. For there was no mistaking the resemblance between Brett and his cousin, although the short, merry-cheeked Emmanuel did not seem related at all, as far as looks went.

“So pensive,” Brett said, his voice warm and melodious.

Storm glanced up, coming out of her reverie. He was wearing a black silk robe with red lapels. His body was
damp. The robe clung to his powerful chest and thighs. Storm shifted uneasily.

“Hungry?” he asked, coming to sit next to her and refilling her glass, then pouring one for himself.

“Yes, starved.” She met his eyes. They were so soft when not filled with anger, a dark, rich brown with gold flecks instead of near black. His mouth curved slightly upward, and Storm felt something tugging at her heart. He handed her the glass. She reached for it, and her wrapper opened, revealing the low neckline of her gown, edged in cream lace. Brett's gaze dipped to encompass the view, brightening considerably. Storm flushed and pulled the wrapper together.

“Shall we adjourn to the table?” he asked, standing, revealing a glimpse of hard, black-haired thigh. He held out his hand. Storm took it, rising, and he seated her as if they were at dinner party, holding her chair for her, then seated himself.

“Allow me,” he said, smiling, and he served her first.

They ate in silence. Storm was starved until she realized he was barely eating. She looked up and recognized the hungry, rapt expression on his face, felt the heat of his eyes. Her body went hot, something liquid started to build deep inside. She lowered her eyes and continued to eat.

“Tired?” Brett asked once she had finished. His tone was soft, kindly, yet too suggestive.

Storm thought about the single oversized four-poster bed in the other room, and her heart began to race. She thought about the night he had seduced her. Instead of becoming angry, she felt her body start to throb, remembering the incredible sensations he had made her feel, the ecstatic responses she had given.

“Let's go to bed,” Brett said, standing. His tone was hard to define, but Storm didn't dare look at him. He had said he wouldn't touch her again. For some reason, she knew he had meant it, and she trusted him.

She preceded him nervously into the bedroom. Brett could feel her anxiety, but he no longer smiled. It was so hard to be this way with her, barely dressed, alone, and not grab her and hold her and stroke her all over. He could think of nothing else now but his lust for her, which was threatening to make him insane. She was so ripe, so lush, her breasts so full, her nipples hard against the green silk, mesmerizing him, demanding his attention. He watched as she slipped off the wrapper, not looking at him, and he managed not to suck in his breath too loudly. The silk clung to every inch of her superb form, molding the thrust of her ample bosom, the flat curve of her belly, the upward tilt of her saucy behind, the shapely line of her legs. And then she was sliding under the covers, closing her eyes as if she were asleep already. He should have smiled. He couldn't.

He turned down the gas lamps before moving to his side of the bed, not wanting her to see his arousal and guard against it. He slipped in beside her, not touching her, stretching out on his back. He was achingly aware of her just six inches away from him. He could smell her. He could feel the heat of her body.

Brett sighed raggedly.

After a moment he did so again, more loudly although he was sure she must have heard the first time.

“Brett?”

Not answering, he rolled onto his side, his back to her. He sighed again, like a hurt, wounded animal.

“Brett? Are you okay?” Her voice was soft, a whisper. He knew she was leaning close to his back; he felt a tendril of her silken hair.

“I'm…fine,” he said hoarsely.

She greeted that statement, with its heavy innuendos, in silence. Then the bed shifted as she lay back down, and Brett cursed without thinking, audibly. She was instantly poised on her elbow again. “Do you…want to talk?”

He waited a few heartbeats, as if he had trouble talking. “Storm…”

He tensed when he felt her hand on his bare shoulder, light, then firmer. “Can I get you something to help you sleep?” she asked, kneading the taut muscles of his shoulder.