Firestorm (31 page)

“Don't you smart-mouth me,” Don Felipe said, but he was grinning. “Just give me that grandson.”

And Brett realized that that was the biggest compliment he could possibly receive from his father.

As he closed the door behind him, he found himself chuckling. The old man had lost his touch. He had actually, indirectly and inadvertently, said two nice things to him that day. In all his previous confrontations with his father, Brett had never laughed after seeing him, but this time he did, all the way back to his room.

 

Where was Brett?

It felt like déjà vu, and Storm didn't like that.

He had been so different all day, his face relaxed, the tension drained away, actually smiling and chuckling from time to time. He had made love to her playfully that afternoon after seeing his father, with much laughter and teasing, as if it were a celebration of sorts. She had never seen him like this before, not in bed, not out of it. She loved this side of him.

They had dined in their room since everyone else was in mourning, and now Brett had disappeared. Storm wanted him again. She wanted him to curl his big body around her, hold her tightly, laugh and tease, and then make wonderful love to her.

What was he doing?

Storm got up, securing her wrapper, and padded out into the hall. She found Brett standing a distance away on the patio, his head lifted to the cool, sweet night air, his
perfect profile illuminated by a full moon. Storm felt her heart contract with love. She started forward, then suddenly stopped.

“Brett.”

Storm would know
that
voice anywhere. Sophia. At the sound both she and Brett turned toward it. Sophia appeared at the other end of the patio in a thin, clinging nightgown, gracefully drifting toward Brett. She reached him and put her arms around him.

“
Caro
,” she said huskily, “your wife and Diego have been unfaithful to us both. Forget them. Forget Storm. Leave her, Brett. Take me back to San Francisco with you.”

Her anger rising, Storm watched silently in the shadows as Sophia pressed herself against Brett. This was one time too many. Sophia needed a lesson, Apache-style. She turned and ran back upstairs.

In their bedroom she found her hunting knife, which she hid in the folds of her wrapper, and rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

She raced down to the patio, her blood pounding. A vivid fantasy was etching itself on her mind—Sophia in terror as Storm held the knife to her cheek just before she scarred her in vengeance for her crimes. But Sophia was no longer on the patio. Nor was Brett anywhere in sight. Storm raced through the house to Sophia's room—and found her alone, standing before her mirror.

“What do you want?” Sophia asked coldly without turning. Their gazes met in the glass.

Storm smiled.

A flicker of irritation crossed Sophia's face. She turned. “What do you want?”

Storm was still smiling coldly. “You need a lesson.”

Sophia was startled, then incredulous. “And what, child, could
you
teach
me?
”

Storm stepped forward until she was directly in front of Sophia. The older woman drew back instinctively against
the dresser. Something flashed. The long blade appeared in Storm's hand, its tip against Sophia's nose.

Sophia's eyes were huge.

“He belongs to me,” Storm said softly, increasing the pressure on the blade without breaking Sophia's fine, white skin.

Sophia gasped. “You're crazy!”

“Do you know what Apache men do to unfaithful wives?” Storm asked conversationally. She did not expect an answer—she did not receive one. “They cut off their noses.”

Sophia made a strangled sound.

“Do you know why they choose that as punishment?” Storm asked coolly, looking into Sophia's terrified eyes. “Do you?”

“No…
please!
”

Storm smiled again. “Because no man wants to be with a mutilated woman.” She let that thought sink in and pressed the blade hard enough to draw a speck of blood.

Sophia whimpered. “Please, don't.
No! I'll never…
”

“If you come near him again,” Storm stated, “if you ever even look at him again, I'm Apache enough to do it. Nothing—
nothing
—would give me more pleasure.”

She drew away, watching with hard satisfaction as Sophia crumpled onto a stool. Somehow she didn't think Sophia would be so eager to flirt with Brett anymore.

Storm found him pacing their room impatiently, clad in his navy silk robe, which was barely belted. At the sight of him Storm felt a surge of love.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“Teaching Sophia a lesson,” she said honestly, moving into his arms.

He was puzzled. “Storm, what—?”

She cut him off, looking directly into his eyes. “I love you, Brett.”

He was momentarily startled. Then his gaze grew warm,
and he cupped her face. “Yes,
chère
, oh, yes.” His mouth found hers.

Storm opened her lips, drinking him in, her heart expanding and filling with joy. “I love you,” she murmured against his slanting mouth. “I love you,” she breathed again, running her hands up and down his broad back.

He crushed her against him, burying his face in her hair. She could feel his heart racing wildly. “Oh, Storm,” he groaned. He held her face in his hands, his dark eyes searching hers. “Tell me,” he said hoarsely. “Oh, please, tell me again and again.”

“I love you,” she said simply, her voice breaking.

He crushed her in his arms again, desperately. His body was hot and throbbing with need, shaking. He pulled her to the floor. He began stroking her with trembling hands, straddling her.

“I'm obsessed,” he said thickly. “No other woman will do. Do you know that?”

She gazed up at him. His hands had stopped on her shoulders, holding her almost painfully. She could see he was fighting with himself. “No,” she said softly. “I don't know that.”

He half groaned and half laughed. “Since the day I first saw you, you turned my life upside down. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I tried to tell myself it was just lust. That I didn't need you.” He looked at her, taking a deep breath, and slid down the length of her until she could feel the fullness of his arousal against her groin. He reached for his fly. “I can't wait.”

“No,” she said, firmly stopping his hand. Their breath mingled. “Finish.”

“Finish?” he asked stupidly, then laughed shakily. “Yes,
chère
, that's what I'm trying to do if you'd let me open my pants. Finish what we've started.”

“You know that's not what I mean, Brett.”

“What more do you want?” he cried, his grip on her shoulders tightening.

She cradled his face, the skin already rough with stubble.

“Damn,” he said brokenly. He pulled her hard against him, crushing her. “Don't you know. I've fallen in love with you…”

“You love me,” she said on a sigh. “Truly?”

“Yes.” His voice became strained. “Tell me again…that you love me.”

“I love you,” she said, suddenly comprehending how much he needed her.

A look of elation crossed his face. “Prove it to me,” he demanded. “Prove it to me, now.”

She was about to kiss him and show him, with her mouth and her hands and her body, just how much she loved him. But something stopped her, some timeless womanly intuition. “No,” she said softly, a slight smile on her mouth. Her eyes shone with invitation. “You prove it to me.”

His nostrils flared. “Gladly,” he said hoarsely. His black gaze held hers, and what she saw there, freed at last from the burdens of his past, was more of an aphrodisiac than any words could be.

His mouth descended slowly, and she opened to him. After a while he said huskily, his mouth against hers, “I will spend the rest of my life proving just how much I love you, Storm.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”