Firestorm (30 page)

She wrenched away. “It would serve you right,” she yelled suddenly. “How dare you—how dare you—” Sputtering, she broke off.

“Just tell me,” he said harshly. “Where is that sonuvabitch?”

“Dead,” she spat.

He stared, then became aware of the tense, curious silence around them, and scanning the rapt faces of her family, he grabbed her arm. Ignoring her struggles, he opened the first door he found, shoved her inside, and slammed the door closed behind him. From outside, he heard the small woman say warningly, “Derek.”

They were in a withdrawing room. There was a fire in the hearth. Storm had stepped away and was standing staring into it, trembling. Brett's gaze seared her back. “Tell me.”

She whirled. “He tried to rape me. I shot him.”

“God,” he said, the blood draining from his face. He moved swiftly to her. She backed away, then stopped as the heat of the fire flared behind her. Brett stopped a foot from her, his gaze searching her face. How to win her back? How?

“Storm,” he said, trying to control his voice and failing, “never, never, do this again. You could have been killed, raped. Sweet Jesus! Have you no sense? Have—”

“What made you decide to come?” Her heart was pounding painfully. She wanted to launch herself back into his arms and forgive him, love him, make him hers. She could do it; she knew she could. He cared enough to come
for her, and that was a start. She could make him love her.

He paused. Then he looked partly rueful, partly derisive. “Don't you know?”

“You got bored with Sophia,” Storm said, flushing at the thought. “Two weeks in her bed…” She stopped. He hadn't even spent two weeks in her own bed! The thought hurt, so badly that she turned blindly away.

“You fool,” he said, and before she knew it, he was holding her from behind, pressing his cheek to her temple. “Listen carefully, Storm. Sophia is a sick bitch. She's been toying with men since she was a child. She's like her mother, who took my virginity before I was sixteen. That last night Sophia slipped laudanum into my brandy. When I woke up, I was in her bed, but I hadn't put myself there. I detest Sophia. No woman holds any interest for me except you—believe me.” He said it firmly, a command.

She trembled. “I…I can't believe she would do that.”

“Would you prefer to believe I chose to go to her when I could have had you? Good God! What's between us is unique, rare. Storm, I—” He broke off, cursing.

She was tense in his arms. “It took you long enough to come after me.”

He almost laughed, but what was happening between them was too important to make light of in any way. His life hung in the balance. “
Chère
, I reached San Diego exactly one day after your stage left. You don't know what my trip has been like.”

She twisted around, still encircled in his arms, so she could look in his eyes. “You came after me immediately?”

“The night after you left, I departed before dark.” He met her gaze levelly. “At first I didn't believe you'd run away. I was praying you didn't know, but Sophia laughed and told me you had walked in on us.”

She saw a look of loathing cross his eyes. “Did she really drug you?”

“Yes.”

She believed him. Not only was the truth in his eyes, but she knew Brett. If he wanted her for a wife and Sophia as a mistress, he would consider it his right. She had to know the rest. “When you woke up in her bed, did you—what happened?”

He winced, then met her gaze levelly. “I was very groggy from the drug. I thought I was in our bed. I had no reason to think otherwise. But I realized the truth in time.”

Storm swallowed. His hands went instantly to her face, cupping it tenderly. “I'm telling you all this because I want it out in the open and finished. I wouldn't tell you if I didn't…if I didn't care.”

She stared, tears blurring her gaze. She believed him, but it still hurt. Thinking of him with Audrey still hurt, too.

“I was a victim,” he said in complete humility. His eyes begged her for understanding, for trust.

“I believe you,” she said, meeting his gaze. Then she quickly lowered her eyes. She was thinking about what he'd said—
I wouldn't tell you if I didn't care
. What did that mean? She didn't want him to care. She wanted him to
love
her. She suffered her disappointment in silence—was she a fool to dream of more?

“Storm, come back with me to San Francisco. We'll start over. Please.” His tone was ragged, humble.

She was shocked. He was asking, not demanding, not strong-arming her, and if he got down on his knees, it couldn't be more eloquent.

He met her stunned gaze again. “Will you come back with me?”

That decided her. If he had threatened her, claimed her as his possession, she would have refused, no matter how
hard that would have been. Because even if he didn't love her, she still loved him—she wanted to be his wife. “Yes, Brett,” she said solemnly.

Immediately he was there, wrapping his arms around her, his mouth on her cheek insistent. Something else insistent was rising, demanding, against her belly. Storm closed her eyes, leaning into him while he held her for an endless moment, his cheek against hers. “We had better face your parents,” Brett finally said, clearing his throat and stepping away from her.

“My parents,” Storm mumbled. She looked at Brett, and she felt the heat of his need as if he were still pressing against her. There was bold promise in his gaze—and something else too, something warm and tender and unfamiliar. She wanted to fly back into his arms.

“And I think you should introduce me properly to your parents and brothers.” He quickly kissed her mouth. “What did you tell them?”

Storm bit her lip. “That there was another woman. And I told them about Diego.”

Brett tensed. “Why? Why did you have to air what's private and between us?”

“I love my parents. They wanted to know what would make me run away from a man I loved enough to marry.” Her words weren't sarcastic, but they reminded him of the letter she had sent, the one full of lies.

“Let's not fight.” He touched his jaw gingerly. “Do you think he'll come after me again?”

“No, Mother won't let him.”

They left the drawing room. The foyer was empty, of course. “We were eating,” Storm said. “They're probably in the parlor.”

They were, all four of them, Brett saw ruefully. And waiting for him. Storm's mother, a breathtakingly beautiful woman, was embroidering. Derek was leaning against the mantel, his muscular frame stiff with tension. The tall,
dark boy, Nick, was staring out a window. Rathe was pacing in the center of the room. Everyone looked up and stared at their entrance.

“This is Brett,” Storm said. “My husband.”

Brett put his arm possessively around Storm and locked stares with Derek. The man was still hostile, barely restraining himself.

“Are you hungry, Brett?”

He focused on Miranda, who had risen. He smiled, unconsciously working his charm. “No, thank you, ma'am. The only thing I need is my wife.”

“I would like a few words alone with Mr. D'Archand,” Derek said in a steely tone.

“Pa, everything's all right,” Storm said. “And I'm going back to San Francisco with Brett.”

Derek turned his hot golden gaze on her. “Is that so?”

“Yes, that's so,” Brett said coolly before Storm could open her mouth. “Storm,
chère
, I'd like to speak alone with your father.” He smiled at her. “Don't worry.” He tilted her chin and gave her a hard, short kiss.

Miranda shooed out her brood and closed the doors behind them. Brett watched the older man turn away, restlessly, rigidly. He waited. Then he said softly, “I understand how you feel. But you have to let her go. She's not a little girl anymore.”

Derek whirled. “Give her to the likes of you? You hurt her!”

“Not purposely,” Brett said. “Never purposely.”

Derek seemed to take in his words and the emotion laden in them. “When she came home, she wasn't the same. She wasn't the happy child who left.” It was an accusation.

“I didn't mean to hurt her. She knows that. She's forgiven me. That's all that matters.” Brett's eyes were dark. “Haven't you ever made a mistake?”

“Not where my wife was concerned,” Derek said hotly.
“Not like you. I know there was another woman.” He clenched his fists.

Brett had no intention of going into detail with this man. “I'm taking her back with me. And I intend to make her happy. You won't stop me. And it has nothing to do with the fact that the law's on my side. Even if it weren't,” he said, “you wouldn't stop me.”

Derek stared. Then he squinted. “You sound like a man in love.”

Brett smiled mockingly. “Even the mighty fall.”

“Then how could you do it?”

Brett faced him squarely. “I didn't. Storm didn't trust me, and she jumped to the wrong conclusions. To be honest, I haven't wanted another woman since I first met your daughter. You'll just have to trust me and accept the fact that I intend to take good care of her.”

“Shit,” Derek said, running a hand through his hair.

Brett suddenly had a disturbing thought. “You're not going to repeat this conversation to her, are you?”

Derek's gaze shot up. “Why not?”

Brett clenched his jaw. Jesus! He could always deny it…

“You haven't told her,” Derek said incredulously. Understanding crept into his voice. “You haven't goddamn told her how you feel!” He started laughing. “I can just see it, two mules…” He laughed harder.

“More like two battering rams,” Brett grumbled.

Derek laughed harder still.

Brett relaxed.

“Brett,” Sophia cried in delight, touching him warmly.

We shouldn't have come, Storm thought, rigid, seeing once again in her mind's eye Sophia sprawled wantonly and nakedly in bed with Brett. But it was she who had wanted to come, to resolve things for Brett with his family, she who had insisted, who had made Brett promise that they would stop on the way back to San Francisco. But the way Sophia was looking at Brett now was not the look of a guilty woman, or a woman who had given up. Rather, it was the look of someone ecstatically happy to see her lover again. Storm couldn't even swallow. She was furious. If Sophia again laid a hand on Brett…

Sophia looked up at Brett. He was thunderously angry, and not even trying to hide it. “Don't even come near me,” he said clearly.

Sophia's eyes widened, but she didn't retreat. She glanced over her shoulder to see who was approaching. It was Emmanuel. Then she looked directly at Storm. “Where is my brother?”

They had already decided to lie, for neither Brett nor Storm wanted to hurt Emmanuel. His tone constricted with anger, Brett replied, “Diego is dead.”

“What?!” Sophia actually paled.

“He tried to defend me from a mountain lion,” Storm managed, hating the lie. She didn't know how to tell falsehoods, even to protect someone.

“He can't be dead,” Sophia said, gasping. Then, at their unwavering gazes, she wheeled and fled.

“I didn't know she cared about anyone other than herself,” Brett said grimly in a low voice that only Storm could hear. “Hello, Tío.”

“Brett, Storm, I'm so glad you're back. You both left so—well, we won't talk about that.” He was beaming, and he hugged them both.

Storm felt so sorry for this man who was so kind but had been cursed with vipers for a wife and children. Then she took back her thoughts. It was bad to think ill of the dead, especially when she herself was a murderess.

“Tío, please, sit.” Brett took his uncle's arm.

“What is it, Brett, what's wrong?”

“I'm bringing bad news, unfortunately. Come, sit, please.”

 

Storm collapsed upon the bed. The trip back had not been exhausting; in fact, it had been nothing at all like her flight from California. They had stayed a week with her parents, a week during which Brett had spent most of his time trying to get her away from the house and into the fields, where he would fall on her like a starving man. Storm knew Brett had been trying to be polite and not obvious about what he was up to, but because her father no longer seemed angry—rather, amused—Storm doubted Brett had succeeded. Her brothers' hostility had also faded. Storm had no idea what Derek had said to them, or what Brett had said to Derek. That one night they had stayed closeted together for an hour. Brett refused to tell her how he had won her father over.

Her mother adored him, of course, for what woman could resist his charm when he applied it? And both her mother and her father knew how she felt. Derek had taken her aside after Brett's arrival. “Honey, just tell me whether or not you love him,” he had said, and Storm had blushed
wildly and confessed the truth. Her father had seemed satisfied. He must have told her mother, for she had given Storm a lecture on men's characters in general: how they were all like little boys behind the brawn and bravado, and one would never be intimidated by a little boy; how they needed love and approval just like anyone else; and sometimes, the ones who acted the most self-sufficient were, indeed, the most desperately needy. Storm had thought about that a lot.

Brett had barely let her out of his sight that week at the D&M, and on the stagecoach he never did. Not that Storm minded. He was charming in the extreme and anticipated her every need and request, amused her with stories, laughed warmly with her, held her hand, and on several nights, despite the lack of privacy, despite the fact that everyone slept in a common room, he had very discreetly and quietly made love to her under their blanket in the corner. Storm blushed just thinking about how shameless they had been.

Now her head was pounding mercilessly. The headache had started that morning. Just knowing they would arrive later had set it off. She hadn't been sure how she would act when faced with Sophia. Brett had known without her saying anything. He had cupped her chin in his large hand. “It's not too late to change your mind,
chère
,” he had said quietly.

She loved him for his sensitivity, a side of him she was seeing more and more often since they had been reunited. But she had refused to back down. They must come, at the very least to tell Emmanuel and Elena of Diego's death.

The guilt was lessening slowly. Sometimes it seemed that Brett could read her mind, for he always seemed to sense when she was brooding over what had happened. Then he would take her hand, if they were in public, and smile reassuringly into her eyes. If they were alone, he used other ways to chase away Diego's ghost…intimate, soul-soothing ways.

“You're so quiet,” Brett said now, reaching for her in the privacy of their room.

Storm relished the feel of disappearing into his warm, hard embrace. “I wish we didn't have to lie.”

“So do I,” he said softly, his hand in her hair. “But I don't want to hurt Tío Emmanuel with the truth.”

Their eyes met in an intimate understanding, but just then the door to their room flew open. Storm's gaze widened at the sight of a pale, red-eyed, and volatile Sophia. “What—”

Sophia leaned against the door. “Tell me what happened, you bitch. Diego would never have defended you—or anyone—at the risk of his life. Tell me!”

Storm couldn't speak. She wanted to tell this witch, who was still breathtakingly beautiful despite her grief, to get out. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

Brett grabbed Sophia's elbow and began to shove her from the room. “No one talks to my wife that way, Sophia. Now get out.”

“No! No! Bastard, no! What happened to my brother?” She twisted wildly in his grasp.

“He was killed by a mountain lion,” Brett said firmly.

“Trying to save that
puta?
” Sophia spat. “Never. Diego was selfish, completely—”

Brett grabbed her face cruelly. “Don't speak of my wife that way, Sophia,” he warned.

She laughed. “Oh, Brett,” she mocked, “don't tell me you have forgiven her for lying with Diego? I didn't think you would.”

Brett yanked her. “They didn't sleep together.”

Sophia laughed. “Diego was so hot for her. He told me that the minute he got her alone, even though she'd fight, he intended to take her and hurt her.” She laughed again. “I know Diego. He had her, all right! And she probably loved it, loved every moment. Diego was almost as big as
you, Brett, and what he lacked in size he made up for in other ways.”

Brett stared, momentarily shocked.

She laughed again. Her voice became a purr. “Does it excite you to think about me and Diego, sister and brother, together?”

“God,” Brett said, “I should have known.” He pushed her away. “Get out. And don't come near my wife again.”

“What happened to my brother?” Sophia demanded.

Brett shoved her out the door. He turned back to Storm, who was deathly white. He went to her and took her in his arms. “It's all right.”

“Brett, I killed him, and Sophia knows!”

“She doesn't know, love. Shhh. You did what you had to. You did what was right. A man who rapes deserves to die.”

“Sophia loved him,” Storm said in confusion.

He kissed her temple. “I guess she did—in her own sick way. Diego was scum, Storm. Even if you hadn't killed him, someone else would have sooner or later.”

She studied him searchingly. “Do you really think so?”

“I'm sure of it,” Brett said. “Did you know Diego has three or four bastards? Do you know how he got them?”

She shook her head.

“He raped the women. They were Monterro peons, and to him that made them less than human. One of the girls was just thirteen. She died birthing her baby before she was even fourteen. I think tomorrow I'm going to take you to this girl's family. I want you to listen to what they have to say about Diego. Your guilt is understandable, but completely unnecessary in this case. The women on the Monterro lands used to run when he came. And he enjoyed it.”

There was a knock on the door.

Brett looked at Storm. “Feeling better?”

“Yes,” she said honestly.

Brett smiled. “Come in,” he called.

A servant entered. “Don Felipe wishes to see you, Señor Brett.”

 

“Sit down, boy.”

Brett grimaced. Only his father could make him feel twelve again with three words or a mere glance. This time he refused to take the bait, noting that Don Felipe looked better than when he had left. His color was healthier. He was sitting in his wheelchair, a blanket covering his legs and hips. “Hello, Father.”

“Surprised you came back,” Don Felipe said bluntly.

Brett eased himself into a straight chair, wondering at his lack of tension.

“What happened?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don't play the fool with me, boy. I may have lost the use of my legs, but I can hear, among other things. Your wife ran off with Diego. Now Diego's dead. Did you kill him?”

Brett fought for control. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell Don Felipe about the mountain lion.

“And don't give me a pile of shit about Diego throwing himself in front of some lion to save your beautiful wife. We both know Diego was a coward, not a hero.”

Brett clenched his jaw. “In this case,” he said very quietly, pleased with the tone of his voice, “Diego was, indeed, heroic.” The lie almost choked him.

“Bah! What'd she run off with him for anyway? Can't you keep your wife content enough so that she doesn't go running away?” Don Felipe smiled snidely.

Brett stood.

“Don't you dare leave.” It was an order.

Brett slowly faced him.

“I already know,” Don Felipe continued. “At least, I guess. That coward nephew of mine tried to force himself on her, didn't he? It's the only way he enjoys a woman. Yes, I know. You think I don't know everything that goes on
around here? But your wife isn't just any woman. She defended herself. Well?”

Brett couldn't speak. It was uncanny. It had always been this way. The old man had incredible powers of deduction. He always knew.

“Or did you kill him? Did he rape her? If so, what you did was right.”

“No, he didn't succeed,” Brett said.

“She killed him?”

“Trying to defend herself.”

Don Felipe nodded. “A fitting end for a coward, don't you think?”

“I don't want Emmanuel to know the truth,” Brett said.

“Neither do I.” Then he laughed. “Odds are Diego isn't his spawn anyway, but because he's always refused to see what's in front of his face, no sense in shocking him now.”

“How kind of you,” Brett said dryly.

“Is she pregnant?”

“What?”

“When do I get a grandson?”

Brett couldn't even answer.

“So why did you come back? To bear the ‘sad' tidings?”

“Yes. But mostly because of Storm. She wanted to come back.” Brett regarded his father steadily. “She had some insane notion that I needed to spend more time in the bosom of my family, that things needed to be
resolved
.”

Don Felipe chuckled. “Helluva woman.”

Brett lifted a brow. “But, Father, she's not a Californio.”

“Neither was your mother.”

“I had no choice in the parents I got.”

“True. But, surprisingly, you turned out the best of the lot.”

Brett couldn't believe his ears. “Am I hallucinating?”

“Don't go getting ahead of yourself. Considering the
lot only consisted of you and those two perverted cousins of yours.”

Brett suddenly laughed. “Thank you. Forgive me, I almost thought I was being praised.”

“Praised? Praise is for the weak or the dead.”

“Ah, of course, how foolish of me.” Brett didn't look away from the old man. For the first time in his life he didn't hate his father. He felt something else, something alien and indescribable. “You're wrong,” he said finally.

The don lifted a brow.

“Praise is for those who deserve it, and those who need it.”

Don Felipe laughed. “What, still mad because I didn't coddle you as a boy? At least you're no weakling.”

“Jesus,” Brett said, realizing he had just gotten a compliment from the old man, probably the only one he would ever receive. He was surprised to find he didn't care.

“When are you leaving?”

“As soon as possible,” Brett said, staring at the shrunken man in the chair, a surge of pity welling up in him. For this man. This old, withered man who believed canes and hardness were the way to foster strength of character.

“You should go,” Don Felipe said. “You've been away from your business too long. What kind of businessman is gone for months at a time? You get back, you'll find someone has stolen you blind.”

Brett chuckled. Don Felipe was never going to change. He was opinionated, domineering, rude beyond belief. But in this instance he was right.

“You think that's funny?” the old man demanded.

“No. Not at all.”

“I want to see her before you leave, boy, and I want a grandson I can be proud of.”

“How can I possibly sire a son you could be proud of?” Brett asked mockingly.

Don Felipe stared at him. “You expect me to fill your ears with pretty compliments?”

“Absolutely not,” Brett said, smiling. “I just don't understand how the inferior bastard son of a whore could sire a grandson that a blue-blood Californio like yourself could possibly be proud of, much less acknowledge as kin.”