Firestorm (5 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Where in hell's your escort?” he heard himself demand with sudden anger.

Her chin jutted up. “I came alone.”

He couldn't believe it. “Alone?”

“Excuse me,” she flared, her eyes sparking, and urged her stallion past him.

He quickly maneuvered his own mount to cut her off again, reaching for her reins. She gasped and deftly sidestepped away. “How dare you!”

“What's wrong with you?” he shouted. “Foolish child! There's all kind of riffraff running around! Are you an idiot?”

Storm was incensed, as much by his manner as his words. Child? And who was he to tell her what to do? “Let me by!”

He was having trouble comprehending the scenario. She was breathtaking and might as well have been naked, sitting astride that huge, mean stallion, clad in skintight buckskins. Her face was flushed from exertion, and wisps of golden hair blew around her face. “Certainly,” he finally said, backing up his gray.

She moved determinedly past, then gasped when he turned to ride alongside her. “What are you doing?”

“Escorting you,” he said, regaining some control. “I
know
Paul didn't approve your riding alone.”

“I don't want your escort or your company,” she flashed. “I can take care of myself!”

He gave her a contemptuous look.

Storm decided she hated him. “I can shoot better and ride faster than any man!”

He noted grimly that she had a six-shooter strapped to her thigh. “That's quite an accomplishment for a young lady,” he drawled sarcastically. “Maybe it should be added to the repertoire of all young ladies' training.”

She flushed. “I can certainly defend myself better than some dandified city-slicker gambler!”

Brett tensed, and Storm whirled her stallion in the other direction. “Goodbye, Mr. D'Archand. I'm going home, so there's no need for you to further ruin my day.”

Brett turned his own mount and continued to ride silently alongside her. He would escort her to her door
and
deliver her into Paul's hands. The girl had no common sense. None at all.

But he found himself staring at her perfect form, so ripe for lovemaking, and her arresting profile. Desire washed over him, and he fought it. He had always been a lusty man, and proud of it, but this time his lust was misplaced.

She glared at him. “It's rude to stare.”

“Forgive me.”

She looked quickly at him to see if he was mocking her, but his expression told her nothing. She urged the black into a canter.

Brett had to admire her seat. She rode with consummate grace, as if she and the horse were one. He wasn't even shocked that she rode astride, for he had imagined she would when he had first seen her clad in men's buckskins. Now, however, he had an image of her astride something else. Him.

“You ride very well,” he said hoarsely.

“So do you.”

He grinned then. “Tell me, Storm, do you have a beau back in Texas?” He was sure she didn't. The girl was flustered every time he looked at her. Clearly she didn't know how to flirt.

She glanced warily at him. “No.”

He was pleased, although he refused to recognize why that should be. “Why?”

“I'm only seventeen.”

He chuckled. “That's old enough.”

When he began laughing at her, Storm lashed out. “Lennie Willis tried to kiss me, but I blackened his eye,” she said with hard satisfaction.

Brett's smile widened. He could vividly imagine the scene, some young bumpkin trying to steal a kiss from the wild, buckskin-clad girl, her fist flying. He laughed again. Storm glared, flushing.

He decided to change the topic. “How was shopping yesterday? Did you find some pretty things?”

“I have no use for ‘pretty things,' Mr. D'Archand. I'm a Texas woman who lives and works on a ranch. As far as I'm concerned, this life is for people like you, not for me.”

He frowned. He had only been trying to make pleasant conversation, but it seemed she wanted to fight. “You haven't even given San Francisco a chance.”

“That's right,” she said as they turned off the beach.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, and when they reached the gates of the Langdon residence, Storm turned a flashing blue glance at him. “Goodbye, Mr. D'Archand.”

“Brett,” he said easily. “And I intend to escort you to your front door.” He had already decided not to confront Paul now, in front of her, for his temper at her foolishness had cooled. He would stop by the bank in town later and have a private word with her guardian. After all, Paul must
be informed of his cousin's riding off alone. It was just too dangerous.

They reached the stables to the left of the house. Ever the gentleman, Brett swung down as Storm did. She ignored him, handing her reins to the groom who had hurried over. Brett caught her arm before she could move away. “Until Friday,” he said, holding her hand and staring into her eyes.

Then he was gone, swinging effortlessly into the saddle and cantering away without a backward glance.

Despite herself, Storm gazed after him.

On Friday morning Storm woke up sick with dread. She refused to get out of bed, and soon Paul had sent for the physician. She was flushed with anxiety—tonight was the dinner party in her honor. She intended to stay in bed all day, pretending to have the flu so no one would make her go.

Dr. Winslow arrived just before noon, as did Marcy. “What's wrong?” she cried, genuinely worried, rushing to Storm's bedside before Dr. Winslow could enter.

Storm felt ashamed. Over the past few days she had been squired around town by Marcy, and she had quickly realized that the older woman was unaffectedly warm and friendly, with nothing but kind intentions. Storm liked her, grudgingly. Just as she liked San Francisco, grudgingly. Now she saw Marcy's white, worried face, felt a hand on her forehead, and was at once guilty. Worse, she knew her father would be ashamed of her for acting this way.

“You might have a slight fever,” Marcy cried, agitated.

“Please, Marcy, let me decide that,” said the man standing in the doorway. He stepped inside carrying a battered doctor's bag.

“I feel much better,” Storm said, sitting up. “I'm fine, really.” Marcy had gone to so much trouble for this dinner party. Storm couldn't lie to her.

Dr. Winslow pronounced Storm healthy and strong—
stronger than most women, in fact—and he soon left, escorted by Paul. Marcy sat down on the bed next to Storm, who couldn't meet her gaze. Marcy held her hand.

“I think I understand,” she said slowly, in a soft voice.

“No,” Storm protested. “I did feel ill this morning, but it was probably something I ate last night. I feel fine now.”

“Were you trying to avoid coming to dinner tonight?” Marcy's direct question took Storm by surprise, and she flushed guiltily. Marcy's gaze was knowing. “Everyone will love you, dear,” she said. “You're a vibrant, beautiful girl.”

Storm bit her lip. She couldn't lie. “I'm sorry. I—I couldn't go through with it, not after you've been so kind to me.”

“Randolph would be so disappointed.”

“What?” Storm was ridiculously pleased. Randolph had taken her riding two days ago, and, because Marcy had made her aware of him, she had noticed that his gaze was openly admiring. In her new riding habit, which, upon her insistence, had a split skirt, Storm had felt very attractive. She knew now that Marcy had been right. Randolph thought she was pretty, and the idea produced a heady sensation. She felt wonderfully feminine, even powerful.

“He's been raving about you ever since he first laid eyes on you,” Marcy said with a smile.

Storm smiled, too.

“It will be a wonderful evening, you'll see. I'll send Marie over to help you dress and do your hair.” She rose, her gaze warm and compassionate.

Storm watched her leave. Although she was still nervous, she felt relieved to be attending the dinner party after all. Marcy had been kind, and she didn't want to hurt her. Nor could she shame herself or her family—even though they wouldn't know—by pulling such a poor prank.

Marie arrived in midafternoon. Storm bathed in scented
water, then rubbed the lotion Marcy had given her all over her body. It smelled of roses, like the bathwater. She especially massaged the lotion into her chapped hands. Remembering how Brett had kissed her knuckles, a flood of color filled her cheeks. Marcy's hands were lily white and as soft as down. What had Brett thought when he'd touched Storm's callused palm? Even then she had been aware that something was wrong, that she didn't have a lady's hands.

But, dammit, I'm a Texan, and I work a ranch!

She knew Brett was going to be there tonight.

Thinking of him brought all kinds of careening emotions to the surface. For one, she was furious with him. The night after he had come across her riding alone on the beach, she had been lectured by Paul and restricted to riding with Bart, Paul, or another male companion. Ridiculous! She could take care of herself—she'd been doing it for years. She was used to riding free, like an Apache on the desert, not with a chaperone to slow her down. The new restriction was all Brett's fault, and she would have a few choice words to say to him when she saw him. He had no right to go ratting on her behind her back.

Besides, she still hadn't forgiven him for calling her a child.

Marie began helping Storm to dress. First came a sheer, lacy chemise, cut so low that Storm's nipples almost burst free. Never had she seen such a fine garment. Then came silk stockings and pink garters with black rosettes. Lacy, filmy drawers and the hated corset followed.

Storm hadn't worn one since she had been fitted by Madame Lamotte. Now, when Marie held up the frilly, frothy, beribboned contraption, Storm scowled. “No.”

“Oh, yes, you must.”

“No!”

“Mademoiselle, it is scandal not to wear one. You must. Madame Marcy says so.” Despite her small size and soft
voice, the French maid was immovable. Storm found herself being cinched up. She groaned. “It's too tight!”

“It is not tight at all,” Marie said firmly.

“I can't breathe!” She couldn't. Of course, it might have been due to the dread growing in her.

Marie gave one more tug, making Storm grunt in a very unladylike manner, and began to tie the stays. Storm tried to breathe. She found she could—barely.

“Now hoops,” Marie said.

Storm was frowning at herself in the mirror. The corset had pushed her full breasts up and out, making her look more bovine than human. “I can't wear this,” she said huskily.

A petticoat was plunked over her head, then tied at her waist. Four more frothy ones followed. The last was black, edged with lace and black diamantes. Finally came the cherry-pink dress.

When Marie had finally finished, right down to dabbing a rose-based scent on Storm's wrists, behind her ears, and in her cleavage, Storm stared at herself in horror and dismay. She didn't recognize the person in the mirror. She seemed…elegant…different…a
woman
.

She didn't like the dress. Half her breasts were exposed. “This is too low,” she declared. “I refuse to wear it.”

“It is not low at all,” Marie responded. “You could show a lot more, and you should. Your body is
magnifique, ma petite
. You should show it off, not hide it.”

“I don't want to show it off,” Storm said, flushing. At least her hair had been left alone. Marie had merely pulled its thick, wavy length behind her ears and secured it with a black satin headband encrusted with seed pearls. The headband pinched. Her head began to throb. Even the tiny diamond ear studs that had been her mother's hurt her ears.

“
Magnifique
,” Marie declared.

Storm took a few practice steps around the room. Her
feet immediately began to hurt around the toes. The shoes must be too narrow. What she wouldn't give to wear her worn cowboy boots. She smiled at the thought of entering Marcy's salon wearing dirty brown boots. There was a knock on the door, and Paul entered.

“Storm, you look magnificent!” he cried, his eyes bright with pride.

Storm knew he meant what he said, and she took another look at herself in the mirror. “My face isn't heart-shaped,” she said doubtfully. “Look how wide my jaw is.”

Paul smiled. “You are not conventionally beautiful, no, but you are striking. I can't think of another woman who even touches your beauty, Storm.”

She wondered if he was just flattering her, but then she saw that he was serious. “Thank you.”

He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Storm took it, but as they left the thickly carpeted room, she stumbled. She prayed it wasn't a foreshadowing of the evening to come.

 

“So I begged Papa, and he promised, and isn't that just wonderful?”

Brett smiled at the beautiful brunette chatting merrily. “That's wonderful, Leanne, and I'm thrilled for you.”

She clasped his arm. Her flawless oval face, with ivory skin, red lips, and sky-blue eyes, was wreathed in a smile. “Then you'll have to escort me through the park, Brett.”

“Indeed, I will,” he said, glancing once again at her small breasts, almost completely revealed by the pastel blue silk gown she wore. As she pressed his arm even closer to her side, her bosom swelled, and for the barest moment he thought he could see the faint pink edge of her aureoles.

Although her chatter was inane and aimless, Leanne St. Clair was perfect marriage material. She was beautiful and
elegant. Her mother could trace her antecedents back to the English aristocracy, and her father was the grandson of a French duke beheaded during the days of the French Revolution. This was not the first time Brett had escorted Leanne, nor would it be the last. He had yet to kiss her, though. That would be too much of a declaration of matrimonial intentions, which he did not quite have.

Marcy had twenty guests, not including the guest of honor and her cousin, who had yet to arrive—purposely, Brett was sure. Everyone knew everyone, sharing each other's social circles. There were four other well-bred young ladies, two escorted by reputable bachelors, two accompanied by their parents. Marcy had, of course, included several eligible young men, most of them unescorted. The genders were balanced by the addition of two widows. Most, but not all, of the married couples were young, in their thirties.

The grand salon was large and elegantly furnished; huge double doors opened onto a spacious, marble-floored foyer. As Leanne chatted, Brett found himself glancing at the doorway. He was soon rewarded. Paul Langdon appeared with a ravishing woman at his side, and Marcy squealed with delight as she swept forward to greet them.

It took Brett a split instant to recognize the stunning woman as Storm. His body grew tense as he stood in the sudden silence of the salon and stared at the tall, willowy woman in the modestly cut pink gown. She was magnificent. Leanne pressed closer to him, seeking to gain his attention, but he ignored her.

“Storm, darling, you look beautiful!” Marcy cried.

Storm was already flushed. As her anxiety increased, so had her pulse and her temperature, and she was having a bit of trouble breathing. Damn the stays anyway! She was afraid she was going to trip again, and everyone in the room was staring at her as if she were some tall freak. Worst of all, the first person she had seen when she walked
in was that nosy bastard D'Archand, and he was looking at her as if he could see right through her clothes. She couldn't speak.

“Come, dear, let me introduce you around,” said Marcy.

Storm stole a glance at Brett, and for the first time noticed the exquisite,
short
brunette clinging to him. She felt irritated without knowing why. Her gaze drifted away, then back to Brett, and she froze when their glances met. He smiled slightly, with the faintest hint of amusement, as if he guessed her innermost thoughts, and offered a slight bow. Storm looked away.

“She's so tall,” Leanne muttered with a toss of her blue-black head that made the diamonds woven into her hair glint and sparkle. “She's as tall as most men.”

Brett ignored her. He had been pierced with desire when their gazes met, the reason for his self-derisive expression. He managed to tear his glance away from Storm when he realized how rude he was being. “Some punch, sweet?” he asked Leanne, wondering, fascinated, why the tops of Storm's breasts were the same golden color as her neck, arms, and face. Just where did her unusual tan end? Would her breasts be white beneath the neck of the gown?

Randolph came forward with open admiration and enthusiasm. “Storm, I've been looking forward to this day forever it seems!” He took her hand and kissed it.

Storm blushed. “Me, too,” she said—a polite, harmless lie. Marcy shot her an amused glance.

“Really?” Randolph asked hopefully. “I hope that just a little of your eagerness was due to a desire to see me?”

Storm laughed, a rich, warm sound that carried throughout the room. “You know it was.”

Randolph raised her hand and kissed it again. “Maybe later we can take a turn in the garden.”

“I would love to,” Storm said.

Brett, who had moved closer and was standing behind
her, scowled. She was flirting with Randolph, and he didn't like it—not one bit. Then, before he could get a word in, she was surrounded by the five other bachelors present, all eager to meet her. Marcy began making the introductions, and Storm swept off with them, amid much laughter and gallantry.

Marcy noticed Brett's dark expression and took her husband's arm as he came to stand beside them. “I guess the rest of the introductions will have to wait,” she said.

“Your protegée is already a big success, darling,” Grant said, kissing her cheek gently.

Marcy glowed.

“Has Randolph called on her?” Brett almost growled. Leanne was still clinging to his arm. He knew he was being rude to her, but with Storm in the room he couldn't seem to give Leanne his full attention.

“He's taken her riding,” Grant replied. “He thinks she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.”

“Brett, let's dance,” Leanne said quickly, producing a winning smile. Brett nodded without a word and took her onto the dance floor for a graceful waltz.

“Lord, I hate seeing Brett with that vain twit,” Grant said.

“Grant, be generous. It's not Leanne's fault. She can't help being the way she is. I would be that way, too, if I had two parents like hers. Oh, Storm is dancing!”

“You would never be that way,” Grant muttered, kissing her again, this time not quite so chastely.

Storm could barely think. She could barely breathe. She had only accepted this dance with the auburn-haired man because she had to get away from such a large group of men. Now she was sorry. Her feet hurt, throbbing painfully. She could keep her balance well enough for walking, but dancing didn't come naturally to her—at least, not this kind of dancing. Give her a rowdy, foot-stomping Texas tune any day! Her headband still pinched, and her stays
were constricting and uncomfortable. She couldn't even remember her partner's name.