Firestorm (28 page)

She rolled onto her side, onto him, her face on his chest. Silence followed his question, making his heart flutter, and he knew a vast and angry disappointment. But then she spoke, so softly he almost didn't hear. It was a single word. “Yes.”

He moved onto his side to face her, cupping her chin so he could look into her huge sapphire eyes. The warmth shining there momentarily left him breathless. He wanted to ask her how she was feeling now about their marriage, but instead he grunted and said, “This marriage is made, and it won't be unmade.” He looked at her for her reaction.

She didn't refute him. She lay very still, her gaze steady upon his, her lips slightly parted. He saw no rebellion in her eyes, only a kind of worshipful hoping. Again he felt breathless. “Do you care about me,
chère?
”

She didn't flinch. “Yes.”

He trembled and rolled her beneath him. “Oh, Storm,” he began, unable to express the rest, the feelings too new and too huge. His lips found hers tenderly, instead.

 

“What is it you want, Diego?” Brett asked, sprawled negligently in a chair.

“We have barely exchanged a dozen words,” Diego said, smiling. “Is it so strange for me to want to talk with my cousin?”

“Slightly,” Brett said, then shrugged. He thought of Storm waiting for him in their bed and felt irritated.

“Brandy?” Diego asked, already pouring a second snifter.

“Thank you,” Brett said. He also accepted the cigar and began to puff with relish. Diego sat in an adjoining chair, watching with a thoughtful smile. “Well?” Brett asked.

Diego grinned. “So tell me about your life in San Francisco.”

“There's not much to tell,” Brett said, sipping the brandy.

“I hear you are very rich.”

“Ah,” Brett said, flashing a cold, mirthless smile. “Need a loan?”

“Very funny,” Diego said stiffly.

“Defending your family's title was very expensive,” Brett said. “Litigation has broken most Californios. Your family's not the first.”

“Damn Americanos,” Diego flashed. “Stealing what is ours!”

Brett had to agree, for it was the truth. “It's too bad.”

“Just a few years ago we were rich,” Diego said. “Cattle was selling for fifty, sixty dollars a head. Now—this.” He made a gesture. “Squatters and litigation. All the great ranchos broken up. Poverty where once there was riches. Still”—his eyes flashed—“your illustrious father will not live forever.”

“No, he won't.”

“You don't care, do you?” Diego snapped. “Don Felipe won and is still rich. You will have all this one day, and you don't even care.”

“No,” Brett said, leaning forward to pour himself another brandy. “No taste for liquor tonight, Diego?” he asked, noticing that his cousin hadn't sipped at all. He yawned as a sudden and overwhelming sleepiness assailed him.

Diego didn't answer, just watched him.

Abruptly Brett felt dizzy and lethargic. A heavy languor was creeping stealthily over him. He looked at his cousin,
who had become a blur. He tried to move and couldn't. And in that instant before black oblivion took him, he realized he had been drugged.

 

Upstairs, Storm moved from the bed to the balcony and stepped outside. She was clad in a whisper of blue silk, the sheerest chiffon gown and wrapper. The railing was cool to her touch; a gentle breeze fanned her face. The night glittered with stars, ebony and silver, onyx and diamonds. She sighed, closing her eyes, and inhaled the sweet scent of magnolias and honeysuckle.

Brett, she thought. “Brett,” she murmured. She smiled, remembering how he had loved her—so thoroughly, so savagely. With him, lovemaking was rarely tender, never halfhearted. The gentlest of caresses exploded into an unrestrained passion, and her own ability to meet the depth of that passion with her own savagery continued to shock her. He unleashed something dark and wanton and primitive from deep within her. How she reveled in it! How she reveled in him!

After their lovemaking the way he held her was so gentle compared to the previous ravishment, so tender. Did he know his soft, sensual hands spoke for him? And this afternoon he had said he loved her again. A thrill swept her as she recalled his words. Had he meant them? She was no fool. The words had come in the heat of passion, just like that first time, moments before they had both attained a rapturous release. Would he ever say them in a sane moment? Did he really love her?

She wanted a declaration from him so desperately!

She moved restlessly back inside, wondering where he was. She had come up to bed an hour ago, and Brett had gone into the library with Diego for a brandy. She sighed, thinking she was being silly, for they had spent the whole afternoon together. Yet she still hungered for him, for his presence as much as his touch.

She slipped into bed, waiting. Minutes ticked by, and she grew sleepy. She didn't know when she fell asleep, but when she awoke, she wondered how long she had been sleeping, and why Brett wasn't there beside her. At that realization, she was instantly awake. She lit the lamp at her bedside. “Brett?”

She got up and saw he wasn't in their sitting room or in the adjoining dressing room. She found his watch fob—it was two in the morning. She felt a sudden chill. Where was he? Was he still downstairs with Diego? By now they would be drunk. Storm hesitated, debating whether or not to go after him. Then she realized he would not appreciate that. She shivered. She felt a touch of disappointment that he would prefer staying with his cousin to curling up with her, then told herself sternly that she was being unfair. Brett and Diego hadn't seen each other in ten years. Although she knew there was no love between them, maybe now that they were both older and more mature they were becoming friends. That thought pleased her, and she crawled back into bed, though she did not sleep.

Two hours later, she began to wonder if Brett had drunk too much with his cousin and passed out in the library. Surely Diego would help him upstairs. But what if Diego, too, had passed out?

She slipped on a heavier wrapper and silently made her way downstairs, holding a candle to light the way. There was no one in the library. Where was he?

Storm paced the room, doubt and confusion assailing her. Where could he be?

Diego might know. She didn't care that it was unthinkable for her to go to his apartment. Diego and Sophia and their parents all had rooms in the south wing, adjoining the wing where she and Brett were staying. Purposefully, Storm left the library and moved along the corridor with a stealth her father had taught her. She moved up the stairs,
then paused in the long corridor. Wall lanterns lit both ends, but the hallway in between was bathed in darkness. Which was Diego's room? She didn't even know. This was crazy!

Obviously, Brett and Diego were no longer drinking. What if they both had gone out wenching? There were numerous young women on the hacienda, and some of them were quite comely. Storm felt a tremendous rush of fear. She knew she was being paranoid. She was being ridiculous. She moved to the first door on the right, and her hand went to the knob. Very, very quietly she turned it and pushed the door ajar.

The gray light of dawn was just coming through the windows, enough for Storm to make out Emmanuel's slumbering frame. That meant the next door down would be Elena's. Storm backed out and closed the door soundlessly.

She crossed the hall. The first door on that side was slightly ajar, making her task much easier. Her hand gripped the knob, and she pushed open the door. The hinges squeaked and she froze, waiting, but there was no sound. She pushed the door wide enough to slip in, and then, unable to prevent it, she cried out.

In the four-poster bed facing her, Sophia lay sprawled in voluptuous nakedness. Equally naked, Brett lay on his stomach, his arm thrown around her, pressing her breast upward. His head was turned into her shoulder, and one of her white legs was thrown over and between his.

Storm shut her eyes, stunned, praying that when she opened them a different scene would greet her. Then she looked again, and this time clasped a hand to her mouth, both to prevent herself from crying out again, and because she was suddenly, terribly, sick. She backed out, right into someone's hard body.

With a sob Storm turned to flee. Strong hands caught
her. She struggled, kicking. “Let me go!” she cried wildly.

“
Cara
,” Diego said.

Storm broke free and ran, stumbling and tripping on the steps, then falling in a rolling headlong rush from top to bottom. She lay on the floor below, unable to move. She moaned, the sound inhuman, like an animal dying.

“Cara!” Diego cried, rushing down and kneeling beside her. “Storm! Are you all right?”

She looked up at him and moaned again, and then she clutched herself, rocking.

She was barely aware of being pulled into his arms and held, of his mouth pressing against her temple and hair, of his stroking, soothing hands, of soft whispers in Spanish, tender endearments. She clung to him, whimpering broken sobs.

Brett had betrayed her.

He had never loved her. He had been with Sophia that day in the garden, and talked Storm out of believing what she had seen. But there was no mistaking what she had seen tonight, and there was no explanation, no excuse. She was filled with grief. She felt as if someone she loved had died.

“I'm so sorry,
cara
, so sorry you had to find out this way,” Diego was saying.

Storm realized where she was, and with whom. “I hate him,” she whispered, gazing up at Diego's face with its genuine concern, her eyes glazing over again.

“He does not deserve you,
cara
.”

“Help me,” Storm cried, clutching the lapels of his robe. “Help me to run away, Diego. Help me to get to Texas.”

He looked at her.

“Please,” she begged, “please, help me, please!”

Sleep left Brett in gradual stages, lingering then fading like a mist. Slowly, a hazy, heavy consciousness pervaded. He was aware that he was thirsty, and that he had a slight headache. He was tired, as if he hadn't slept at all, and Storm was so warm and lush next to him that he had not the slightest desire to open his eyes and get out of bed. He tightened his hold on her, nuzzling the silken skin next to his face. She rolled toward him, he felt the movement, and then her lush breasts were enveloping his face, her hand sliding sensually across his flanks.

He sighed, nuzzling the two full globes, running his hand over her buttocks. A nipple hardened against his cheek, and he rubbed his face against it. She sighed, sliding her hand down his buttock, stroking deftly, almost but not quite touching the soft pouch between his legs. He grew harder and caught the teasing peak between his lips, beginning to suckle.

He sucked voraciously, thinking that this was certainly a most delicious way to awaken, still heavy with sleep. He gasped when he felt her stroking his phallus, skillfully and erotically, and then they were rolling together, she beneath and he over her. His eyes still closed, still in a strangely torpid state of languor, he closed his arms around her and began rubbing himself against her.

She was so slick and warm and inviting.

An instant later, a funny feeling in the back of his mind surged to the fore. The hair tickling his face seemed different, coarser, not as silken. The lips beneath his seemed softer, not as firm, and her waist did not fit into the span of his hands…

He lifted his head from hers, opening his eyes.

For a scant second, as Sophia's white face met his gaze, he thought he was dreaming. And then it registered—it was Sophia he was gazing at, and he froze, his shaft throbbing against her swollen flesh. He stared, shocked.

She grabbed his hips and arched against him.

Brett leaped out of her arms.

What had he done?

She moaned. “No, don't leave me,” she whimpered. “More.”

What in hell was he doing in bed with Sophia when he had gone to bed with his wife? Brett sat heavily, staring at her with revulsion and contempt. A tide of self-loathing swept him. Then the thought—good God, where was Storm?

He looked out the windows and saw that it was already afternoon.

Sophia's hand closed around his manhood, her lips nibbling at his hips.

Brett stood, pushing her off. “What the hell is going on?” he shouted, furious, his head filled with pain.

She smiled. “
Cara
, you do not need to be told.” She stretched seductively, her white, shapely body glinting in the sunlight, her breasts so pale he could see the blue veins. “You were magnificent last night,
querido
, but this morning leaves something to be desired.”

“Last night?” he said, shocked to the depths of his being. He thought rapidly. He had had a drink with Diego…and then he knew. He had had one drink, but it had been drugged. And now he was finally coming to, only here, not in his own bed,
here
, with
her
, not with
his beloved wife…“You little bitch,” he snarled, and pounced on her.

She cried out when his hands closed around her throat, squeezing with a primitive savagery. Her face paled; her mouth opened like a fish. Brett instantly released her, stunned by the viciousness of his hatred, by his desire to murder her. “My brandy was drugged last night,” he said grimly. “Why, Sophia?”

“What are you talking about?” she cried, rubbing her throat. Her eyes were bright with renewed desire, and the fact that his violence had aroused her sickened him.

“I can't believe you would go to such lengths to get me into your bed! Was it worth it?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“Soon it will be,
querido
,” she purred. “Let me make you hard again.” And she reached for him.

Furious, he knocked her hand away. “Why, damn you, Sophia, why?”

“I always get what I want,” she said. “Why fight what you want, too?”

“I only want my wife,” he said in disgust, and then he was pulling on his pants.

Sophia was out of bed in a flash, rubbing her breasts against his back, her hands sliding down to stroke the soft bulge of his groin. She was unprepared for the violence that greeted this move. One instant she was there, trembling with excitement, her nipples hard against his back, her womanhood wet and warm against his buttocks. Then she was on her back on the floor, the wood cold and hard on her bare body.

She looked up, throbbing wildly now, lying there spread like a whore at his feet.

He pulled on his shirt, regarding her with contempt. “Just like your mother,” he said softly, and a moment later he was gone.

Sophia lay there, gasping. With a moan, she reached
down and caressed herself intimately, writhing in ecstasy as she imagined Brett thrusting into her.

 

As he hurried upstairs to their room, Brett was thinking desperately, trying to come up with an excuse for why he had not come to their bed last night. God, he would kill Diego and Sophia! And he still didn't understand why they had done it. Why would Sophia go to so much trouble to get him into her bed?

What was Storm thinking?

What was he going to say?

He was not a liar, he had never been a liar, so he would tell her the truth. With one omission—he would not tell her he had nearly bedded Sophia. She was not going to believe his story anyway, he was sure. He wanted to lie and tell her he had passed out downstairs, but she might have gone looking for him, and he did not want to be caught in the lie. Damn it!

“Storm,” he cried, bursting into their bedroom.

She wasn't there. He searched the adjoining rooms. Where was she? He needed a bath, needed to get the stink of Sophia off of him. He ordered hot water from a servant, who had not seen his wife. Then he went downstairs. No one had seen her.

In the stables Demon was missing.

Of course, he thought, she must have gone riding. He wanted to go after her now, but he felt so damn unclean, so damn violated—

“Did she go alone?” he asked a vaquero.

“I don't know.”

No one had seen her leave, so she must have gone very early. Another inquiry revealed that Diego's horse was also missing, and had been all day. Brett was both relieved and furious. Relieved because he didn't want Storm riding alone, and furious because she had spent an entire day with his lecherous cousin.

Not that he didn't trust Storm, he did. But if Diego touched her, he would kill them both—Diego and Sophia. They would pay.

He went back to the house and bathed, unable to think of anything but Storm. He needed to explain what had happened last night. What was she thinking? It all depended on whether or not she had gone looking for him. It was possible, he supposed, that she would be indulgent, thinking he had passed out in the library—that all his worry was for nothing.

But there was still the guilt, and the dirtiness that seemed to stick to his skin no matter how hard he washed. Just the thought of touching that whore, of practically being inside her, made his stomach turn, made him physically ill. If only he had opened his damn eyes! And how in hell could he not have noticed the woman he was holding was not his wife? Especially if he loved her?

And he knew, without a doubt, that he did love Storm.

By the time Brett had finished bathing and dressed, he was becoming worried to the point of panic. Storm and Diego were still gone. The grooms rose at sunup, but did not feed the horses until an hour later. It was then that Demon and Diego's stallion had been noticed missing—and that was ten hours ago.

A terrible suspicion crossed Brett's mind, and was gone as soon as it appeared. He paced their apartments, spending most of the time staring out the French doors to the balcony. What if she was hurt?

“Brett?”

He whirled, furious to see Sophia standing in his room. “Get out,” he shouted, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“Brett,” she said, not moving. “I think it's very suspicious that your wife and my brother have been gone the whole day together. No one has told Don Felipe, of course, but everyone is talking about it. Diego was so besotted with Storm.”

“What are you saying?” he demanded.

She held up a piece of paper. “Diego left me a note saying he had business to attend to and would not be back.”

“Let me see that,” he said, tearing it from her. The note said exactly that, with no details. But he knew that they were together, he suddenly knew it, and they that had been together since sunrise. She had gone with him. Wherever his business was, Storm had left him and gone with Diego. Because she had found out where he had been last night. Brett was suddenly sure of it.

“I think she went with him,” Sophia said. “Diego was very persistent, and he told me he wanted her. He's like me—he always gets what he wants.”

“I'll kill him,” Brett said, crumpling up the note and flinging it across the room. He had only a few hours till dark, but it would be enough to pick up the trail. Why in hell hadn't he gone after them earlier?

Because he hadn't wanted to think the unthinkable—that Storm had discovered his supposed infidelity, had not waited for him to explain, had not trusted him, had not believed in him—had left him.

“If he touches her…” Brett growled.

“What do you think they are going to be doing tonight? Playing poker?” Sophia looked triumphant. “You may as well know, Brett.” She smiled.

“Know what?”

“Last night when you were sleeping she walked in on us. I was still awake.”

For an instant his heart stopped; he couldn't breathe. And then, when his functions started again, they raced. “What did you say to her?” he demanded hoarsely.

“I didn't have to say anything.” She smiled again. “A picture tells a thousand words.”

With great effort he stopped himself from striking her.

“After she left, I heard a noise and went out to investigate. I saw Storm and Diego at the bottom of the stairs.”

He stared.

“Embracing,” Sophia said. “He was comforting her. She left you, Brett. She's run away with another man.”

Brett felt as if he was suffocating, but in a moment the sensation had passed. “She's heading for Texas,” Brett said with certainty. “And if he touches her, I'll kill him.”

 

It took Storm several moments to realize that they had stopped. She sat on Demon unmoving, numbed with hurt and disinterested in her surroundings. Diego had dismounted and was holding up his hand to her. She focused on him. Dusk was settling. “Why have we stopped?” Her voice was unrecognizable, cracked, old, reed-thin.

“
Cara
, we must make camp for the night.” He smiled gently. “Come.”

It was so easy to obey and not think. Storm slid off her stallion into his arms, where he held her for a moment longer than necessary. She was only vaguely aware of the feel of the length of his body, of his hands in her hair, of his breath on her cheek. She hurt so badly inside, in her heart, a terrible stabbing. Brett's image, his face harsh and mocking, kept looming in her mind. Then the image of them together.

Diego led her over to his bedroll, and Storm sank down upon it, curling up in a tight ball. She shut her eyes, awaiting sleep's mindless comfort.

Diego watched her for a moment, then went to their horses, untacking them, rubbing them down with dried grass, giving them each several handfuls of grain. After hobbling them, he paused to look at her. He would not make a fire. He wouldn't take the chance. He knew Brett's resolution, his determination. He had no intention of being murdered in his sleep in the dark hours of the night.

As Diego studied Storm, lying with her back to him, he
felt a surge of lust. Tonight he would take her—whether she wanted it or not. And she undoubtedly would not be receptive. Then, imagining a numbed, passive recipient of his passion, he frowned. He wanted her fighting or eager, but not like this—not stricken with hurt, lifeless, dulled. He moved to her. “
Cara?
”

It was a moment before she turned so she could see him. He was shocked at how pale she was, how swollen her eyes, how red her nose. Where was the magnificent creature he had known, fiery and unsurpassable? This woman looked like a child, hurt, vulnerable, disheveled, dirty. His jaw clenched in anger. He held up the canteen. “Here, drink. We dare not make a fire. Here's some jerky. Take it.”

Curling up and giving him her back, she shook her head, a sound like a low sob escaping from her mouth. “No,” she said.

“You must eat,” he insisted, irritated.

She didn't answer.

“Storm, how do you expect to ride all day tomorrow—you must eat.”

“Please, Diego, just leave me alone.”

He stood, unsure. What was he doing here, in the middle of nowhere, with a woman who was more dead than alive? God, was he crazy? Sophia, of course, had once again manipulated him into doing her bidding. It had been that way all their lives, and it angered him tremendously. He stalked away, needing to think.

The first thing Storm felt when she awoke the next morning was pain, accompanied by remembrance. She sat up, quickly glancing around in the blush of first light, noting Diego stretched out on a bedroll a few feet from her. Then something happened. She felt a surge of anger, and she clung to it.

She closed her eyes, seeing in her mind's eye images of Brett since she had known him. The first time she had met
him, standing in Paul's library, both virile and elegant in a black suit. She would never forget that moment, or his eyes, so black and intense. She hadn't understood the look, then. She remembered the first time he had kissed her, on the beach, his shock when she had punched him, the incredible passion that had helplessly swept them away at the ball. Then other images, awful images, flooded her—Audrey's perfect form and face, Sophia lying naked and entwined with him, their wedding, and the time at the beach when he had accused her of being with Sian and had mercilessly and crudely examined her. She got to her feet. Leaving him is the best thing that I could do, she thought unsteadily, fighting to believe it. She smoothed her hair away from her face, determination molding her features. “Home,” she said. She clenched her jaw. “Home and a divorce. That man is a bastard, a terrible bastard, and I never loved him.” Resolutely, anger in every stride, she moved to her horse and began to saddle him.