Firestorm (25 page)

“What are you saying?” Brett demanded.

“Gabriella is betrothed. I intend to live until she is married in three years, to Salvador Talaveras, a fine Californio. They will inherit everything.”

“Fine with me,” Brett said grimly. But an ugly thought came unbidden.
He chose my little sister, a woman, over his own son
.

“Go back to the city, boy. We'll let them think you will inherit it all. When the day comes that they read my will, they will be surprised.” He chortled at the thought.

“Sophia is a widow,” Brett said. “Where is her rancho?”

“Far south, near Los Angeles. They have lost three-quarters to squatters since annexation by the United States, and they could lose it all in litigation over the title. Once, it was a fine place. Now it is neglected and run down.” Don Felipe glared at him. “The damn Americanos have taken everything away from us, Brett. Our lands, our way of life. The Californios are a dead breed.” He began to cough.

When he didn't stop, Brett grew alarmed despite him
self, and pounded him on the back, surprised at the strength of his father's body, which was not as frail as it looked. Brett handed him some water and the old man drank, the fit passing. “Are you all right?” Brett asked.

“Do you care?” he shot back.

“If I'm riding down the road,” Brett said, “and I find a starving, maimed mutt, I care enough to put it out of its misery.”

“I'm not starving, maimed, or a damn mongrel,” Felipe shouted. “I'm your flesh and blood.”

“Barely,” Brett shouted back. “And through no choice of mine. Why, old man? Why did you want me to come?”

“I didn't, you ungrateful bastard,” Don Felipe yelled. “Do you think I care? Go back to the city, back where you belong!”

“Gladly,” Brett gritted. “You don't have one drop of compassion in your entire body, do you? Do you have one damn drop?”

“What is all this shouting?” Emmanuel asked with concern, running in.

“Ask him,” Brett managed, striding out of the room.

“Felipe, are you all right?”

“He is every inch a Monterro,” Don Felipe said with satisfaction when Brett was out of hearing. “And every inch my son.”

“Why don't you tell him you are proud of him?” Emmanuel asked gently.

“Bah!” Felipe spat. “Praise is for women and dogs, not men.”

 

Brett slammed into his and his wife's rooms. He was profoundly agitated. God, he hated that old bastard! But what did he expect? A kind word? If the old tyrant hadn't shown him a single kindness when he was a boy, why would he now? Had he really expected it, wanted it, come all this way for it?

“Brett?”

He whirled, not having expected Storm to be there. Immediately, he started to soften. “What are you doing?”

“I was waiting for you,” she said gently. Her blue eyes were filled with tenderness and compassion, as if she knew what was raging in his heart and soul.

“Come here,” he said gruffly. The urge to wrap himself around her, bury himself in her, and escape all this was overwhelming.

Surprising him, she did, and he lifted her abruptly and carried her to the bed, where he slid down next to her. He cupped her face in his hands and began kissing her. Sure enough, as soon as her lips were soft and open beneath his, her tongue coyly enticing, he forgot the interview with his father and could think of only one thing. He began stroking her superb body, finding her breasts and crushing them in his large hands. “I need you,” he murmured, pulling down the bodice of her dress, tearing it in the process.

“Brett,” she protested, but she was clinging to him.

“God, I need you,” he heard himself groan as he unbuttoned the fly of his breeches. He did. He needed her desperately, like a starving man needs food.

“I find myself insatiable around you,” he murmured, wrapping her in his arms.

Later, she met his glance, and he saw the pleasure their lovemaking had brought. She touched his cheek gently. Brett didn't move, drowning in her gaze, more aware of her than he had ever been aware of a woman before. She raised her head and kissed him, gently, lovingly. Then she smiled and laid her cheek against his shoulder.

“You're so beautiful, Storm,” Brett said, stroking her hair.

“So are you,” she said softly, exploring his waist.

“Isn't this better than fighting,
chère?
”

“Oh, I don't know.” She grinned. “Brett? How is your father?”

He stiffened. “Don't even bring that old bastard up, Storm.”

“If you don't want to be called names, you shouldn't call others by them,” she said gently.

He rolled onto his side, dead serious now, regarding her steadily. She flushed. “Who told you? Tía Elena?”

She nodded.

“The bitch.”

“Brett! She's your aunt.”

“And a complete bitch, Storm, as I well know. Her daughter's no different.”

“They're your family,” Storm said with consternation, sitting up.

“By no choice of my own, and barely,” Brett said, frowning and sliding up against the pillows.

“What does that mean?”

He shot her a look. “My mother was a two-bit whore. If I didn't look like a Monterro, there would be no proof of my paternity.”

“But you do look like a Monterro. The resemblance is strong.”

Brett shrugged. “We shouldn't have come. Hell! I don't know why we did come.”

“Brett, please. Your father is old and sick and possibly dying—”

“Hah! That despot will live another three years at least, I guarantee it.” Seeing her confusion, he added, “To see his daughter married. I know him. He's not as ill as you think.”

“You hate him,” she whispered, aghast.

“What is it to you, Storm? Are you suddenly taking more than a carnal interest in your husband? Well, don't bother! Just keep out of my personal affairs!” He lunged to his feet.

Storm was shocked, and hurt to the quick. Brett strode out of the room, adjusting his trousers. She brushed away a tear. So much for caring, she thought.

Brett walked back in and instantly froze. “Damn,” he muttered.

“Go away,” Storm warned, quickly wiping her eyes. “I mean it!”

“I didn't mean to make you cry,” he said, sitting next to her and pulling her into his arms. Storm struggled, but Brett wouldn't let her go. She quieted and he held her close, kissing her hair. “Storm, the old man is a sonuvabitch, believe me. I grew up here being treated worse than the servants. Sophia and Elena never let me forget I was a bastard. The old man never had a kind word, not ever. Uncle Emmanuel made life bearable, but barely. You don't know how it was.”

Storm gazed at him, putting her arms around his neck. “And you were just a little boy,” she murmured, trying to imagine how it would feel to be seven or eight, and motherless, suddenly thrust into a household of Monterros. “A little boy needing love.”

“I survived,” Brett said gruffly, the look in her eyes unsettling him.

She played with the hair at his temple.

“Brett, your father loves you, I know he does.”

Brett laughed. “You're wrong. If he loved me, he would have made an appearance in my life before I was eight, before my two older brothers were killed. He was only interested in me then because he had no male heir, just as he's only interested in me now because Manuel died.”

Storm refused to believe it. “That can't be true, Brett, it can't.”

“He knew about me, Storm, all along, because my mother was his mistress, and when she got pregnant he supported her until she could work again. But he never came to see me, not once. I never even knew who my
father was until the day my mother so casually told me she was sending me away to live with him.”

Storm's heart was breaking. “Oh, Brett, how could she send you away? She must have done it out of love, knowing you would have a better life with your father than with her.”

Brett laughed. “I told you, my father paid her for me.”

“Is she still alive?” Storm heard herself ask.

Brett shrugged. “I have no idea, nor could I care less.”

She gasped. “Brett, you must love her a little!”

“Love that whore? Storm, my family was not like yours. You were lucky. My mother birthed me and that was the end of it. I'm surprised she didn't abandon me on the streets for all the attention she gave me those first eight years of my life. Sometimes I got a pat on the head when she walked by. Usually I was told to get out of the house. She didn't like her customers seeing she had a son my age. Whenever I did happen to run into one of them, she would tell them I was the cook's boy.” Brett stiffened when he saw that tears were slipping down Storm's face. “Don't cry for me,” he said brusquely.

She cupped his face. “I guess I never knew how lucky I was. Brett, I want you to meet my family. You'll love them.”

Brett was feeling all kinds of self-pity, emotions with which he was totally unfamiliar. She was making him feel them. And her hands on his face, so warm and reassuring…The urge to wallow in self-pity, hide his face on her chest and let her comfort him as if he were a boy, welled up in him. Instead, he rose abruptly to his feet, giving her a smile. “I'd love to meet your family,” he said, changing the topic. “Is your mother like you?”

Storm smiled. “Not at all. She's a tiny woman, short and petite and dark-haired. But she's very strong. Pa bends over backward to do her bidding.”

Brett laughed. Storm became so enthusiastic and ani
mated when she was discussing her family, the love she felt for them clear in her eyes. He couldn't help making the comparison with his own family, and he struggled to quell it.

But he couldn't quell one thought. Don Felipe preferred a child-woman as an heir to his bastard son.

She is beautiful, Brett thought, staring. Then he smiled. “Hello, Gabriella.”

The twelve-year-old had been regarding him with shy, blushing curiosity, looking as if she were about to take flight. Now, at his words, she stepped bravely past Elena's skirts. “Hello.”

“I'm Brett D'Archand, your brother,” he said, studying her with something like awe. She had jet-black hair and skin the color of gardenia blossoms. Her eyes were huge, black-lashed, and amber. This child was his sister. Still young and innocent and vulnerable. It was a heady thought that was provoking some strange and warm feelings in him.

“I know,” she said seriously. “Tío told me.”

“I am sorry we haven't met sooner,” Brett said softly, taking her hand and kissing it. “What a beautiful girl you are.”

She blushed.

Brett was feeling sad as she scooted away to the safety of Elena and Emmanuel. She was his sister. He hadn't known Manuel and Catherine—and for the first time, he felt touched by their loss. Had they all been so beautiful, real flesh-and-blood creatures?

Brett sighed and looked across the room at his wife. Diego was chatting with her, and Storm was smiling. That
sight irritated him, although from the look on her face he suspected she was merely being polite. Still, he remembered very clearly that Diego had been an insatiable rake when they were growing up, though he was only three years Brett's senior. By the time Brett had left for the gold fields, two of Diego's bastards had been very much in evidence on the Monterro lands. He started toward them, purposefully.

“Wait, Brett.”

Brett was stopped by a soft, cool palm on his hand. Sophia smiled into his eyes with promise and intended seduction. He already knew she was the whore her mother was—he had surmised that the instant they met. “Hello, Sophia.” His words were cool. Although she was a ravishing creature, her voluptuous endowments generously displayed in the low-cut gown, her mere presence brought back so many hateful memories that he felt a surge of anger. He would never forget the sound of her childish voice taunting him,
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!
Then she would laugh, because he couldn't hit her…

“How does it feel, Brett,” she purred, “to be home?”

He laughed. “Home? This isn't my home, cousin, and it never was.”

“Tsk. You lived here for close to ten years. How ungrateful. Surely the streets of Mazatlán are not your home.”

“Most assuredly not.” His gaze was fixed and mocking and cold. “And believe me, I am most grateful for the kind and tender care I received here.”

She touched the sleeve of his black jacket. “When you left here you were just a boy,” she murmured. “I can't get over the change in you.”

He had no response to make to that, but a quick glance across the room showed Diego still monopolizing his wife. He felt a flash of jealousy, and was stunned by it.

“Brett, surely you don't hold the mischievous teasing
of a little girl against me?” Sophia's eyes were momentarily wide.

“You were a mean child, Sophia, and I suspect you are a cruel woman.”

She gasped, then laughed. “You haven't changed! You are still right to the point!” Her amusement disappeared, her hand tightening on his forearm. “Brett, it wasn't out of meanness, I assure you.”

He raised a brow.

“It was out of jealousy.”

Now it was his turn to be amused, and he smiled. “Ah, of course, how foolish of me.”

“No, I was jealous,” she insisted.

“Of the bastard.”

“Of you and Mama.”

Brett stared, no longer smiling. “Excuse me?”

“I saw you together,” she whispered, her eyes brightening, her voice trembling. He watched the excitement flare in her face. “Even though you were only fifteen, Brett, what a man you were, how big you were…the way you took her, like a bull…”

Brett recovered from the shock and an unexpected sensual onslaught. He shrugged carelessly. “Your mother was most accommodating.”

“I enjoyed watching,” she whispered, leaning closer.

Looking at her, he saw her arousal. Her lips were slightly parted, quivering. Her eyes were intensely bright. He imagined a skinny thirteen-year-old watching an inexperienced boy humping clumsily in the arbor. He was sorry she had seen them. Even unknowingly, he did not want to think that he had contributed in any way to her warped sensibilities. “I'm glad you were amused, Sophia,” Brett said dryly and walked away. He knew he had not mistaken her reaction, or what she wanted—him.

“I'm so pleased that you and Sophia are getting along,”
Elena said, causing him to halt politely beside her and Emmanuel.

“Of course. Why should we not?”

Elena smiled. “I seem to remember the two of you fighting like cats and dogs when you were children.”

“That was long ago, Elena,” Emmanuel said. “Brett, tomorrow I'd like to take you riding and show you the land.”

“I'd enjoy your company,” he said carefully. He didn't want anyone thinking he gave a damn about the hacienda. “Would you mind if Storm came?”

Emmanuel hesitated for the barest moment. “Of course not.”

Brett realized his uncle wanted some time alone with him. “We'll go alone,” he amended, feeling tenderness for his uncle. He tried to shake off the feeling, since it brought him discomfort, but it lingered. For an isolated, self-sufficient man, he was suddenly in a strange position—with a wife who made him warm deep inside, a sister who raised protective instincts, a dead brother and sister whose loss he inexplicably regretted, and an uncle whose kindness was irresistible.

Emmanuel smiled his pleasure.

Brett joined Diego and Storm, possessively taking her arm and leaning down to kiss her cheek—a tender, sensual brushing of his mouth across her skin. She looked at him from wide blue eyes, and when he smiled with promise, she blushed.

“You are a very lucky man, cousin,” Diego said easily, watching Brett.

“Yes, I think so,” Brett replied. “Has my cousin been regaling you with tales of our growing up together?” he asked Storm.

“Some,” she said. “Has Sophia been reminding you of your times spent growing up together?”

Brett smiled. “Jealous,
chère?
”

“Of course not,” she answered, lying.

“Don't be,” he murmured.

She flashed a bright smile at Diego. “Diego is taking me riding tomorrow, Brett. He is going to show me the hacienda.”

“It will be my utmost pleasure,” Diego said, his eyes bright on her face.

Brett heard himself say, “No.”

“What?” Storm thought she hadn't heard correctly.

“No.”

“Surely, cousin, you can't object. Your wife is safe with me,” Diego said.

“I can and I do,” Brett replied, feeling ridiculous but not able to help himself. He hated the lecherous looks Diego had for his wife. “Storm, I will gladly show you around.”

She pulled her arm free, glaring. “You will not allow me to ride with Diego?”

“Really, Brett, you have her forever. I only want to spend the afternoon with her,” Diego cajoled.

“I will take you riding,” Brett insisted. “I'm a possessive bastard, Diego.”

“You have a nerve,” Storm said angrily, trying to keep her voice low. “You drool all over your cousin, but won't allow me to ride with Diego?”

“What?”

Diego smiled, then quickly quelled it. “Brett, I have no ill intentions—”

“Damn right.” Brett looked at Storm. “We'll finish this discussion later.”

“Damn right,” Storm shot back. She gave Diego a sweet, utterly provocative smile. “I will see you tomorrow, Diego.”

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Until mañana.”

Storm brushed away without giving Brett a glance, and
he watched her approach his uncle and aunt and Gabriella. Diego was speaking, but he only half heard him. “Really, cousin, such a display. If I had dishonorable intentions, I would not seek her out so openly.”

Brett was about to reply when everyone hushed and stared as a manservant entered pushing a wheeled chair before him in which sat Don Felipe. The don was smiling, his lower body covered by a blanket.

“Felipe,” Emmanuel cried, rushing forward. “What are you doing?”

“I decided to join you for dinner,” Felipe said calmly. “I want to eat with the bride and groom.”

There was a moment of shocked silence.

Elena broke it, moving gracefully forward to the don's chair. “This
is
a wonderful surprise,” she purred, placing her hand on the old man's shoulder and smiling at the assembled family.

Don Felipe met Brett's gaze directly, and for an unbroken moment they stared at each other. Then he said, “I want to meet the bride.”

Brett recovered, taking Storm's arm and leading her forward. “Father, this is my wife, Storm.”

He studied her. “How old are you, girl?”

Storm's chin came up. “Seventeen.”

“How did you ever wind up with my scoundrel son?”

Storm's jaw tightened. “I fell madly in love with him,” she said, and Brett relaxed, almost smiling, at her side.

Don Felipe looked from Storm to Brett. Emmanuel came forward. “Why don't we eat,” he said, nodding the manservant away and taking the chair. The assembly moved slowly into the dining room, surrounding the don in his chair. He was rolled to the head of the table. Brett held back with Storm, waiting for the others to sit first. Elena moved to sit on the don's right, but he waved her away. “I want my son and his wife on my right and left,” he said brusquely.

“Oh, of course, how silly of me,” Elena said, smiling magnanimously.

Brett escorted Storm forward and seated her, his hand squeezing her shoulder reassuringly. He seated his aunt on his own right, and finally himself. Wine was poured, and the servants entered bearing platters of food.

“Where are you from, girl?” the don asked. “And who are your parents?”

Brett was grim, but Storm smiled. “West Texas,” she said. “I was raised on a cattle ranch there, the D&M. My father and mother settled it in '45, after the Comanche threat had settled down.”

“Who's your father?”

“Derek Bragg,” she said proudly.

“Who were his people?”

Storm's gaze did not waver from the don's face. “His father was a trapper. His mother was an Apache.”

A hushed silence greeted this news. Storm's head tilted proudly. “Before he was a rancher, he was a captain in the Texas Rangers. One of the best.”

“So you're part Indian,” the don said.

“Part Apache,” Storm corrected. “And proud of it.”

“And I'm proud, too,” Brett intervened smoothly, smiling into Storm's startled gaze. Their eyes held, then Brett reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“What about your mother?” Don Felipe asked.

“She's English,” Storm replied. “Her father is the earl of Dragmore, Lord Shelton. One day my older brother Nick will take over his estate.”

Sophia gasped again.

“What an absolutely fascinating family history,” Elena said brightly. “Why, Brett, it quite makes yours pale in comparison.”

“Thank you, Tía Elena,” Brett said. “Father, your questions are rude.”

“Why are they rude?” the don shot back. “She's proud
of who she is. She's not trying to hide anything. Reminds me of you.”

Brett wondered if he had just gotten some kind of oblique compliment. He wasn't sure.

“How do you like this hacienda?”

“I love it,” Storm enthused. “It's absolutely beautiful. Don't forget, I was raised on a ranch. I learned to ride even before I learned to walk.” She smiled sheepishly. “City life's all right, but I miss the ranch sometimes.”

Don Felipe smiled for the first time. Then he looked pointedly at Brett, picked up his knife and fork, and began eating. So did everyone else.

Emmanuel spoke. “I'm going to show Brett the land tomorrow, Felipe.”

“Good. He should become reacquainted with it.”

Acutely conscious of Elena and Sophia's silent, tense dismay, Brett continued eating.

“Brett's a big success in San Francisco,” Don Felipe said to the family at large.

“Yes, he is,” Emmanuel added proudly.

Don Felipe looked at Brett. “A man with a good business head—why, I bet he could do well with a place like this.”

Elena choked. Diego drained his wine and reached for the bottle to refill it.

“Especially with a wife who's used to ranching.”

Storm raised puzzled eyes to Brett, who met them in a silent communication.

“Tell me, Gabriella, what did you do today?” the don asked.

She smiled. “My lessons, Grandpapa, of course.”

“And did you do well?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

“Tomorrow Brett is taking me riding,” she ventured shyly.

The don looked at Brett, then raised his glass in a gesture of approval. He drank half, then set it down, his sharp eyes landing on Diego. “And how much did you win—or lose—last night?”

Diego coughed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, boy. You think I don't know what you spend—to the peso—on those damn games of yours?”

Diego went red.

“Diego was keeping me and Sophia company last night,” Elena said. “Perhaps you heard his guitar? He plays so beautifully.”

She and Diego exchanged glances, his grateful, hers wary.

Don Felipe grimaced. He turned to Storm, ignoring the others. “Tell me about what it was like on your ranch.”

Storm smiled, her eyes brightening, and for the rest of the meal they talked about ranching and cattle and horses, excluding everyone else, Brett listening and watching—with pride.

 

Brett left the dining room and wandered out onto the patio. It was a beautiful morning, the sun glittering and golden, the air warm and promising summer. Not a cloud broke the clear expanse of sky, and he paused to admire the backdrop of crested mountains, mauve against blue. He sighed, trying not to think about Storm.