Firestorm (7 page)

Storm walked him to the door. “Thank you for coming,” she said, smiling, no longer ill at ease.

Randolph's eyes were shining. “I've never had so much fun, Storm. Most ladies talk about silly things—you know, other ladies and balls and such. Your father sounds like quite a man.”

“Maybe you'll be able to meet him when he comes to get me in September.”

For a moment Randolph's face fell. “I forgot you'll be leaving us.” Then he smiled. “But I'd like to meet your father.”

Storm ate a light lunch, then changed into a riding habit.
This one had been designed by Marcy and was quite unusual, but very elegant. It was black. The jacket was bolero-styled, embroidered with gold and silver threads. The split skirt was tight at the hips and flared out to catch the top of her new black riding boots. The shirt she wore beneath it was cream-colored, high-necked, and detailed with fragile lace. She even had a black Stetson to go with it. She admired herself in the mirror and wished her family could see her now. She wondered what Brett would think.

Storm realized she was actually anticipating Brett's arrival, a thought that thoroughly annoyed her. He arrived promptly at two. She met him in the foyer. There was no mistaking the admiration in his gaze.

“Brett,” she said coolly to hide her strange agitation. She held out her hand.

He gave a lazy smile that made her heart do a flip-flop. He took her hand, holding it for a moment, and Storm was struck by the fact that it disappeared in the largeness of his. For the first time she realized he was a head taller than she was. That thought disturbed her even more.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned over her hand so that the palm was facing up. Storm felt confused. Her blood was pounding in her ears. He raised her palm, holding her gaze, his own eyes dark, then pressed a warm, lingering kiss on her soft flesh. She gasped softly.

He released her. “You look magnificent.” He was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. “Shall we?”

Before a mutinous expression could settle on her face, he took her arm and tucked it in his, stealing another glance at her. A beautiful blush covered her features. What was it about her that so drew him? She was just another woman, a half child even, but he'd be a damn liar if he pretended he wasn't affected by her. The thought made him uneasy. It had been the same every time he'd seen her since they first met: he was drawn to her, almost against his will. She was the only woman he knew who was im
mune to his charm, who seemed to dislike him, and that irritated him and fed his determination to win her over.

And…something else. He wasn't sure he liked how he felt around her—unsettled, needing.
Needy
.

An image flashed in his mind. A forlorn little boy with a puppy-dog's gaze watching his beautiful mother sweep by without a word, not even noticing his presence. The boy's hopeful expression became closed.

Brett found his heart pounding heavily, hurtfully. His hold on Storm tightened.

I am no longer that boy, he thought grimly, and damned if I care what this woman thinks of me.

He led her outside. The groom had already brought her stallion around and was holding him some distance from Brett's own mount. The two animals wanted to fight.

Brett walked her to the black's side. She took the reins from the groom, thanking him, but before she could slip one foot in the stirrup, Brett grasped her around the waist and set her in the saddle. He couldn't help it. He may not have been born a gentleman, but he was one now.

Her eyes blazed. “I can mount by myself, thank you.”

He smiled back. “I couldn't resist.”

“Well, try!” she retorted.

He swung gracefully onto his gray, and they set off down the drive, holding the two stallions to a restless, prancing walk. He could see from Storm's expression that she wasn't thrilled to be riding with him and that she was still angry. He shoved his own roiling emotions away.

“How was lunch yesterday?” he asked, hoping to hit upon an innocuous topic.

“I was impressed,” she muttered, barely audibly. But Brett's momentary delight at her words was short-lived. “You took complete advantage, Brett. If Marcy wasn't there, you know I would never have agreed to go riding with you.” She glared at him. “Why? What kind of game are you playing?”

He raised a brow coolly. “It's quite natural, I assure you, for a single man to want the company of a beautiful, unattached lady.” The gallant flattery came unbidden to his lips.

She looked at him for a moment, her blue eyes fierce and doubtful, her mouth stony. Then she sighed. “I suppose after everything the Farlanes have done for me, I should forgive you.”

“I thought you had.”

“You know I didn't!” she flashed.

He had to smile. What a passionate woman, he thought again, suddenly knowing she would be a wildcat in bed. He wondered if Randolph had kissed her in the Farlanes' garden.

That thought coming out of nowhere made him frown. He focused on what she had said. “Are you still angry because I told Paul you were out riding alone?”

“Yes! That wasn't your business.”

“I would do it again,” he told her seriously. He held her gaze and wouldn't let go. Then he smiled in admiration at her stubbornness, her spirit, her beauty. “It's just not safe, Storm,” he added gently.

She seemed uneasy at his tone and quickly looked away. Had Randolph kissed her? he wondered again, irritated. He wanted to be the first to kiss her. Would she fight him or melt against him? He almost laughed. She'd fight. He'd be lucky not to get a black eye if he tried.

“Still mad?” There was a new, teasing note in his voice.

They were riding down the path to the beach. For a moment, as she let her stallion pick his way, she didn't answer. Then she said, “I guess not.” She sighed heavily, as if it required a great effort to give up her anger.

“Thank you, Storm.” He grinned. “Next time I will know that a single line of apology will not do.”

“Just don't interfere again, Brett,” she warned. “You're not my father.”

“Absolutely not,” he agreed readily.

“Does that gray have any speed?” she asked, tossing her head disdainfully.

Brett's grin widened. “A bit.”

“Good. How far shall we race to? That point where the coast curves?”

“Fine with me,” Brett said, trying not to laugh. Should he let her win?

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Go!” Storm shouted, and the two stallions leaped forward as one.

The distance was only a mile and a half or so, and Brett kept his gray nose to flank with the black. Both horses ran hard, with fierce, inbred desire. Brett admired how Storm rode, fearlessly and effortlessly. After a mile, the black stallion began to lengthen his strides, and Brett realized with shock that Storm had been holding him in. He urged the gray on, and the powerful animal pulled even with the black. They were racing neck and neck, nose to nose.

Storm's hat had been flung back, and her head was bare. She shot Brett a wild, excited look, her blue eyes dancing. Then she laughed, a loud, rich sound, and leaned even further over her horse's neck until her face disappeared in his mane. The black surged forward. Brett drove his gray on, but the horse could not get his nose past the black's flank. With a shout of triumph, Storm crossed the point half a length ahead.

She pulled up, her animal shaking his head in protest, still wanting to run. Brett patted his gray, who was also prancing avidly, eager to run farther, but he didn't take his eyes off Storm. Wisps of hair had come loose from her braid and were blowing around her face. She was flushed, exultant, sitting tall and straight and looking impossibly gorgeous. He had never met a woman who could ride the way she did, so fast, so fearlessly. He suddenly understood
that she was now in her element. “You won,” he conceded, sweeping her a mock bow. “And I'm mightily impressed.”

“It wasn't fair,” Storm cried, bringing the black closer to him. “Damn, but I'm so much lighter than you! You were so close behind! I know Demon's faster, but we should have had you by more than half a length to make up for how heavy you are.”

He laughed.

“No, really. Next time let's go longer, and I'll weight my saddle with something to make it a more even challenge. How does that sound?”

He was still smiling. “How could I possibly resist?

“Good,” she said, sliding off her horse. “We'd better walk them a bit.”

Brett joined her on foot. The two stallions were getting along better now that some of their restless energy had been spent, and it took only a moment to make sure one wasn't going to kick or bite the other. They moved closer to the water, where the sand was harder, and strolled side by side in silence.

“You can ride,” Storm finally admitted grudgingly.

Brett cocked a brow. “Was my riding ability in doubt?”

She gave him a half smile. “I thought the gray was for show, like your clothes.”

“I see,” he said, irritated. Clearly, she didn't think much of him. Every woman he'd ever met had been irresistibly drawn to him, had admired his looks, his success. Why was she so immune to him?

“Where are you from, Brett? Are you descended from one of the original Californio families?”

He looked at her, trying to tell if she was really interested or just making conversation. “Yes. Although I was born in Mazatlán. My father was a criollo.”

“What's a criollo?”

“A Mexican who can trace his lineage back to Spain with no taint.”

“Ah, a kind of aristocracy,” Storm said.

“Yes.”

“I should have known,” she muttered. “And now he's an American?”

“He prefers to call himself a Californio.”

“Does he have a ranch? Why are you here, not there?”

He hadn't missed her disparaging tone, and his mouth tightened. “I came here in '49 to make my fortune,” he said shortly. “My brother will inherit.”

There was no need to tell her that it was only after the accidental deaths of his two legitimate half brothers that his father had originally sent for him—the bastard. That his father had only then recognized him as his son and decided to be a father to him. He had remarried the instant his first wife died, in hopes of begetting a legitimate heir—a goal that had been fulfilled promptly in his half brother Manuel, who was now ten years old.

Brett heard the touch of bitterness in his voice but ignored her questioning glance, knowing she had heard it, too.

“Were you raised in Mazatlán?” Storm was asking.

Brett felt a reflexive tightening of his gut. “Until I was eight. After that I was raised in Monterey, on the hacienda.” The words had slipped out—he had said too much.

He would never forget the day his mother had summoned him so casually to tell him he was going to live with his father in a faraway land called California. Even now there was a lingering trace of the pain the little boy had felt. But he hadn't let his mother see him cry, and he hadn't begged or pleaded with her to change her mind. Even now he wondered how much Don Felipe, his father, had paid the whore, his mother, to get him.

“Will you ever go back?” Storm asked.

“Never,” he said as dispassionately as he could.

“You had a falling out with your father?”

He stared at her in amazement and ill-concealed anger.

“I'm sorry.” She had the grace to blush. “I don't know why I'm prying. I am sorry.”

She was so earnest he forgot his displeasure. He liked seeing a slightly humble Storm for a change. They walked in silence for a bit. Storm sighed. “I love the water,” she said, staring out at the ocean. “Back home I swim every day.”

He remembered how golden her skin was at the edge of her bodice, where it should have been white. He became fascinated with the idea that she swam naked. No—it was impossible. Though she might be a little savage, no man would let his daughter do so.

“I miss it,” she said.

A wave twice the size of the rest crested and rolled toward shore. Brett saw it as it broke, threw his arm around her waist, and pulled her rapidly up the beach as the tide came rushing in. She laughed, running with him to escape the surf. In that moment they both dropped their reins, but the stallions followed. “I don't mind getting my boots wet,” Storm said, smiling.

His arm was still around her, her entire side pressed against him. He could smell the scent of roses, and a silken tendril of her hair caught on his mouth. She stumbled slightly, sinking into the softer sand, and the movement threw one soft, round breast against his ribs. She was firm, but soft, too, and the contradiction thrilled him. She was still laughing, not even looking at him but at the culprit ocean. Her lashes were unbelievably black and long.

In one deft move he drew her completely against him, the arm around her waist locking like an iron band, his other hand going to the back of her head. She gasped, her gaze meeting his in mute surprise just as he lowered his mouth and brushed her lips softly, gently.

She stiffened. With melting tenderness, teasing with un
bearable lightness, he moved his mouth again and again on hers. She started to step back, but his arm around her waist and his hand on her neck tightened. His tongue touched her lower lip, traced it. She relaxed, softening. His mouth became more insistent, more searching and demanding. He thought a whimper escaped from deep in her chest. His tongue darted between her lips; she opened them. As he plunged into her, thrusting again and again, telling her with his mouth and tongue how he would make love to her, he grew hard and long against her belly, throbbing wildly.

With incredible strength, she tore herself out of his arms and pulled back her right arm. She was panting. “Bastard!” she shouted, and even though he realized in shock what she was doing, he comprehended too late. A fist hurled into his midsection, making him grunt and double over. Jesus, was she strong!