Firestorm (10 page)

He escorted Elizabeth to her door, declining her offer to come inside, bowing over her hand and kissing it lightly. Then he headed promptly to his mistress's home.

Audrey was petite, auburn-haired, and beautiful. She greeted him in a tempting, sheer wrapper, not in the least sleepy-eyed. She dismissed her maid and in a sultry, teasing tone asked, “What can I do for you at this hour, Brett?”

He pulled her roughly into his arms. “I think you know, sweet.” His mouth found hers, hard and demanding, and he ran his hands over the soft, warm curves of her body. He closed his eyes. As he fondled her, he imagined that she was Storm. His excitement grew, became almost impossible to control. Even later, when he was driving deep inside her, he kept seeing Storm.

It was quite disconcerting.

Leaning low over the stallion's neck, Storm let him gallop full out. His black mane whipped her cheeks, and tears blurred her eyes. She urged him faster, faster, but she couldn't ride fast or far enough, she knew, to put everything behind her. God, it couldn't get any worse!

But it probably would, she thought a moment later when she slowed Demon to a trot and then to a walk. Especially if Paul found out she'd been riding alone.

Storm didn't care. She was fed up with what she should and shouldn't do. Everything she did was wrong, anyway. What an insane life it was to be a lady, to be corseted and high-heeled and dressed like a frilly doll and made to attend inane party after inane party, night after night! And the ridiculous rules! Most topics of conversation were unacceptable, a lady must never accept improper advances, she should not walk in the garden alone with a man for more than a minute or two, she did not take off her shoes in public, and she did not—no matter what the provocation—lower herself by acknowledging such insults, much less responding to them.

Storm knew her cousin was appalled by her behavior. He had told her so last night. “This is not Texas, young lady,” he had said sternly. “Your behavior only made the matter worse.”

“That's not fair,” Storm challenged. “A man wouldn't stand for such insults!”

“You are not a man.”

That was hard to refute, so Storm tried another tactic. “But, Paul! The things she was saying! She was insinuating that I was kissing both—”

“And your language,” Paul said, flushing. “Good God, Storm! You have a mouth like a saloon girl!”

Clearly, he wasn't going to listen to her side of things, and, ridiculously, Storm felt tears rising. “She deserved it,” she insisted. “No one can talk that way about me!”

“Go upstairs and think about all this,” Paul said abruptly. “It's late. We'll discuss it further tomorrow.”

Well, it was now tomorrow, and Storm didn't want to discuss what had happened, didn't want to defend herself. On top of it all, she couldn't understand why a young woman she didn't even know would spread such filthy rumors about her. It wasn't as if they were enemies.

Storm was so involved in her ruminations that she didn't realize, at first, that she had ridden to the point where she and Brett had raced, where he had kissed her. She was even more agitated now as vivid, tactile memories flooded her, of his hands on her waist, on her back; of his mouth on hers, soft and firm, then savage and unyielding…

She turned the black around to head back.

And for the first time saw the three riders.

They were still down the beach a ways, but Storm recognized them instantly—she had seen them in town earlier. It seemed too much a coincidence that they were here now, heading toward her. She remembered vaguely that their mounts were all cow ponies, and the men were garbed as cowboys. There was a ranch or two in the vicinity, or so she thought. There was no real reason to be apprehensive, but Storm felt the first prickling of fear. Although she wasn't certain, it seemed that these men had followed her.

As they approached at a trot, she could see that their mounts were wet from running, and she knew for certain
now that they had, indeed, been following her. Anger surged through her, and she was glad she had strapped her six-shooter to one buckskin-clad thigh. She pulled the black up momentarily.

“Howdy, li'l lady,” said the tall, lanky forerider.

The riders fanned out on the narrow stretch of sand, and Storm's other thought, that she could just ride past them, faded. If they were after her person, they could easily grab her.

“Will you let me pass?” she asked.

“Sure.” The leader grinned and gave a mocking sweep of his arm.

Storm knew they weren't going to let her pass. Clamping her mouth tightly shut, she whipped the black around and into a gallop. They would never catch her.

But she'd barely finished the thought when the men started hollering, and she heard the unmistakable whir of a lasso. She sank lower, suddenly afraid, as the heavy rope settled over her shoulders and pinned her arms to her sides. She was yanked out of the saddle, hard, and fell on her back in the sand, choking on the gritty earth.

“We got her,” whooped a cowboy.

Storm looked up, spitting sand, and saw she was surrounded, one man holding the rope just right, keeping it taut. She knew she had to get to her gun.

“Jesus, thank you! Ain't she purty!”

“Ree-lax,” said the leader, dismounting. “Me first.” He grinned down at her.

Storm got painfully to her knees and then to her feet, without using her hands, which were still pinned to her sides. “I won't run,” she said evenly, “but this rope is hurting me.”

The leader grabbed the black's reins and moved him away, then chuckled. “She won't get far now.”

“Please take off the lasso,” she said.

“Now, how come you don't look scared?” he said,
stepping close. Storm stood very still, staring defiantly into his eyes. Her heart was pumping madly with a combination of fear and anger. He reached out and touched her cheek, and Storm yanked her face away. He chuckled, touched her face again, then let his hand slide down to her shoulder and over her breast. He squeezed.

Storm tried to step back, but the tight rope painfully restricted her movements, and the cowboy grinned, cupping both breasts now and rubbing her nipples. Storm kneed him as hard as she could in the groin.

He groaned, dropping to his knees and clutching himself. Storm made a mad dash forward, to put slack in the line, and as the rope around her torso started to loosen, she tried to slip it off. But at exactly that moment the man holding the lariat realized what was happening and urged his mount backward, tightening the rope with a laugh. He kept going, and Storm was pulled forward until she was stumbling. She went down face first in the sand and was dragged. A shot rang out.

At first, with her eyes and mouth screwed shut to prevent the gritty sand from hurting her, Storm thought one of the men had fired his gun. Then she heard a voice she would never mistake. “Make that move and you're dead.”

Brett!

Storm looked up, panting. Brett was astride his horse not far from her, facing two of the three cowboys. The third still lay incapacitated on the sand. Brett looked deadly and furious, and she was more frightened by the expression on his face than by her predicament. He was holding his gun, a small, pearl-handled pistol that didn't look like it could do much harm. As surely as she knew she was still alive, Storm knew the cowboys would challenge Brett. They did.

They drew almost simultaneously. Brett fired coolly, the shots coming so close together that they sounded like one,
and both men fell with soft cries. Brett replaced the pistol inside his black jacket and turned to her, his glance hard.

Storm struggled to her knees, yanking off the rope and spitting sand. “Damn,” she said hoarsely. She wiped sand off her face and away from her eyes, then watched as Brett checked the two men before striding over to their leader and disarming him. “Are they hurt bad?” she asked.

His face was rigid. “They're dead.”

She was stunned.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice cold and clipped.

With the back of her hand, she wiped her mouth and spat out more sand, looking up at him. He was really angry. But surely not at her. “No,” she said. “I could have handled it. I was about to draw my Colt.”

“Yes, it certainly looked like it,” he said with undisguised sarcasm. He took two steps over to her and stood, legs braced, staring down at her. “You need someone to beat some sense into you.”

She felt a touch of apprehension. Shakily, she rose to her feet. “I guess I should thank you,” she said uneasily.

His eyes hard, he didn't respond.

She took a step back, looking for Demon.

“You disobeyed Paul,” he said suddenly, his face taut. “Paul is too soft.” He took a step toward her.

She moved away, suddenly afraid. “I needed to think,” she cried, searching for Demon.

“I'm sure you would get a lot of thinking done on your back with your legs spread for these three gentlemen.”

She gasped, flushing, and lengthened her stride. He grabbed her arm, yanking her around. “Let go!” she cried.

Before she knew it, he was sinking to his knees, taking her with him. For one instant, Storm's fear vanished. She knew he was going to take her in his arms and kiss her, and her blood began to heat and race. Then, stunning her, he wrenched her so she was facedown over his knee, and
she realized, in complete horror, that he wasn't going to kiss her at all. “No!” she screamed as he hit her across the buttocks, so hard that tears came to her eyes. “You bastard!”

“Apt,” he gritted, and hit her again, and again and again.

It hurt. Her buckskins provided no protection, no padding, and he was trying to hurt her, and succeeding. She would not cry. She blinked hard against the tears until he stopped abruptly and threw her away from him. She got to her hands and knees.

“Never,” he said. “Never ride alone again. You could have been raped—you were almost raped—and because of your foolishness two men are dead.”

She hated him. With a cry of rage, she threw herself at him, leaping, attacking. She had never used her nails before, considered it girlish and ridiculous, but never had she been so enraged. He caught her wrists, and she kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. He tightened his hold, catching one of her legs between both of his thighs. “I'll kill you!” she cried, at that moment meaning it, and sank her teeth into his neck.

He gasped as she drew blood. He pried her off and wrenched her arms behind her back, almost twisting them out of their sockets, causing her to cry out as she struggled to attack him again. He still had her legs clamped between his, and suddenly he grabbed her braid close to her nape, so hard she thought he might pull out her scalp, and he twisted her head back and kissed her.

The kiss hurt. His lips were hard and brutal—he wanted to hurt her, she knew it, the way she had hurt him. But Storm opened her mouth, her body responding eagerly, wanting to give him better access. All the fight went out of her. As his tongue plundered deeply, exciting red-hot currents stabbed through her, and she pressed against him,
moaning from deep in her throat. Desire sparked inside her as she rubbed her belly against his hard, hot arousal.

All at once he shoved her away.

She stumbled backward but didn't fall. So many heaving, roiling emotions and sensations were rushing through her body that she couldn't identify or give in to just one. Then, with a cry, she realized the third man was gone. “Brett!”

“I see,” he said, his voice husky. But he appeared unperturbed nonetheless. He moved toward their mounts, and leaped onto the gray, then brought Demon to her. “Get up,” he said.

She remembered that she hated him, that he had spanked her—then kissed her. Conveniently, she forgot her own reaction to the kiss, and it was lost in her mortification, her humiliation, her fury. She stared at him with all the blazing indignation she could muster.

“You, my dear,” he said, “have taken San Francisco by storm.”

 

Brett was hurting her, but Storm would not let him know it, no matter what. He propelled her up the steps, across the veranda, and into the foyer with barely restrained violence. Storm knew he was still furious, but then, so was she.

Bart appeared, his eyes widening at Brett's unorthodox entrance. “Where's Paul?” Brett demanded.

“In the dining room.”

“Let me go,” Storm said angrily.

“You keep quiet,” Brett ordered harshly. “And let me do the talking.”

“I can tell my side, thank you,” she snapped. If he told the story, it would sound much worse, she knew it. He would spare no details.

“Shut up,” he said succinctly, and they stepped into
the dining room, Brett releasing her just before they crossed the threshold.

Paul was reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. He looked up in complete surprise. “Brett! What—what's going on?” He frowned when he saw Storm's attire.

Storm started to speak. “Paul, I'm—”

Brett cut her off, grabbing her wrist and squeezing it so hard she thought he would break it. “Paul, I'm afraid there's been a bit of trouble.”

“Please, sit,” he said, shooting Storm an apprehensive glance.

Brett practically shoved her into a chair next to her cousin but didn't sit himself. Instead, he kept a tight, warning grip on her shoulder. “Storm and I were out riding,” he said. “We made plans to do so last night. We were galloping when I felt that King's gait was off. I shouted for Storm to pull up, but she didn't hear me. Anyway, I stopped, and sure enough, I found he'd picked up a stone.”

Storm craned her neck around to stare up at him in disbelief. He ignored her. “When I caught up to her, she was surrounded by three characters, and one of them had roped her. Needless to say, it came down to some gunplay. Two of the men are dead, and the third one ran off.”

Storm couldn't believe it. Why had he made up such a story? Was he protecting her? But why? It didn't make any sense. She stared at him, but he was looking at Paul as if she didn't exist. “Thank God you're all right!” Paul cried. “Bart! Go fetch Sheriff Andrews or one of the deputies. Brett, thank you.”

“It was nothing,” Brett said, releasing his hand from Storm's shoulder. “It's fortunate I was with her.”

Storm flushed. He meant the irony for her, and she didn't miss it. She felt overwhelmed with guilt. Had Brett told the truth, she would be defending herself like a spit
ting wildcat. Instead, he had taken the blame for what had happened. She didn't understand. Not at all.

“Did you recognize any of the men?” Paul asked.

“No. Nor did I recognize any of the brands—and there were three different ones. But I did memorize them.”