Firestorm (8 page)

He reacted instinctively. Before the next fist could take his face in an undercut, he had grabbed her wrist and stopped her. His stomach hurt. It was one thing to take a gut blow prepared, with all the abdominal muscles tensed into a steel wall, but he had never expected her to hit him there. Good Lord, she packed a punch!

“How dare you!” she declared. “If I had my gun I'd shoot you, you arrogant bastard!”

They were only a foot apart. Brett yanked cruelly on her wrist, pulling her so she fell against his chest, but she didn't wince or cry out. Her blue eyes blazed. Her violent anger made him respond in kind, made him want to dominate her with sheer male power. For an instant they stood eye to eye, her face inches from his. She hated him, he could see it, and it fueled in him a wild, uncontrollable desire to possess.

His free hand grabbed her chin so hard that later her skin was pink. He pulled her close and kissed her brutally, savagely, giving no quarter. She fought, but no matter how
strong she was, she was no match for him. Sanity returned to him. Jesus! He released her and pushed her away from him.

She landed on all fours in the wet sand. She looked up at him like a wild, spitting cat. Brett was trying to master the savagery she had brought out in him, panting as if he'd run a fast mile, locking gazes with her. When he felt he'd regained some control, he moved to her and held out his hand. “Get up, Storm,” he said, his husky voice betraying his emotion.

He didn't expect her reaction. With a cry that sounded like an Indian howl, she grabbed his legs, and he fell onto his hands and knees in the sand. She shrieked, pouncing on him. He caught her wrists, going down on his back to defend himself. Quickly he flipped and pinned her, realizing with irony that for other reasons this was not a safe position to be in right now.

“I'll kill you,” she gasped, fighting futilely.

“God, you're incredible,” he said, his breath mingling with hers. Then, “I apologize. I truly apologize.”

“I hate you,” she cried. “Let me up! Let me go! Now!”

“Don't try anything again,” he warned.

She made no comment. He got up carefully. He offered his hand again, but she ignored it, coming fluidly to her feet in one motion, with a dancer's grace. Still ignoring him, she strode over to her horse and leaped into the saddle. In the next instant she was cantering down the beach.

He hurriedly mounted and followed her, catching up to her at a gallop, then slowed to her pace. What could he possibly say? He had dallied unforgivably with her. He didn't even know how it had happened. If she hadn't punched him—
punched
him, by God—he would never have kissed her again, certainly not so brutally. The whole way back to Paul's house, he debated the best means of apologizing.

As they rode up the drive, he knew he had to make his move. “Storm, it was only a kiss. I'm sorry. You're very beautiful, and I lost control.” He looked hard at her, meaning every word.

She refused to look at him.

“It was only a kiss,” he tried again as she slid off her horse in front of the veranda.

She stared at him. “Your apology is not accepted. Don't ever come near me again.”

“Storm!”

“No! You are so vain and conceited. You're nothing but a showy, strutting peacock!” She whirled and slammed into the house.

He stared at the door. A showy, strutting peacock? Is that what she thought?

Other women considered him handsome and virile and powerful. Never had any woman called him vain and conceited…a showy, strutting peacock. No.

He turned the gray around. To hell with her, anyway. She was nothing but trouble. He should never have dallied with her in the first place. She obviously detested him, had from the first, and wasn't bothering to hide it.

He ignored his inner turmoil, reaching out for his anger, finding it and clinging vehemently to it. He had lost control and let his lust rule him, and that was a mistake he would not make again under any circumstances. To hell with Storm Bragg. She was nothing but a Texas ruffian, and he liked his women smooth and polished.

Brett's bad mood lingered for the rest of the afternoon, and it didn't improve when he returned to his house to change into dinner clothes. Sorting through his mail, he found a letter from his uncle.

What in hell did he want?

In all fairness, Brett thought as he slit open the envelope, his heart starting to hammer, his Uncle Emmanuel was the only Monterro who had treated him as if he were not a whore's bastard, as if he were human, with feelings. Brett's own father, Don Felipe, had rarely bothered with him except to observe a particular feat and then to offer either criticism or indifference. In fact, when he had been brought to Hacienda de los Cierros, his Uncle Emmanuel had been the one to insist Brett be educated and reared in the house, not in the stables—much to the dismay of Don Felipe's second wife. Doña Theresa had hated him, of course, for he was a threat to any sons she might bear.

Brett put the letter aside, his face a dark mask. He promptly went to the sideboard and poured himself a large brandy. He drank half of it, staring out of the window at the garden and street below. Damn them all.

He was flooded with memories, none of them pleasant. Of himself living and stealing on the streets of Mazatlán, a skinny, dirty boy always one step ahead of the
policía
, failing to appear at home for days and even weeks on end. Not that his mother, the French whore, cared. Whenever he did return, one of her several “protectors” was there. One thing about Mother—she was ageless, beautiful. But heartless. She left his upbringing to the housekeeper, who didn't have time. Only one of the maids seemed to care,
a little English girl named Mary. When she caught him running in, usually because he was hungry and had failed to find enough on the streets, she would grab him and make him bathe and change his clothes. He would be gone as soon as his stomach was full, but not before hearing his mother's high-pitched cries and the deep moans of whomever she was “entertaining.”

He didn't know who he hated more, his mother the whore, or his father the Californio.

He was eight when his life changed—when the don sent for him because his two brothers had been killed. Brett hadn't even known who his father was until that moment when his mother informed him she was sending him away. To this day he had no idea what the relationship between his parents had been, or how they had met.

Don Felipe's first wife, Doña Anna, had not given his father another heir. Old beyond her years, she did not seem capable of producing more children. She died six years after Brett's arrival, having suffered several miscarriages, but by then, Don Felipe was relieved. He promptly married fifteen-year-old Theresa, who came from a long line of male-bearing bluebloods.

At the time of the second marriage, Brett was fourteen. During the years he had lived in his father's household he had been educated but otherwise either ignored or vilified. He learned to read and write in Spanish, French, and English, although he already knew how to speak all three languages. He even learned a smattering of Latin. He became well versed in mathematics, geometry, geography, and history, and excelled at riding, fencing, and handling pistols. He learned to talk and walk and act like a gentleman—which he knew he was not.

Don Felipe seemed not to care about him, except when Brett did not succeed at something, and then his father became angry. Brett was punished, usually with a cane.
He never gave satisfaction when he was hit—he never cried out.

In the six years before her death, Doña Anna refused even to look at him, much less talk to him, although she talked
about
him to others. He knew he was a bastard, but it had never bothered him until he heard his father's wife constantly refer to him as “the bastard.” Then he knew a hatred and shame like never before.

The others looked down on him, too. Little Sophia—a cousin near his own age, a startlingly beautiful child with blue-black hair and dark eyes—looked down her aristocratic nose at him, and called him “bastard” in glee, knowing he could not hit her the way he wanted to. She loved taunting him. Just thinking about her now made him turn rigid with anger.

And then, of course, there was Tía Elena.

He had to smile. Exactly what had Tío Emmanuel meant when he said Tía Elena, his wife, had not changed? Certainly he didn't know she was a whore, like Brett's mother?

It had happened when he was almost sixteen. Brett had begun to be interested in girls the year before, to the point where several of the serving wenches had begun to infatuate him. He was starting to dream about them…One afternoon he had stumbled cross his aunt and a companion in a hidden spot in one of the gardens.

He was fascinated as he watched his aunt coupling with a stableboy. Neither of them had removed their clothes, which he regretted, but her skirts were pulled up to her waist and her legs were long and white. Brett watched the stableboy pumping into her until he himself lost all control and made the ultimate faux pas by crying out.

In a flash Elena had pushed off the boy, who was actually twenty or so, and pulled her skirts down and her bodice together. “Who's there?” she called.

Mesmerized, unable to speak, Brett stepped into view.

At first she was startled, and then she looked at him, deliberately studied him, and he began to get hard and hot all over again. She smiled. “Pablo, go now. I'll see you another time. Come here,
querida
.”

Brett's heart was pounding wildly as he walked toward her. He didn't know what to expect, but he did know one thing—Tía Elena would be in terrible trouble if anyone found out what she had been doing. She stood, releasing her bodice, and Brett gasped when her full, blue-veined, hard-tipped breasts fell out.

“Such a handsome young man,” Elena murmured, taking his hand and placing it on her breast.

Brett was lost. He knew it was wrong because the only person he liked at all was his Tío Emmanuel, but he was sixteen and his blood was raging. His mouth soon followed his hands, and he was wildly suckling her large, hard nipples, making Elena laugh throatily. “You have all the right instincts, Brett.”

Soon he was deep inside her, thrusting wildly, mindlessly…He had never experienced anything like it before.

In the month before he left, she taught him a lot. Brett was consumed with guilt, but his appetites controlled him. And then Doña Theresa, his father's new wife, bore a son—Manuel—and there was no longer any need for Brett to remain…

Brett dismissed his uncle's letter. Don Felipe was still a cold bastard, Sophia still a bitch. Elena was surely still a whore…and he didn't give a damn about any of them. He crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fireplace.

 

“Damn Brett D'Archand!”

Storm paced furiously across her bedroom, still clad in her riding habit. She couldn't stop thinking about him. She couldn't wipe the image of his dark, handsome face from her mind. She couldn't forget how his face lit up when he
smiled, or how small lines radiated from his eyes in moments of rare good humor. Damn!

She couldn't forget how his lips felt on hers—how firm and gentle, then savage and brutal. She sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

Her body had betrayed her. While her mind had been stunned with surprise as he kissed her, her body had yielded, becoming soft, pliant, warm, eager. She had
liked
his kisses.

Even now, just remembering provoked a similar reaction, one of warmth and racing heat.

She had been kissed only once before, and she had hated it. She had never even liked boys, except as companions with whom to hunt, ride, and wrestle. At the last few social events her family had attended, Storm had felt alienated from all the other girls her age, who had had one topic on their minds—boys. Storm thought they were silly. She was more interested in when the family's prize mare was going to foal, and the bear that was killing everyone's cattle, and the outlaw McRae whom the Rangers were pursuing.

Now Storm was miserable. And angry. And humiliated. She had the awful feeling that Brett knew she had liked his kisses, a thought she found almost impossible to live with. The rutting pig. Vain peacock. Piece of cow dung. She was glad she had had enough sense to realize just how far things were going and had punched him as hard as she could. She'd hurt him, too, she knew it, and the thought pleased her no end.

A maid knocked and came in bearing Storm's dinner tray, making her realize she was ravenous. She attacked her meal immediately and finished every last mouthful of the steak and potatoes, beans and salad, even a piece of cherry cobbler. She had been too ashamed and confused to face Paul at dinner downstairs.

Storm was no fool. She knew about mating. That is,
she'd seen horses and dogs and cows coupling since she was a child. Once, she'd even seen her brother, Nick, with one of their maids in the pantry. Storm had to smile at that memory—Nick had been only sixteen, tall and skinny and lost in the voluptuous Irish girl's charms. So she knew, pretty much, how a man and woman coupled, and she had realized this afternoon exactly what that hardness appearing between them had meant. It had given her the strength to break away, had revived her sanity. She flushed at the thought. Brett wanted to take her the way Nick had taken Rose. Her color increased; her senses tingled with heightened awareness.

She was ashamed. She understood now why her mother and father shared such secret, pleased looks, why they were always touching and kissing. But that was different. They were married. They loved each other. Storm had never even thought about the attraction that exists between a man and a woman, but now that she did, she knew it was right and good when it was between two people who loved each other. She, however, didn't love Brett—she disliked him immensely. Possibly she even hated him. And he certainly didn't like her. So what was wrong with her?

Was she turning into a loose hussy like Beth Ellen?

Beth Ellen was the blond, blue-eyed daughter of one of their neighbors, one of those girls who had been taking walks into the woods with boys since she was thirteen. Storm had never understood why, but there was no mistaking how different Beth Ellen acted when she was alone with her, or around her parents, and when there was a handsome man in the vicinity. When Nick came by, Beth Ellen became flushed and coy, and when she thought no one was looking, she brushed up against him. At other times she was as demure as a mouse. Storm had asked her once what was so great about boys, and Beth Ellen had just laughed.

Storm thought she would never be able to fall asleep
that night because of her distress, but she did, almost instantly. Her sleep was full of dreams, however. At first they were pleasant. She was back home surrounded by her family. Then they were at a barbecue, and Beth Ellen was there, dressed in the kind of gown Storm had been wearing lately, while everyone else wore their usual cotton frocks—except Storm, who was wearing buckskins. She felt ugly next to Beth Ellen's sophisticated beauty.

Suddenly Brett was there, too. He was completely taken with Beth Ellen, and it was mutual. They both ignored Storm. She was hurt—incredibly hurt—to see them together. When they walked in the woods, she followed, only to find them rolling on the ground in each other's arms, getting ready to couple. Brett heard her and looked up. When he saw her, he started laughing. Storm woke up.

It was just a dream, and she had forgotten it by the time she woke again in the morning, for she had other worries on her mind. Tonight she was supposed to go to a small party at the Holdens'. She did not look forward to going. She had the feeling almost everyone from the Farlanes' party would be there, including that arrogant rake, Brett D'Archand.

But go she did, wearing a purple velvet gown cut just as immodestly as everything else she was wearing these days, and without stays—she would not even consider it. She and Paul arrived at seven o'clock and were greeted profusely by the Holdens at the front entrance.

As they moved inside, Storm saw him—looking incredibly handsome and virile in black evening clothes, talking to a pretty, picture-perfect blond and the Farlanes. The blond was standing close, with her arm in his. Storm felt a flash of pure anger. The woman was obviously his companion for the evening. Not that she gave a goddamn. Brett had seen her, too, immediately, but Storm looked right past him and smiled at Marcy and Grant.

“Shall we go say hello?” Paul asked, about to move toward the foursome.

“Oh, no, there's James,” Storm cried, flashing him what she hoped was a radiant smile. James came hurrying over.