Firestorm (13 page)

She went downstairs wearing a simple skirt and blouse, her hair in one long braid. Paul was in his study going over papers, but when he saw her he smiled, taking Storm completely by surprise. “Please, come in, and close the door. I have good news.”

She couldn't fathom what the news could be, nor could she bear the suspense. She shut the door, leaning warily against it. “Paul—I am so sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” he said. “Brett is an experienced roué. I don't blame you. You didn't have a chance.”

Storm felt hot tears of relief rising.

“He was here this morning,” Paul told her.

“What?”

“He agreed that there is only one thing to be done.”

Storm was confused. “Have you written to my father?”

“Yes. I didn't think it pertinent to go into the details. I merely stressed that Brett was the best catch in town, that any father would be proud.”

“What?” She didn't understand. “Best catch?”

“The wedding will be in exactly one week, next Saturday. We'll keep it small.” He beamed. “I know this isn't exactly every girl's dream of a courtship, but Brett is a good man, maybe just a bit too virile. He'll make you a fine husband.”

“Husband!” She was stunned. Brett…her husband? “And—he wanted to marry me?”

“Of course he did. Brett is an honorable man.”

Storm sank into a chair. Finally her mind began to work. “But I can't marry him! Paul, I assumed you would send me home.”

“Storm, this is better, truly. You'll have a fine, successful, handsome husband. Why would you prefer to go home in disgrace?

“I don't even like him. I don't want to be his wife!”

“It's too late. Brett has to rectify the damage he's done, he knows that. I couldn't possibly send you home ruined. And you couldn't possibly find a better husband.”

“I don't want to get married,” Storm said unevenly, “Not now, not ever!”

Paul frowned. “Storm, do you want to be sent home a ruined woman, or would you rather be a successfully married one?”

Storm froze. If she married Brett, maybe her parents would never find out the truth; they would be proud of the match, proud of her…Tears came to her eyes. “Paul? Did you tell them any of it?”

“I thought I would leave that up to you.”

Storm gulped. It was a choice, and suddenly it was the only one possible. How could she let her family down? Instead, she would pretend she had fallen madly in love, and her parents would be so thrilled, especially because Brett was a good catch.

She would never live with her family again. Never live in Texas again. But she could visit. Brett's wife…She wouldn't have to leave and never see him again…

“He really wants to marry me?” she said through a sheen of tears.

Paul came over to her. “There, there,” he said, patting her shoulder. “I know the past few weeks haven't been easy. Many people have started their marriages with less than the attraction the two of you share. Storm, you've blown into town and taken the bachelor every woman has been after for years. All in two weeks!”

Storm managed to smile. It did sound like an accomplishment. But she still couldn't imagine Brett agreeing to
marry her; he was so damn overwhelming, so arrogant, so bossy…

“I must admit,” Paul said with a sheepish grin, “I did gloat a little in the letter to your parents.”

That decided her. They would think she and Brett had fallen madly in love, all in a few weeks, and he the most eligible bachelor in town.

“I'll do it,” she said.

Although Marcy visited every day, helping to prepare Storm's trousseau, Storm didn't see Brett at all during the week preceding the wedding. He didn't even send a note, not a single message, nothing. Storm found it strange—as if the whole thing had been made up, as if there wasn't really going to be a wedding. She had other callers who all wished her well, mournful suitors, including Randolph, who asked her bluntly if she loved Brett. Storm flushed, unable to reply—what could she say? Randolph interpreted that as an affirmative, sadly wished her the best, and left. No young women came to call.

On Thursday, two days before the wedding, Storm felt compelled to bring up the subject of her fiancé. “Marcy?”

“It's perfect!” Marcy exclaimed, surveying Storm in her bridal gown. “The fit is perfect.”

“Have you seen Brett?”

Marcy frowned as Madame Lamotte told Storm to raise her arms. “Why, yes, I have.”

Storm lowered her arms, and madame told her they could remove the gown. Nimble fingers began to unhook it. “Marcy,” Storm said in a quavering voice after madame had left.

“Let's talk,” Marcy said, guiding her to a small settee.

Storm took a deep breath. “I just can't believe this is happening! Is it happening? Maybe he's changed his mind.
I haven't heard from him all week. If he jilts me at the altar, I'll die. I can't take another embarrassment, I just can't.”

Marcy put her arm around her. “He's not going to jilt you, Storm. He has every intention of marrying you.”

“He does? He said so?”

“Yes.” Marcy would not go into detail. She and Grant knew the entire story. Brett was furious at being blackmailed—they had never seen him so angry. She was sure that was why he had stayed away, that and because he had no feelings for Storm other than lustful ones. Or so he said.

Marcy didn't know what to think. She was worried for Storm, but at the same time, she and Brett looked so right together—both so handsome and spirited. Yet they were also both proud and stubborn; the marriage would be one of thunder and lightning. She had told Brett bluntly that she hoped he would be kind to Storm. He had just laughed. Marcy had been almost frightened by his laughter, but she knew that Storm, as vulnerable as she was, could also take care of herself. Maybe Brett was about to be brought to heel. After all, she still couldn't believe he had compromised Storm so. Brett knew better. He had mistresses—he was not a man to ruin a good girl. That Storm should make him lose both control and common sense was a good sign. She hoped.

“I don't know, Marcy,” Storm said. “For a while I was wondering if Paul made the whole thing up, about Brett wanting to marry me.”

Marcy carefully refrained from exposing Paul's deceit. It would not help the jittery girl now to know that Brett didn't want to marry her. She stroked her hair. “Brett's probably been very busy, as busy as you, this past week.”

Storm looked down at her hands. “I wish this had never happened. If only I hadn't come to San Francisco.”

“That's silly,” Marcy said briskly, rising. “You can't
undo what's been done. Come, get dressed. I think we've accomplished enough for today. How about an ice cream?”

Storm smiled slightly. If only she weren't so nervous, so afraid. She still couldn't shake the feeling that Brett was going to jilt her at the altar. It was an awful thought. Last night she'd dreamed it had happened. A horrible nightmare. She shuddered.

She had written to her parents. Most of her letter had been a lie intended to make them happy. She had told them she liked San Francisco, that she was making friends, that the parties were wonderful. She described her new wardrobe as if she loved the elegant gowns. She described her six suitors, boasting. Then she dropped the bombshell, informing them that she was marrying Brett.

The next line had been the hardest of all to write. She told them they were in love. Hah! They could barely stand each other! Then she described Brett, the words flowing easily:

Storm reread her letter and was stunned to find that it sounded as if she was, indeed, in love with Brett. She had never known she could be such a fluent liar. She was actually raving about him. But she decided not to rewrite it. After all, she'd conveyed the impression she wanted to make. Her letter and Paul's, which also raved about her fiancé, were sent together.

The wedding took place Saturday morning in the grand salon. The only witnesses were Marcy and Grant. There was no music. Paul simply escorted Storm into the room, holding her arm. Brett stood to one side, partially facing the minister. Grant stood next to him as his best man, Marcy on the opposite side. Everyone turned to look as Storm approached, a flush coloring her cheeks. Brett was the last to turn his gaze on her.

He was the only one she saw.

He looked, of course, overwhelmingly handsome and virile in a black suit with a red carnation in the lapel. His face was an unreadable mask. Storm looked into his eyes as she approached and felt a frisson of fear. His eyes were hard and cold, and she thought she saw contempt in them. It shocked her thoroughly, making her falter, but Paul steadied her. Then Brett's look changed, blazed, and relief surged through her. That light that had appeared so briefly, fading even now, she understood—the flaring of hot desire. She felt faint.

Paul handed her to Brett, who took her hand, holding her gaze again, and Storm saw and felt then that he was angry. She didn't understand. She was so confused, weak and light-headed and ill. She didn't even hear the words being said to them. The man holding her hand drowned out all sensations except those of his powerful, intoxicating presence.

Brett's hand was hot and hard and firm. Heat radiated between them, making her heart rate accelerate. She could
smell his warm, woodsy, musky scent, very male. His profile was hard and tight-lipped.

And then she was repeating the vows, her voice soft and tentative. Brett's voice was strong, faintly derisive. Grant had handed him a ring, a pale gold band, and he slipped it on her finger. Storm stared blindly at the band through a veil of tears.

He lifted her chin, startling her. Their gazes met, hers tremulous, vulnerable, his cold and aloof, then startled, pitying. The softness was instantly gone. His lips claimed hers, roughly, brutally, in a warring onslaught. If he was trying to hurt her, he was succeeding. Storm couldn't breathe when he pulled away with a savage light in his eyes. She was trembling.

Marcy kissed her cheek first, her expression worried. “Congratulations, dear.”

Storm blinked. She couldn't speak.

A maid served everyone glasses of champagne, and Grant proclaimed a toast. “To the newlyweds. A perfect match.” He seemed sincere.

“To their happiness,” Marcy interjected, her voice brittle.

“To a fruitful union,” Paul said, openly pleased.

Before anyone could drink, Brett raised his own glass. “To my beautiful bride,” he said, his voice mocking. “And to shotgun weddings.” He drank.

Shotgun weddings
. Storm turned to look at him, so stunned by the mockery and bitterness of his words that she missed the reactions of their guests, which ranged from surprise to anger. Brett met her gaze, smiling unpleasantly. “I'm afraid we cannot stay,” he said, having drained the glass. He took Storm's elbow. “Thank you for coming,” he said, his words heavy with sarcasm.

“Brett,” Marcy said apprehensively, warningly.

He raised a brow. “Ever the mother lion. Have no fear.
Your cub won't be beaten. I'm not the type. And it's a little late for second thoughts.”

Storm found herself being propelled outside and into the waiting carriage.
Shotgun weddings
. He was angry. Very, very angry, and bitter…He hadn't wanted to marry her. They had lied. Somehow he had been forced…She found herself sitting in the carriage across from Brett, who was staring at her. She started to tremble and looked quickly out the window so he wouldn't see the tears welling in her eyes.

He broke the silence. “Why don't you look happy? You got what you wanted.” His words were easy, casual.

“Why?” She blinked at him.

He merely looked questioningly at her.

“Why, Brett? Why did you agree to marry me?”

“That's easy, my dear,” he said. “Your cousin would have ruined me.”

She sucked in her breath and quickly looked away from his hard, cold countenance. She had been tricked and lied to. Brett hated her. He hadn't wanted to do the honorable thing. He hadn't wanted to marry her. Maybe, deep inside, she had believed he had actually wanted to marry her, that he loved her. “This is a terrible mistake,” she managed unsteadily.

He laughed. “It's a little late for that, love.”

Suddenly she realized she was afraid of the man she had just married.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Storm wouldn't look at him. He stared at her steadily. Her heart was beating wildly. This would never do. Somehow she had to get out of it.

He helped her down in front of his house, a Victorian structure of brick and wood with turreted roofs. He led her inside. “This is Peter, my majordomo and valet. Peter will show you to your rooms. Betsy will be your maid—
Peter, send Betsy to Storm to help her undress and see to whatever else she wants. I will return later.”

Storm stared blankly when she realized he was leaving, striding impatiently down the path and jumping back into the carriage, which rolled away. She turned to stare with shock at Peter, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Madame, will you come upstairs?”

He showed her to her room. It took Storm all of a few seconds to realize she wasn't sharing a room with Brett. Her mind flashed onto her mother and father and their warm, cozy bedroom with the big four-poster bed. She knew they slept in each other's arms. When she was little, she had walked in on that tender scene many times. She glanced around the large, elegant bedroom, tastefully but impersonally decorated in blue and white. Her trunks had been brought in and her clothes had been unpacked. Peter told her he would send Betsy up immediately, and left. Storm saw that even though it was only noon, her bridal nightgown was already draped across the canopied bed.

Good, she thought savagely. I would hate sharing his room anyway!

 

Brett was feeling something akin to remorse.

And he couldn't concentrate.

He shoved the ledger aside, angry and irritated—a mood that seemed the norm these past few days, especially today, his wedding day. He stood and paced to the window, staring down on Stockton Street. But he didn't see the Saturday strollers, the carriages and horsemen. Instead, a breathtaking vision of his bride floated across his mind.

He wondered if it would always be this way, if every time he saw Storm he would be struck again by her beauty, marveling anew at how much she stirred him. This morning she had looked stunning, young and vulnerable in the white lace and satin gown. He had seen the fear in her eyes when he had looked at her during the ceremony, and
the same fear again in the carriage. That look stirred his pity, and maybe some tenderness, even remorse. But he had no reason to feel remorseful. He was the victim, not she.

He poured himself a brandy and sipped it. Was this another trick designed to make him soften? She had trapped him into marriage, but there was one consolation. His bride was waiting for him. Tonight was his wedding night.

It was only five o'clock, but Brett knew he couldn't pretend to work any longer. He wanted his bride. His wife. And tonight he would have her.

It would be an expensive tumble, he thought viciously. It had cost him his freedom. He laughed, grabbed his jacket, and left.

By the time he arrived home he was thoroughly aroused, and disgusted with himself for wanting so badly a woman who had been forced upon him. Of course, no matter how angry he was, he couldn't rape her. He wanted her to want him—as much as he wanted her. He found Peter. “Has she eaten anything yet?”

“No, sir.”

“We'll have an early supper. Have the cook send up whatever's ready, along with two bottles of champagne. Immediately.” He didn't wait for Peter's reply, but bounded up the stairs, his strides rapid and eager. He even smiled. He felt somewhat like a young boy about to have his first woman. Ridiculous, for a man of his experience. He glanced at her closed door, pausing but not stopping, and entered his own room, shrugging off his jacket.

He washed his face and hands, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt halfway. He turned to the connecting door and knocked. She told him to come in.

She was sitting in bed, reading. Her hair was loose, a riot of brown and gold cascading over her shoulders. She was clad only in her chemise and petticoats, both of fine
white lace and silk. The sight of her, slightly tousled and in bed, made his breath catch and his blood pound. Her eyes widened with surprise at the sight of him.

He smiled slightly and closed the door behind him. “I've ordered us an early supper. We'll eat in here.” His gaze swept her admiringly. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, being married to Storm. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted any woman. And he wouldn't be the first man to have married from a raging lust.