Firestorm (4 page)

“Storm, this is Randolph Farlane. Randolph, Storm Bragg, Paul's cousin from Texas.”

Storm looked up to see a handsome younger version of Grant, except for the golden color of his hair. He was looking at her with Grant's easy smile. She smiled back. “Hello.”

“My pleasure,” Randolph breathed, sitting easily on the chestnut he was riding. “I hope you've been given a warm welcome, Miss Bragg.”

“Yes.”

“I'm looking forward to Friday evening,” Randolph said.

Storm nodded, confused. He seemed to be implying that he was looking forward to seeing her again. She said, “So am I.” It seemed the safest course to take.

His eyes lit up with pleasure. “Until then. Unless, of course, you'd care to go riding with me before that?”

Storm was startled, but she loved riding, so she responded with genuine enthusiasm. “Oh, yes, I'd love to. Demon needs a daily workout or he becomes a bit much.”

“Demon, I take it, is your horse?”

She nodded proudly. “I raised him from a colt.”

“Well then, I'll ask Paul immediately if I may call on you.” He grinned, nodded to Marcy, and rode off.

Marcy was smiling. “Randy's a wonderful young man. He's taken with you.”

Storm regarded her with confusion. “What?”

Marcy saw the incomprehension on her face. “He thinks you're pretty, which you are.”

Storm flushed. “That's ridiculous. He was just being polite.”

Marcy studied her. “Didn't you have any beaux back home, Storm?”

She shook her head. “I'm only seventeen, just.”

She isn't aware of her beauty, Marcy thought, delighted. Or of men!

“You said Brett owned the Miner's Girl,” Storm commented.

Marcy urged the bay forward, careful to avoid the other carriages and pedestrians. She shot a glance at Storm, who was innocently and openly curious. “Yes.”

“But—it doesn't seem right.”

“Why? Because Brett's such a gentleman?” Marcy laughed. “We all have to start somewhere, dear. Besides, Brett was only twenty-one when he bought a partnership in the saloon, mostly with gold dust although a few poker hands helped.”

“He's a gambler?”

“He's a saloon keeper, hotelier, restaurateur, and landowner—among other things.” Marcy glanced at Storm again. The girl was showing so much interest in Brett. She began to consider the possibility, but the match seemed an unlikely one. Brett was a rake, for one thing, and so polished. Besides, he liked beautiful, elegant women. No, she couldn't see them together. But…stranger things had happened.

“So he still owns the saloon?”

“No, he eventually bought out his partner, then sold out and bought the Golden Lady, which is one of the most
elegant saloons in the city. Brett would be upset if he heard me now!
The
most elegant,” she amended.

“He looks like a gambler,” Storm muttered. “Probably never did an honest day's work in his life.”

“That's not fair,” Marcy said sharply.

Storm looked away, but wouldn't retract what she had said.

Madame Lamotte's was located on the other side of town, just before the buildings of the financial district clustered along Market Street and Embarcadero. Marcy braked the team and climbed down gracefully; Storm lifted her skirts to her knees and leaped to the ground. Marcy stared, shocked.

A man boomed with laughter behind them.

Both women looked up to see Brett on a magnificent gray stallion, clearly a thoroughbred. “Ladies,” he said, still chuckling.

Storm flushed, realizing she had just made a mistake, but she hadn't thought about what she was doing. She had been jumping off horses and wagons all her life.

“Good afternoon, Brett,” Marcy said warmly. “Where are you off to?”

“The bank.” He grinned. “Where else?” His eyes went to Storm. The suit was awful, but nothing could detract from her startling looks. At the sight of the color in her cheeks, his grin widened. Then he noticed how her hair had turned different shades of dark and pale gold in the sunlight. She was still wearing it in that one thick braid down her back. “Doing a little shopping?” he asked.

“We are,” Marcy said firmly.

“Need any help?” Brett's gaze never wavered from Storm.

She couldn't look away from his warm, compelling eyes.

Marcy intruded. “Now, Brett, don't be such a tease.”

Brett touched the edge of his black Stetson with his
forefinger, his gaze again drifting to Storm. Then he turned and trotted away, sitting as if he'd been born in the saddle.

“Storm…” Marcy said, not sure how to begin.

“I didn't think,” Storm said, knowing instantly what she was talking about.

“Next time watch me. A lady moves gracefully, slowly and deliberately.”

Storm was utterly embarrassed that that gambler had seen her leap from the carriage. “Marcy, to tell you the truth—I don't give a damn about being a lady, and I don't want these clothes. I just want to go home to Texas.”

Marcy regarded her for a moment, then put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and they strolled toward the shop. “Well, you can either sulk for six months, or take advantage of a wonderful opportunity.”

Storm wasn't really listening. Madame Lamotte's was the largest dress shop she had ever seen. There were displays of ready-made dresses for sale. Several women were inspecting the various garments. And accessories—hats, gloves, shawls, slippers, bonnets, pins, lace trim, ribbons…Storm had never seen anything like them. A short, plump woman clad in a sky-blue muslin gown hurried over. “Madame Farlane. It's so wonderful to see you!”

“Madame Lamotte, I would like you to meet Paul Langdon's cousin, Storm Bragg. She'll be needing an entire wardrobe as soon as possible. But first we'll purchase a few dresses off the racks. I hope that if they need altering it can be done today?”

“
Certainement!
” The little lady was beaming, scanning Storm's figure with a rapid, practiced eye. “The mademoiselle is so tall. Everything off the racks will be too short.”

Marcy hadn't thought of that. Perturbed, she studied Storm, who flushed with annoyance at the hated description “tall.” “Don't worry,” Marcy said soothingly. “There must be something that can be let down.”

“Yes, yes, maybe one or two things. Come. Let's take your measurements.”

Storm found herself stripped to her chemise and pantalets, and measured all over. Marcy was babbling away, describing what she wanted for Storm. “With your vivid coloring, my dear,” Marcy said, “you must have bold, bright colors. No pastels!”

Storm listened, but she had no idea what they were talking about. She grew tired and sat down to wait as Marcy and Madame Lamotte looked at hundreds of silks, taffetas, muslins, and velvets, choosing fabrics, trims, and styles. Marcy always asked what Storm thought. She always said yes because she felt helpless and overwhelmed.

“We absolutely must have the royal-blue taffeta ball gown for two weeks from Friday,” Marcy announced. “And everything that goes with it.”

Madame Lamotte nodded. “Ah,
oui
. Mademoiselle will go to the Sinclairs' annual ball,
non?
”

“Yes,” Marcy said.

Storm was horrified. In five days she was going to a dinner party. In two weeks she was going to a ball? She did know how to dance, but she'd be damned if she would! She'd break her leg just trying to
walk
in those tiny high-heeled slippers.

“Can we have the cherry-pink silk by Friday morning?”

“For you, madame, of course,” Madame Lamotte said. Marcy knew the woman's fee would be close to double for having her girls work around the clock.

Storm was laced into a corset. She had never, ever worn stays. “I can't breathe,” she gasped.

“Although mademoiselle is tall, her waist is tiny—nineteen inches,” Madame Lamotte said.

“I'll faint in front of everyone,” Storm cried. A fine sheen of perspiration appeared on her brow.

“Storm, a lady wears a corset. But you'll get used to it. Loosen the stays, madame.”

Storm found herself in an emerald-green silk dress, pin-striped with rose and cream. She looked down at herself and saw her breasts, the same gold as the rest of her, for she had been swimming and bathing naked her entire life. Both Madame Lamotte and Marcy had been stunned at her all-over golden tan, and Marcy had been bold enough to ask about it. Storm had told her the truth innocently enough, noticing their scandalized looks.

“It's too low,” she said now, aghast.

“It's not low at all,” Marcy countered, glancing at the girl's stricken face. She frowned, considering the evening gowns she had ordered for Storm. The blue taffeta was low, but the girl would be incredibly stunning in it, and the ball was over two weeks away. Wouldn't that be enough time for her to adjust? “Perhaps, madame, to make Storm more comfortable, we can add a bit of cream lace at the bosom,” Marcy said.

They added lace there and at the flounced hem, then pronounced the gown a perfect fit. Madame Lamotte left momentarily. “You look beautiful, Storm,” Marcy said softly. “Look.” She turned her to face the mirror.

Storm stared, hardly recognizing herself as Marcy loosened her thick, gold-streaked hair and tied it away from her face with a pink ribbon. She saw a tall, startlingly unusual girl with golden skin, full breasts, and a breathless expression. She hated the stays and hoops, but she had to admit, somewhat grudgingly, that the gown was beautiful. Now that the lace had been added, and there was no sign of cleavage, she didn't feel so naked.

“Would you like to wear the gown home?” Marcy asked.

She did and she didn't. “I'll ruin it,” she said finally.

Marcy laughed but didn't force the issue.

 

He lowered his head and nuzzled the ample breasts. She moaned. Smiling, he flicked his tongue around one pointed nipple, again and again, until her hands were clenching his hair. Brett took the hard peak into his mouth and began to suck. She whimpered, trying to push his head down.

Brett trailed kisses down her soft, slightly rounded belly, then over the curling hair protecting her woman's mound. She gasped when his kisses descended, his tongue intimately probing pink, moist flesh. When she moaned, he raised himself up and plunged into her, thrusting smoothly. She moaned again in climax, and he followed.

A moment later he rolled away. He never spent the night with Audrey, his mistress, and was surprised that he had spent the night here, at Patricia Fowley's. But her note had been impossible to resist. Patricia Fowley was married to a wealthy, older real estate investor. On more than one occasion she had flirted outrageously with him, and he had known for a long time that, inevitably, they would become lovers. Her husband was out of town for the week. When she had invited him over for a late supper, he had come eagerly.

He sat up, stretching his lean, muscled body. Patricia was well-versed in the art of lovemaking, a passionate, demanding companion. She smiled at him. She was only twenty-two, with pale blond hair and blue eyes, and now, in the morning sunlight, he could study her fashionably curved body. Her skin was as white as milk, and without stays, she was somewhat heavier than he'd thought. “Good morning,” he murmured.

“Um,” she purred. “A delicious morning.”

Brett stood languidly.

“Don't go, Brett.”

“I'm afraid I have to,
chère
.”

“It's the crack of dawn.”

He laughed, stepping into his trousers. “Not quite.”
When he sat on the bed to pull on his gleaming black boots, she pressed her soft, lush breasts against his back.

“Stay,” she whispered. “I dismissed all the servants. No one will know.”

“You live too dangerously,” he said, momentarily sated and no longer sexually excited by her. “As much as I dislike your husband, I have no desire to be caught cuckolding the poor man.”

“Oh, bah! Steve is too old! What am I supposed to do?” She pouted prettily, perfectly.

Brett grinned. “You have a hand—use it.”

She gasped, shocked.

Brett laughed and slipped on his shirt. She had let him know last night that she was no stranger to such tactics.

“When will I see you again?”

“In a couple of days,” he replied, though he wasn't sure he was really interested. Yes, she had been good, but Audrey was better—less demanding, more giving. Besides, there were all kinds of classy whores in San Francisco, and Brett had never been one to stay long with the same woman. Even Audrey had been his mistress for only a few months.

Brett left shortly after, feeling invigorated despite the lack of sleep. It was early, not even seven o'clock, so he had time for his habitual gallop before going home and changing for the day.

He thought about Susie and her child with satisfaction. Judge Steiner had granted the divorce, and as Brett had guessed, Bill Hawkins had been more than happy to exchange his wife for a few hundred dollars. Yesterday Susie had sworn her eternal gratitude to Brett…and now she was happily back at work.

Brett galloped King along the beach and through the surf. The salt air felt good, fresh and clean against his face. He had gotten a loan from Paul's bank yesterday, money he would put up for his share in expanding the
shipping line. Paul had approved the loan instantly, saying, “I like your style, Brett.” Paul was the only one who knew how overextended he was, but Brett had always been a gambler.

It was a clear, crisp spring day. Squinting ahead, he realized a rider was approaching at a canter. He admired the big black stallion, then with a start realized the rider was Storm. Storm—alone. Instantly he was worried. Their gazes met, and he saw that she had recognized him, too.

“What happened?” he shouted, whirling his stallion around and cutting her off. Both horses pranced restlessly in place.