Firestorm (17 page)

Wrong.

Brett picked up the bottle and was momentarily surprised when his hand closed around air. He tried again, this time successfully. He looked up when a man asked if he could join him.

“Sure,” he said. “More the merrier, right?”

The big-bellied seaman sat across from him. “Name's Ben,” he said.

“Grab a glass, Ben.” Brett grinned. “Hey, doll, bring my frien' here a glass.”

They drank in easy silence for a while, Brett thinking about Storm again, reminding himself that his previous thoughts, whatever they were, were wrong. Oh, yes. Something about marriage.

“What you doin' here, mate? You look more like a downtown type.”

“Drownin' my sorrows, o' course. Downtown ever' one knows me.”

“Women, huh?” Ben was sympathetic.

“Woman,” Brett corrected. “The most beautiful, gorgeous, sensuous woman you ever saw. God.”

Ben grinned. “She givin' you a good chase?”

“Chase? Hell, yeah, I'd say so, 'specially considerin' she's my wife.” Brett grabbed the bottle and refilled their glasses.

“Newlyweds?”

“Very. Damn. Trapped me, she did. Smart gal, huh?”

“An old trick. You're not the first to get it.”

Brett started laughing. “That's just it. I haven't got it! Damm it all, I haven't got it yet.”

“What?”

“We were caught,” Brett said expansively, “in a garden.” He leaned forward, a bit too far forward. “My frien' is her cousin and he blackmailed me t' marry her. The thin' is, I was gonna do the hon'rable thin' anyway.”

He shook his head sadly and lifted a near-empty bottle, surprised at its lack of contents. He looked up at Ben. “I never bedded her. I married her for her kisses. Now she wants an annulment, an' I agreed, so I have the most beautiful woman in the world in my house, in my bed, an' I can't touch her.” He slammed down the bottle, twisted, and waved at the woman for another.

“She's your wife, man,” Ben said. “Hell, if I had a beautiful woman like that for a wife, I wouldn't let her go. You want her, you take her. She's yours. She belongs to you.”

Brett thought he heard someone say “Wrong,” but when he looked around he realized there was no one else with them. “Y'know, I been thinkin' that today myself. She's mine. She belongs to me.”

“Damn right. You want her, to hell with what she wants.” Ben swigged hard.

Brett followed, slamming down the glass. “Hell, she would like it if'n she jus' tried it.”

“Sure she would,” Ben agreed.

“Jus' think. Here I am, bein' a gen'man—” He shook his head sadly.

“Hell, man, you're nuts! You gotta teach that gal who's wearing the pants in your family, an' you gotta do it now. You don't do it now, she's gonna be wearin' 'em until the day you die.”

“Damn right,” Brett said, slapping his palm on the ta
ble. The barmaid arrived with another bottle. Brett handed her a few dollars with a grin. “List'n, Ben, this here's for you. Enjoy.” He stood and was shocked to find that it took a moment to regain his equilibrium.

Awkwardly he picked up his jacket and slipped it on. He smiled at Ben.

“Don't forget that nice hat,” Ben said.

“Oh, yeah.” Brett set it on at a jaunty angle. “Take care, my frien'.” He swaggered out unsteadily.

 

The moment she saw him, all her humiliation returned.

Brett grinned, leaning against her bedroom doorway. “Hello.”

In that first moment she couldn't place what was wrong. He was slightly askew, when usually his clothes were impeccably in place, and he was grinning. It was disarming. He half pushed himself away from the door, into a standing position, and swayed slightly, then started forward.

Storm sank against the headboard. “Brett, you're drunk.”

He flashed that devastating smile. “Um. And you're beautiful—have I told you that?”

He reached the side of the bed. Storm found herself both afraid and strangely exultant. “Brett…”

He sank down next to her hip. “So damn beautiful,” he murmured huskily, his arms going around her.

“Brett, no,” she tried, reaching for his arms and resisting without much heart as he pulled her up against the hard wall of his chest, smiling that drunken, boyish smile. Something funny was happening to her insides.

“I think I'm bewitched,” he slurred, then closed his eyes and began nuzzling her face with his own.

Storm's heart was thumping. She didn't want him. His face was coarse and abrasive on hers, but wonderfully so. His hands moved up and down her arms, feeling surpris
ingly gentle. He groaned and crushed her, his mouth coming down on hers.

“Please, Brett, don't,” she said, pushing him away. To her amazement, he loosened his hold, drawing back and studying her with drunken intentness. She found herself unable to look away.

“I want you,” he said finally. “I need you. Give to me,
chère
, please…”

She twisted away from his mouth, which landed on her ear. Her relief that he had missed his target soon faded as he began to nibble softly, his breath a faint, feathery touch, sending delicious tremors racing down her body. “Brett.” With shock she realized the word sounded like a moan.

“Oh, God,” Brett said, pulling her beneath him. “Storm, don't do this to me. Don't send me away. I need you,
chère
, you know that, I need you so much…”

There was such a pleading note in his voice, so different from his usual angry command. She froze as he nuzzled her neck, one hand cupping her breast and kneading it gently. She wanted to be angry, and it should be easy after all the horrible things that he had done, but it wasn't. All she could do was feel—heat and hardness, silk and steel—and she was succumbing, unable to resist him.

He was kissing her again and again, tiny, delicious butterfly kisses all over her face, and murmuring at the same time. “Why do you fight me so? Why don't you love me? She didn't want me either—how come it's that way, Storm, how come? It's the ones you don't care about who are eager, when the ones you want, the ones you need, they turn you away, again and again…”

She caught his face in her hands, stopping him. “Who, Brett?” she asked, unable to quell her terrible jealousy. “Who turned you away? Who didn't want you?”

He blinked at her, then smiled, closing his eyes and turning his cheek more fully into her hand. He sighed. “Touch me, Storm.”

“Who, Brett? Who didn't want you?”

He looked at her. “My mother. My mother sold me to my father. And you know what? It's so funny. For some damn reason, I loved her—even then.”

“Oh, Brett,” Storm cried compassionately, aghast. “She couldn't have—no mother could sell her own son.”

“She did,” he said huskily. “The whore did. Come here, darlin'. Um.”

Storm wrapped her arms around him and openly returned his kiss. Her hands found his hair, thick and crisp and curling. She spread her thighs gladly as he kneed them apart. Her mind said stop, or at least wait, but her heart and body were in tandem, conspiring…

She stroked his back and let him explore her mouth at leisure. Tentatively, shyly, she let her hands drift down to his waist, his hips, lower. They slid over his hard, rounded buttocks. She grew fascinated, freezing, her touch there but motionless. Brett had gone very still, his face buried in the curve of her neck. His breath was warm, arousing. She found that hard curve again and daringly squeezed. A hot jolt seared her and she found herself arching her hips in an unconscious offering.

It took her a moment to realize there was no response.

Storm opened her eyes, her hands still, her heart beating erratically. She peered down at Brett's head. “Brett?”

She tried again. “Brett?”

This time she moved, shaking him with her body. He was a passed-out, dead weight.

She hadn't seen him all day since she had left him snoring softly in her bed that morning. Storm had no idea when he had gotten up and left, presumably on business. Now, all through supper, he had been quiet and withdrawn. Storm wondered if he even remembered last night—if he remembered how she had encouraged him. Last night he had said he wanted her, tonight he was an indifferent stranger. He had barely looked at her the entire meal. And it didn't just confuse her, it made her angry.

Would she ever understand him?

“Here, sir,” Peter said, handing Brett a beer. “This will help.”

“What did you put in it?” Brett asked suspiciously, rubbing his temple.

Peter smiled. “You'll feel like your old self in no time.” He left.

Brett sipped and met her gaze. This time he didn't look away. Storm didn't either. Finally he put his glass down. “Storm—about last night.”

She waited.

He fiddled with his knife. “I…ah…I was a bit drunk.”

“Yes.”

He shot a glance at her. “Did…ah…I hope I didn't disturb you.”

She gave a slight shrug.

Another quick, shooting glance. “Look, what happened?”

She raised a brow, quelling a smile. “What happened?”

His nostrils flared slightly. “Yes, dammit, what happened?”

“Why, Brett, you said so yourself, you were drunk.”

His eyes grew black as he leaned forward. “Dammit, don't play games
now
of all times. Did we—Christ! I woke up in your bed, and I don't remember going there. Did we make love?”

She flushed despite herself. “You were in no shape to do anything except sleep.”

He was relieved, disappointed, and still somewhat embarrassed, both for his lack of sobriety and for his lapse of memory. “I apologize for burdening you with myself in such a state.”

Storm found herself thinking, I don't mind, then almost gasped at her thoughts. He was doing it again, wheedling her into submission, and she seemed powerless to stop him. She watched him push away his dessert plate. Knowing the meal was over, she felt herself tense with uncertainty. She had to know. “Are you going out tonight?” The instant she said the words, she could have kicked herself for the sarcastic inflection she had put on the word
out
.

He smiled slightly, a warmth that reached his eyes, making Storm uncomfortable, making her fluttery, and she frowned back. The smile broadened, and he put down his coffee cup. When he spoke, his voice was seductive. “Does this mean you care?”

“No,” she threw back, “it means I'm curious.”

“Only curious?”

“Only curious.”

“If you make me a better offer”—his voice grew husky—“I'll gladly stay.”

Being naive, it took her a few seconds to understand. She blushed, knowing he would come to her bed if she invited him. “Do you need to…to do it every night?”

Brett smiled. “Do what?”

She blushed harder. “Nothing,” she mumbled.

Brett fastened his eyes on her. She was wearing a simple skirt and blouse, modestly cut, revealing only the flat part of her upper chest. But her hair was loose, with long curls waving over and around her breasts, and he had the strong urge to lift a strand, wrap it around his hand, pull her close. “Make me an offer,” he said huskily.

Her lips parted as she stared back. Her hair was too beautiful to resist. He picked up a heavy, silken strand, coiled it slowly around his wrist, never taking his eyes from her face. She didn't move. The coil grew tight, and he used it as a leash, pulling her head toward him. Her eyes widened. So did her mouth.

His lips were soft covering hers, but there was nothing soft about the jolt that shook him from his head to his toes. The blast of desire had the intensity of dynamite, frightening him with its overwhelming strength. But he deepened the kiss, placing one hand on her shoulder, kneading her flesh, slipping his tongue over and around her lips, teasing their joining, then deftly sliding inside. His tongue touched hers. She yanked away but was pulled up short by her own hair, still coiled and held in his hand.

“Release me,” she demanded breathlessly.

“To hell with the annulment,” Brett said, his voice deep and uneven.

“Oh, no,” Storm said, her eyes flashing defiantly. “Oh, no, I'll never be your wife. Never! One minute you want me, the next you don't. I'm going home as soon as Pa comes.”

Her enthusiasm at the prospect of leaving him was a wonderful damper on his lust; he felt the easing of the fullness in his loins as miraculously and quickly as it had appeared. He slipped his hand out of her hair. “Please
lower your voice,” he said when he trusted his own to sound normal. “Servants gossip.”

“To hell with them, to hell with you!” she shouted, jumping up and knocking the chair over. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her face wrinkled in repugnance, revulsion. No woman had ever been repulsed by him, not by his touch, certainly not by his kisses. It was overwhelmingly annoying, irritating, irking, anger-inducing. Brett stood as she fled up the stairs.

Incredibly, he still wanted her. He knew he could seduce her—he could seduce any woman. Within five minutes he would have her trembling and whimpering beneath his hands and mouth. The shrinking fullness in his loins began to reverse itself, and he took a deep breath, seeking rationality.

He hadn't had a moment's peace since he married her. With that thought, he strode grimly through the house. He would never know the meaning of the word
peace
again if he stayed married to her. He knew it beyond a doubt. The woman was too savage, too untamed. The result of her Apache blood, no doubt. Good God! Of all Indians for her to be descended from, no tribe could be worse. He knew all about Apaches—they had been raiding south into Sonora from the mountains for several centuries. Raiding and killing. He remembered how she had attacked him yesterday, and how his dilemma over her had propelled him into a drunken binge. It was starting to come back—how he had, in his temporary insanity, decided to consummate the marriage. God! He didn't need this—not for a woman.

Storm had run upstairs, furious and shaking, ignoring another feeling, one of remorse. This time she was going to make sure. She had almost forgiven him for everything after seeing him so vulnerable last night. Not only had she almost forgiven him, she remembered, she had also nearly given him everything he wanted. Well, no more. He ran hot and cold, and even when he was hot he only wanted to use her, the way he used other women. How could she forget the way
he'd treated her yesterday on the beach? They were married, and it was okay for him to visit his mistress, but she couldn't even ride with the groom. She changed in seconds into her split skirt, then waited at the window. The bastard was going out again. She couldn't believe it.

Make me a better offer
, he'd said in that rich, low voice.
I'll gladly stay
.

Wearing her moccasins, Storm ran silently downstairs. If she could track a deer across rock flats, she could trail Brett through a bustling city. She was going to catch him in the act and throw it in his face. And use it to force an annulment and tell her pa, and maybe Derek would kill Brett. Right now she was mad enough to help spill his blue blood.

She followed Brett on his big silver stallion at an easy dog trot, the Apache's favorite gait. Her father had told her how Apaches could run for seventy miles like that, day after day, if they had to. He'd done it himself, to rescue her mother, once long ago. In comparison, trotting across town was nothing.

She was breathing a bit hard, but was otherwise unaffected when Brett dismounted in front of a small house with a white picket fence, surrounded by other modest homes with modest yards and fences. The house made Storm frown as she hid in the shadows up the block, because it didn't look like the home of a harlot, but of a family. Brett disappeared inside. Storm ran to the edge of the yard, climbed over the fence, then, keeping low, ran across the small yard and hid behind an oak tree that partially shielded curtained French doors. She peered inside and caught a glimpse of Brett walking past the doorway, apparently upstairs. She leaned against the tree to think—for all of one second. Then she looked up, leaped for a branch, caught it with both hands. She swung her feet up easily until she was clinging upside down like a monkey, then righted herself. She was as good at climbing trees as at riding and shooting. If Brett wasn't
visiting his mistress, she would actually be enjoying herself. She started climbing.

Inside, Brett felt both irritated and pensive as he slowly reached the top of the stairs. He didn't really want to be here. He hadn't seen Audrey since his wedding night, so not wanting to see her was out of character—he liked frequent sex. But the past few nights, except for last night, he'd brooded into a whiskey glass in his office at the Golden Lady, not trusting himself to be at home and so near
her
. Her. His damn vixen wife. God, if only she'd invited him up to her room…He took a deep breath. That thought brought all kinds of surging desire to the fore.

“Brett, darling.” Audrey smiled.

“Hi,” he said, kissing her cheek. They were standing on the threshold of her room, he frowning.

“Is everything all right?”

He immediately thought of Storm. “Hah.”

“Let me get you a drink,” she said, moving to the decanters on the sideboard. “You look like you need it.”

I need Storm, he thought, then was shocked at his wayward mind, and furious at himself, too. He walked to the window, unable to get her image out of his head, so that when she actually appeared in the oak tree he was facing, for the briefest moment he thought he was still imagining her. But as they stared through the window into each other's eyes, as shock crossed her face, as he realized she was real, not a figment of his imagination—

They gaped at each other.

And moved simultaneously.

She turned and started to scramble down the tree, but he had already thrust open the window and was lunging out and onto a branch, which groaned under his weight. She was clinging to the trunk like a monkey, and he could hear her harsh breathing, hear the scraping of bark, the rustling of leaves as she frantically descended. He found a new foothold, but when the branch snapped, he jerked
his foot back up, seeking another. He started down after her, his feet almost on top of her descending head. Then he heard her cry out. His gaze went from the next foothold he was seeking, to her—except that she wasn't there.

“Storm!” he shouted, freezing as she fell as if in slow motion through the branches, his heart coming into his throat and choking him.

She landed on her back with a loud thump, her eyelids closing, shutting out the blue fire and blue fear.

“Storm!” he shouted. Ignoring his own lack of skill and his heavier weight, he frantically half slid, half climbed down the tree, dropping the last eight feet to land on his hands and knees beside her prone figure.

His heart was beating wildly. He straddled her, took her face in his hands—it was so cold. “Storm? Storm?” She was so lifeless. He didn't want to move her, not if she'd broken anything; he gently touched a forefinger to her throat and found a slow but steady pulse. “Thank God!”

His knees were on each side of her hips, not touching, and he cupped her face with both hands, not lifting or moving her head. “Storm? Storm? Wake up, sweetheart. Wake up,
chère
. Storm?”

Her eyes opened. Even in the dimness of night, he could see how unfocused they were. “Are you all right?” he rasped.

She focused on him. Her eyes closed. “Storm!”

She moaned, her eyes opening again. “I don't think anything's broken,” she said finally, shakily.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Relief ebbed; anger flooded in. “What in hell were you doing?” he roared.

“Spying,” she said in that same weak voice.

He stared, then had to smile, reluctantly. “I told you,” he said, stroking her soft face with a thumb, “you just had to make me a better offer.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“
Chère
,” he said huskily, “don't cry.” He used his thumb to brush the tears away. “Next time you want to know where I'm going, please ask.”

Their gazes held. Then, after an enigmatic silence, Storm said, “That's the first time I've ever heard you say please.”

He smiled, shifting his weight off her. “Can you sit up?”

She nodded. He started to help her rise, but she moaned, and he instantly let her lie back down. “You're not all right,” he said accusingly.

“Brett! Brett! What's going on?”

Storm felt Brett stiffen. She stiffened, too, and raised herself to her elbows, straining to see as Brett turned to speak. “Go back inside, Audrey. I need to borrow your carriage. Please send it around.”

“Should I get a doctor? Who is it?”

“Audrey—” Brett started, his voice authoritarian.

Storm sat up without realizing it, sat and stared at the incredibly gorgeous,
short
woman holding the lantern, bathed in the glow of lights from the house. “Aren't you going to introduce us, Brett?” she asked as bitingly as she could, nausea rising up in her. She couldn't compete with that woman! Not ever!

“Inside,” Brett was saying, his tone harsh. “Now, Audrey. Storm, lie back down,” he said, his voice softening as he slipped one arm behind her and pushed her back down.

Storm complied, but it was too late; she and the woman had made eye contact, and Storm had seen the woman's startled understanding when Brett called her by name. More nausea rose. She was dizzy. His mistress was petite and curved and beautiful and feminine and delicate—everything Storm wasn't.

“Yes, Brett,” Audrey said softly, dutifully, disappearing.