Firestorm (9 page)

“Storm!” He bowed over her hand, but his brown eyes never left her face. “I was hoping you would be here tonight.”

She smiled. “Thank you, James.”

He begged to take her from her cousin, who agreed, pleased with her suitor, and Storm was led away by the eager James to meet some of the other guests. In the opposite direction from
him
.

Soon Randolph and two other young men, Robert and Lee, had gathered around Storm, all laughing as the men tried to outdo one another by telling her amusing anecdotes, each vying for her favor. Storm had never felt so feminine, or so pretty. It was hard to believe she was at this elegant soiree, dressed like a princess, surrounded by four handsome men who were all trying to hold her attention. Just once, she stole a look in Brett's direction, feeling smug because she was sure he was witnessing her grand success. He wasn't. His mouth was close to the blond's ear, and she was blushing gorgeously. Then they gazed into each other's eyes as if they were in love. Storm's heart fell, and she suddenly felt sick.

The evening was ruined. Storm listened and smiled and tried to laugh, but she was not doing a convincing job of it. Randolph asked her what was wrong, but she gave him a wan smile and told him “Nothing.” She stole another look at Brett and found him in almost the same position as before. The insipid blond's blue eyes were shining.

Then Storm held court over her group of admirers with determination. As if sensing they had lost her interest, they were beginning to look ill-at-ease, and ready to leave. Storm resolved she would have a good time—or at least
Brett D'Archand would think so! “Did I ever tell you the story of how I outrode ten Comanches when I was only twelve years old?”

“What?” her companions all exclaimed.

“Come on, Storm,” Lee said, “you're making that up.”

“Most certainly not. I ride better than any Comanche, and if any of you gentlemen don't believe me, you'll just have to take me riding to find out.”

That suggestion was greeted with roars of approval, and before Storm knew it, she had three offers to go riding.

“Tell us about the Comanches,” Robert said.

“It was a group of renegades that had drifted south, raiding and looting and killing,” Storm said.

“How do you know that?” James asked.

“Why, the only time Comanches come that far south, where we live, is when they're renegades. In the past fifteen years they've been almost wiped out by the Texas Rangers.”

“So you were twelve and outrode them?”

“I was playing in a lake across the valley from where the ranch house is. I wasn't supposed to be there. I was supposed to be doing my chores.” She smiled.

“And?” Lee asked.

“I was wading in the water when my horse snorted and I looked up. There they were—ten Comanches ringing the shore about twenty yards away from me and my mare.”

“You're making this up!” Lee said.

“I am not!” Storm's eyes flashed. “I was afraid to run. I was afraid that if I ran they would come after me. So I pretended I didn't have a care in the world and very calmly and slowly walked out of the water to my horse—which, fortunately, was a very fast Arabian mare my pa had bought for breeding. No one moved. I mounted. I didn't even look at them. But the minute I started to trot away, they started after me—at a gallop.

“We raced the entire eight miles back home, across really rough, rocky terrain. All I could think of was that my mare could break a leg and Pa would be furious! At first, they were right behind me, but their ponies were no match for my filly, and I started to lose them. By the time I got home I was way ahead of them, enough so that I couldn't see them.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then Randolph said, “What happened next?”

“I started screaming. Pa and the boys were out on the range, so me and my mother and our old maid had to hold them off ourselves.”

“Wow!” Lee said.

“Don't worry,” Storm said disdainfully. “Comanches only hit and run. They gave up after attacking the house for five minutes—took off with some horses and chickens, and set fire to one of the barns, which me and Mother managed to put out.” She grinned. “I sure was lucky. If that mare had busted her leg, Pa would have killed me!”

They all laughed.

“But I did get a spanking for neglecting my chores,” she added ruefully, then regretted having mentioned this detail since, from the expressions on her admirers' faces, she had an idea they were envisioning that portion of her grown-up anatomy. “Anybody care to race?” she said to change the trend of thought.

“Beware,” said a familiar voice behind her. “She does ride like a Comanche, and I can personally attest to it.”

Storm whirled to face Brett, who was smiling as if nothing had ever happened between them. The blond, who looked even more gorgeous up close, was still hanging on to his arm. How long had he been standing there? Storm blushed furiously, then gave him a cold shoulder. “Lee, would you escort me to the punch bowl?” she asked in her sweetest voice.

He jumped to comply, and Storm was very aware of
Brett's eyes on her as she walked away, her heart thumping.

He didn't approach again, which was fortunate for him, she thought. Some time later, however, Marcy and Grant joined her group as she was being regaled yet again by tales from the same four admirers. “Hello, dear,” Marcy said. “You look exquisite.” She was glowing with pride. “Doesn't she?”

“She certainly does,” Grant said, kissing her cheek. “I would say life in San Francisco agrees with you.”

Storm didn't want to insult anyone. “It has grown on me.”

“I heard you went riding yesterday with Brett,” Grant said. “Heard you beat his gray, too.” He laughed.

Storm grew rigid. “Our first and last ride.”

Grant and Marcy looked surprised. “Dear, didn't you enjoy yourself? Brett is good company.”

Storm stepped closer to them, her blue eyes blazing. She lowered her voice so her quartet of admirers couldn't hear. “I almost certainly did not! Marcy, I know Brett is your friend, but he isn't mine, and please don't expect me to be civil to him again!”

For a moment silence greeted her, then Marcy asked, “Dear, what happened?”

“He kissed me,” she blurted out. “But I don't think he'll try it again!”

They stared at her, Marcy looking scandalized, Grant looking suspiciously on the verge of laughter. “Worse things have happened,” he finally said.

“Not to me they haven't.” Storm tossed her mane of waving hair. “I bet his belly is still sore from where I punched him.” She hesitated, then added, “At least, I hope so!” She stalked away—away from the Farlanes and from her admirers.

Grant started laughing.

“It's not amusing,” Marcy said, her brows furrowed.

“Oh-ho! I can see your devious mind at work. It
is
funny! I doubt Brett has ever been punched by a lady before. I wish I could have been there.”

“Those two seem to have got off on the wrong foot since they first met,” Marcy mused.

“She's the most beautiful woman in San Francisco, next to you, Marcy, so how could Brett not be attracted to her?”

Across the room, Storm was not smiling as she stared out of the windows into the night. She kept thinking about that damn scoundrel and that blond. Who was she? She was dying to know, but was too proud to ask. Then she became aware of the two young ladies standing close to her, talking loud enough for her to hear.

“Yes, yes, that is her!” the brunette exclaimed, momentarily meeting Storm's eyes. There was no doubt she was deliberately speaking loud enough for Storm to hear. She looked away.

“The one who fainted?” her friend asked eagerly.

“In the
garden
,” the brunette said significantly. “She was in the garden with Brett D'Archand
and
Randolph Farlane.
And
she had no shoes on.”

There was a stunned silence. Storm turned to glare at the two girls, growing more furious by the second.

“Mary, do you think one of them kissed her?”

The brunette was triumphant. “You ninny, I bet they both kissed her! But she was asking for it. Going out there alone with Brett—everyone knows his reputation—and Randolph. Why else would she have fainted?”

“Oh, my Lord,” the second girl gasped, staring at Storm again with wide eyes.

Storm's face was red.

“What do you expect—she's from Texas. They do things out in the open there. I wonder if they did more than kiss. I bet she had other garments off, too! I wonder if…”

Storm clenched her fists, hard. She wanted to slap the
girl, but this wasn't Texas; it was a ballroom in San Francisco, and she did know better. Besides, she didn't want to live up to their expectations. Nevertheless, it was hard to restrain herself. Storm stepped right between the two girls to face her accuser. “Do you have something to say to me?” she demanded softly.

Mary looked her up and down disapprovingly, then tilted her classic nose in the air. “No, I don't think so.”

Storm was so mad she wanted to spit. When the brunette turned back to face her girlfriend and began to walk away, Storm stepped down hard on the hem of her gown. There was a loud tearing sound as her gown ripped beneath Storm's kidskin-clad foot. The brunette whirled, horrified.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Storm said innocently. “Look what happened!”

“You did that on purpose!” Mary cried.

“Of course I didn't,” Storm said sweetly. “It's not so bad. Look.” As tears of anger gathered in the brunette's eyes, Storm bent and lifted the jaggedly torn hem.

“Just let go,” Mary insisted.

“Okay,” Storm said, letting go and straightening so abruptly that she jammed her shoulder into Mary's hand—the one holding her glass of champagne. The contents spilled all over her skirt. Mary shrieked.

“Oh, dear, how clumsy of you,” Storm said.

“You did it!”

“I saw her,” the blond agreed. “She did it on purpose!”

“She tore my gown and spilled my drink all over me,” Mary wailed. By now they were gathering more than a little attention.

“Let me get you another drink,” Storm offered solicitously.

“Storm,” Paul and Marcy cried at once, reaching her.

“She ruined my dress!” the brunette screamed. “That trollop purposely ruined my dress!”

Storm's temper flared. “I'd like to kill her,” she muttered savagely before she realized someone had come up to her from behind.

“I think you've done well enough already,” Brett said, chuckling.

Storm went red.

“Storm, maybe we'd better go home,” Paul said firmly, quietly, taking her arm.

“Not until I set that little wretch straight,” Storm said, causing the crowd to gasp. “I fainted because my stays were too tight. And I was not alone in the garden with two men—Leanne St. Clair was there, too. And the only thing off my body was my shoes—nothing else. You're lucky I'm not packing my gun, because so help me, I'd—”

“I think everyone gets the idea,” Brett interrupted, his tone heavy with amusement.

Paul tightened his grip on her arm. “I'm sure we can expect Mary to call tomorrow to apologize—in which case Storm will gladly do the same for her rash actions. I am so sorry, Ben,” he said to their host.

Ben Holden barely managed to hide his chagrin. “Ah, sure, that's all right, well…” He smiled foolishly.

Storm was still furious. “I will not apologize to that foul-minded—”

“Storm, say good night,” Paul interrupted.

Feeling duly chastised, she managed to do as she was told. She was very aware of Brett standing near her, of his dancing dark eyes that suggested he thought the incident was the funniest thing he had ever seen. So, just before she turned to follow her cousin into the foyer, she shot Brett the meanest look she could. She wasn't sure, but as she stepped out the front door she thought she heard him laughing.

 

“Who was that?”

Brett looked down at Elizabeth's shocked, white face, having forgotten her presence. “Storm Bragg, Paul Langdon's cousin.”

“Can you believe what she did? And the language—”

“How about a glass of champagne?” he said, cutting her off. Whatever had possessed him to escort Elizabeth Bedford to the Holdens'? But he knew the answer instantly. Storm!

He smiled as he went to fetch Elizabeth a glass of champagne. He had seen the whole incident—in fact, he had been hard pressed not to watch every move Storm made the entire evening. Surrounded by suitors,
rapt
suitors, ignoring him—was she trying to make him jealous? Not that it would work. Why should he be jealous of that little hoyden? He certainly wasn't. Not in the least.

Did she know Lee was a womanizer? And did she know that Robert, although of impeccable breeding, was penniless? Certainly not an acceptable suitor. Still, he had felt annoyed at their devoted attention. Was she actually flirting with them? Of course not. She didn't even know how to flirt. He had been compelled, finally, to approach and investigate. To find that she was certainly not flirting, just regaling them with an incredible tale.

He didn't doubt for an instant that she had outridden a bunch of Comanche warriors. Most men wouldn't have had that kind of courage, but foolish, brave, impulsive, gorgeous Storm did…He wasn't in the least surprised, either, that she had torn Mary Atherton's gown and spilled her champagne. No doubt Mary had deserved it, but Storm had violated an unspoken social rule. A lady did not condescend even to acknowledge such gossip. That thought made him chuckle. Storm was certainly no lady.

Suddenly, he was bored with the evening. She hadn't forgiven him for the kiss yesterday—not that he expected her to. He shouldn't even think about it, he knew that. But
as his carriage headed toward the Bedfords' to take Elizabeth home, and as Elizabeth chatted on, he found himself remembering how Storm felt and smelled and tasted, and he was honest enough to admit he was seriously infatuated with her. What a mistress she would make!