Firestorm (6 page)

When she stepped on his foot, she wanted to die. “I'm sorry!”

“It's all right,” he said.

“Please,” Storm said desperately as she missed another step, “could we stop?”

“Certainly,” he said, though not before she trod on his foot again.

Storm walked resolutely away, her face flushed with embarrassment. She would not dance again. She veered away from the group of young men, who had dispersed somewhat with her absence but were now awaiting her arrival like hounds straining at the leash. Instead she headed for Paul, who was talking to an older couple.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Storm?” he asked.

“Yes,” she lied, trying to forget how clumsy she had been on the dance floor. She saw Brett strolling toward them—toward her, she knew with sure instinct. Although he seemed relaxed and casual, she could sense the determination in his tall, muscular form. Panic and anger surged up in her.

“Storm,” he said, reaching for her hand, covered with short black gloves. “How enchanting you look tonight.” He kissed her knuckles, and his touch seemed to sear through the fabric of the gloves. She regarded him venomously and yanked her hand away. He looked taken aback.

“Thank you,” she said glacially, her eyes a cold blue fire.

“Are you displeased with me?” he asked coolly.

She raised her brows, not realizing how imperious the gesture was.

“Of course not,” Paul said, clapping Brett's shoulder. “How are you, Brett? I see you've brought Leanne tonight.”

Immediately Storm strode away, not caring if she was being unforgivably rude, refusing even to be near the man who had caused Paul to forbid her to ride alone. But taking such long strides was a mistake. A delicate heel slipped, and she would have fallen if Grant Farlane didn't reach out and grab her. “Damn!”
Another mistake
.

“It's all right,” Grant said kindly.

Her face was red. She glanced around and saw that half the people in the room had seen the mishap, including Brett. “I hate these da—these shoes,” she muttered.

Grant grinned. “I myself don't know how you ladies do it,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling.

She relaxed. “This is just so different for me.”

“You're doing fine,” he soothed. “And you've got a bevy of admirers. Leanne St. Claire is green with envy because even she can't compete with your beauty.”

Storm didn't understand why everyone kept telling her she was beautiful. Just then a servant announced dinner, and Grant offered her his arm. She took it, thinking that Marcy was very lucky to have him for a husband.

Fortunately, dinner went better than the earlier part of the evening. Sitting down gave Storm's feet a chance to rest, although they didn't stop throbbing. She tried to slip off her shoes under the table, then decided against it—she would never get them back on. As the guest of honor, she was seated on Grant's left, with Randolph on her other side. Unfortunately, Leanne and Brett were directly across from her. Storm ignored Brett, although he kept staring at her—quite rudely, she thought. And not just at her face, but at her overly exposed breasts. She had known the gown was too low.

When Brett spoke to her, she had no choice but to respond, although there was no mistaking her coolness. He finally gave up.

After a seven-course meal, the guests returned to the salon for more dancing. Marcy routinely waived the cus
tom of having the men retire separately from the women, and Grant always supported her decision. Randolph went off to fetch Storm a glass of water, and for the first time that evening she found herself alone. It was a blessed relief.

She was emotionally exhausted, with throbbing feet and the beginning of a grand headache. Having eaten too much, and barely able to stand the corset, she was in great physical discomfort. She had drunk a glass of wine with dinner, and now she began to feel lonely, homesick, and sorry for herself. She moved to the velvet-draped French doors and stared blindly out at the night.

“Somehow I don't get the feeling you've enjoyed yourself this evening,” Brett said.

She turned, blinking back the moisture in her eyes. “Go away.”

“Why are you angry with me? Because of that little incident on the beach? If so, I apologize.” His dark eyes were blazing.

“You bastard! You ran and told Paul about it! How dare you interfere! Now I can't ride alone. You've ruined the only pleasure I have in this damn town.”

He was visibly shocked at her rage and bad language, and then a tense, rigid mask slipped over his face. “It was for your own good,” he said, exercising great restraint. “Better you ride with others than ride alone and get hurt.”

“I can take care of myself. Just go away.” Tears welled up in her eyes. She turned her back on him, and moments later, heard him stride away. She felt relief—and disappointment.

“Storm?” It was Randolph.

She wiped her eyes with a knuckle, not turning to him because she didn't want anyone to see she was crying.

But he saw. “What's wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

“Could we take that walk now?”

He set down the glass of water, took her arm, and led her outside through the French doors, ignoring the shocked stares that followed them. Outside, the night was cool, and she immediately shivered.

“You need your cloak,” Randolph said. “I'll get it.”

“No, it's wonderful,” she said, taking in deep breaths of the night air. She started to breathe more easily.

He led her down the steps into the garden, where the wonderful fragrance of honeysuckle assailed them. “Do we have to walk?” Storm said. “I hate to say this but my feet are killing me.”

“You should have told me,” he said, instantly stopping. They stood and looked up at the crescent moon. Storm shivered again, and Randolph put his arm around her shoulders. She tensed. He was immensely disappointed. He wanted to kiss her, but he knew with certainty that she wouldn't be receptive. Instead, he settled for just having her near him. “Tell me why you're upset,” he said softly.

“I'm not upset anymore.”

At the sound of soft voices behind them they both turned. From the shadows emerged the dark form of a couple, then, as they moved into the lights cast by the house, Brett and Leanne became distinguishable. Brett stared at them, not smiling but apparently not surprised to see them.

“Fancy meeting you here, Randy,” he said, his eyes on Storm.

Storm didn't like the way he was looking at her. She was suddenly aware of how close she was standing to Randolph, and that he had one arm draped casually over her shoulders. She had the insane feeling that Brett had followed them out here. For a long moment Brett and Randolph stared hard at each other, like two stallions ready to do battle.

Storm sighed and moved away from Randolph, limping
to the stone bench and sinking down on it. She moaned and began to unlace her shoes.

“Storm,” Randolph said, moving to her, “let me do that.”

“I can't stand it another minute,” she cried, letting him kneel before her and pull off one shoe. “Oh!”

He rubbed her foot between two large hands. “Better?”

Tears came to her eyes. “I don't think I'll ever walk again.” They both suddenly smiled, and as Randolph removed the other shoe, Storm looked up to see Brett and Leanne staring at them. Brett looked furious, Leanne incredulous. Her heart began to pound.

“Brett, I think they want to be alone,” Leanne said suggestively, holding on to his arm.

“Probably so, but it wouldn't do to allow Storm to ruin her reputation—not at this early stage,” Brett drawled.

Storm gasped. “What?”

Randolph was instantly on his feet. “Brett! You know me better than that. If you weren't such a good friend, I'd knock you down right now!”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Brett said smoothly, sarcastically. “You came out here for the air—not for the lady's kisses?”

“That's right,” Randolph said between gritted teeth.

“Let's go, Brett,” Leanne said. “It's not your place to interfere.”

“Put on your shoes, Storm,” Brett ordered harshly. He didn't dare analyze why he was raging with anger. “You're going inside.”

She was stunned, then furious, and stood abruptly. “How dare you order me around!”

Leanne gasped.

Brett smiled. “Put on your shoes,” he said in a softer tone. “We'll all go in together.” Damned if he'd leave her out here alone with Randolph.

“He's right,” Randolph said. “We've been out here too long. At any second, Marcy will come running.”

But Storm was furious. “No, Randolph. I refuse to be ordered around. He went behind my back and spoke to Paul and ruined my riding, and now he turns up here telling me what to do? No!” She was shouting, the effort making her breathless and dizzy.

Brett reached out and grabbed her arm. “Your shoes can always be put on for you, Storm. I would be most delighted to do so.”

“Brett!” Leanne and Randolph protested at once.

“Get your hands off me!” Storm cried.

“Put on your shoes.”

She slapped him as hard as she could.

The crack was loud in the silence of the night.

Brett hadn't released her arm. He stared at her, momentarily stunned, then pulled her into a close embrace, with a fierce grip on both her arms, pressing her against his own hard body. He began to throb against her. Her face had become pale as she stared back at him, and he had the insane desire to kiss her, brutally, until she begged for more.

“I can't…breathe…” she whispered, a strangled sound. And then, suddenly, she went limp in his arms.

“My God!” Randolph cried. “What have you done?”

“She's fainted,” Brett said with forced evenness. He swung her into his arms and strode purposefully toward the house, bypassing the doors leading to the salon, heading instead toward Grant's library. Only one light was burning, and the doors were unlocked. Randolph reached ahead to open them, and Brett entered, setting his burden carefully on the sofa. “Damn stays,” he said angrily, and with nimble dexterity, he unhooked the back of her gown and loosened her stays.

“Damn you, Brett,” Randolph exclaimed.

Brett was kneeling at Storm's side, lightly stroking her pale face. “She doesn't need stays,” he said. Then, with an awful premonition, he asked, “Where's Leanne?”

“I don't know. I'll go get Marcy and some smelling salts.”

But before he hurried away, the door burst open, and Marcy, Grant, and Paul rushed in. “Good God, what happened?” Marcy cried.

“What the hell happened?” Paul roared, taking in his cousin's disheveled appearance—shoeless feet, unfastened gown.

“She fainted,” Brett said calmly.

“Leanne said she was in the garden with her clothes undone, and now she's fainted,” Paul said furiously. “Who's the culprit? I'll kill him!”

“Relax,” Grant said. “Let Brett explain.”

“She took off her shoes, Paul, because her feet were hurting her,” he said dryly. “I don't think she realized how inappropriate it was.
I
loosened her stays
after
she fainted.”

“She's not used to corsets,” Marcy said worriedly, stroking her hair. “Grant, go put a stop to Leanne's vicious gossiping.”

Grant nodded and left just as Randolph returned with the salts. Storm moaned. Brett, still kneeling, reached out without thinking to stroke her face. Her skin was incredibly smooth. Marcy was instantly there, shouldering him aside and flashing a warning look. “Fetch me a brandy, Brett,” she ordered.

Brett rose reluctantly. He had trouble taking his eyes off the beautiful girl. Paul Langdon shoved past him, and he faded into the background. Shortly thereafter, Storm and Paul left for the evening without once returning to the salon.

Sunlight poked through the flowery chintz curtains of Storm's bedroom window and woke her. Instantly, she remembered the fiasco of the night before and wanted to die from humiliation. Even lying there in bed, her face began to burn. Oh, God. How could she have fainted?

I will never, ever wear stays again, she promised herself, turning onto her stomach and burying her face in her pillow. What had everyone thought? What had Brett thought?

It was his fault, anyway! She had lost her breath fighting with him. Damn him for interfering once again. What an arrogant dandy, she thought angrily, throwing his weight around when he should be minding his own business.

There was no point lying in bed. Storm was dying to gallop Demon across the beach until she had put San Francisco and everyone in it far, far behind her. But she had overslept, and she not only didn't want Bart's boring, silent company, but also dreaded the thought of running into someone from last night's party. But how long could she hide?

She dressed in her buckskins. To hell with all the fancy clothes. They didn't suit her, it was all too clear. She braided her hair and went downstairs, ignoring the silent disapproval of Bart and the serving girl. At least food was something she could still enjoy. She ate three eggs, a small
steak, fresh bread, and fried potatoes, and topped all that off with a piece of melon. Afterward she felt pleasantly full.

“Mrs. Farlane is here to see you, ma'am,” Bart said from the doorway.

“Oh, no need for formality,” Marcy cried, stepping past him into the dining room. She looked surprised at Storm's garb, but smiled and kissed her cheek warmly. “Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?”

Looking at her, Storm suddenly wanted to cry. “Not really,” she murmured.

Marcy sat down next to her and covered Storm's hand with her own. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine—physically, anyway.”

Sapphire-blue eyes met sky-blue ones. “A little faint means absolutely nothing. You're not the first woman to faint, and you won't be the last.”

Storm felt moisture welling up in her eyes. “I never want to see any of those people again. Never!”

“Storm…”

“No. They all know I'm just some…some country bumpkin. I stepped on that man's foot twice when we danced, I practically fell on my face and half the people in the room saw it, and I hate those shoes. And then I had to faint. And it wasn't even my fault! It was that Brett D'Archand's fault!”

Marcy raised a brow. “Storm, last night you were beautiful, and every man there thought so. Randolph is infatuated with you, and so, I think, are half a dozen others. If you aren't good at dancing, then you'll just have to take some lessons. And
I
certainly didn't see you trip. As for fainting…well, it's considered very feminine.”

Storm grimaced. “But I'm not feminine. I ride and shoot and hunt and track better than most men—Pa says so. I'm tall and gawky, and my feet are too large. My hands are red and chapped and
callused
, and I feel like a
freak in all those beautiful gowns. I wish I could go home.” She swatted angrily at a tear that dared to creep from one eye.

“You're very feminine, Storm, and very beautiful, and I wish you could see yourself the way others do. Your height is striking, and you're one of the most graceful women I've ever seen. You just need to relax, and maybe get used to wearing gowns and shoes.”

“This is all so silly,” Storm said, sniffing. “In six months I'm going home. Do you know what I do at home, Marcy? I work the range with the boys. I hunt with my brothers and Pa. I can whip up the best meal on the trail you've ever seen. If my buckskins rip, I can sew them up with a piece of sinew.” Storm put her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands.

“What do you do when you fall off a horse, Storm?” Marcy asked gently.

Storm looked up. “Get back on, of course.”

Marcy just looked at her.

Storm realized the significance of what she had said. She frowned. “I do want to make my family proud of me, I really do,” she said passionately. “It's just…so hard!”

“I'm going to take you to lunch, Storm. Come on. I'll help you change.”

But the thought of appearing in public made Storm feel sick. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Storm…”

The one thing she wasn't was a coward. She could imagine her pa being there. He would be so disappointed if he knew she was hiding in Paul's big house, afraid to see anyone. “All right,” she said. “But no stays, Marcy.”

 

Some time later they were settled in Marcy's beautiful black barouche. Storm was wearing a cream-colored muslin gown striped in pink with a matching hat set at a jaunty angle on her head. Her hair was pinned away from her
face and left to wave loosely down her back. Her gloves were crocheted, as was her reticule. The shoes that matched the gown were much more comfortable than the ones she'd worn the night before, with a low heel, and Marcy had thrown out the culprits responsible for her aching feet last night. In truth, as the carriage rolled down California Street and men turned to stare, Storm felt pleased, even elegant.

“What exactly happened last night?” Marcy asked.

Storm didn't mind telling her. “Randolph and I were walking in the garden. Then Brett and Leanne appeared, and Brett insinuated that he was protecting my reputation. He has some nerve! My feet were killing me, and Randolph helped me take off my shoes. Brett became completely unreasonable and insisted I put them back on and go inside. He grabbed me, and that's when I lost my breath and fainted.”

“That's so strange,” Marcy said. “If you had gone outside with almost anyone else, I could understand Brett's concern, but Randolph is a gentleman and Brett's friend.”

“Brett D'Archand needs a lesson in manners,” Storm said vehemently.

“Dear, I don't know if you're aware of it, but just be careful when you walk alone with a man. Not all of them have good intentions when they escort a lady into a moonlit garden.”

“What do you mean?” Storm asked.

“Well, they'll try and kiss you, of course.”

Storm laughed. “Let them try! I'll gladly blacken another eye!”

Marcy smiled. “I guess I don't have to worry about you. Actually, there are other less violent ways of dissuading an amorous gentleman.”

“Such as?”

“A firm no.”

Storm smiled.

“And, Storm, Brett is a gentleman, and a nice man.”

She gave an unladylike snort. “And I'm a dainty lady! Hah!”

Marcy decided not to tell her charge that they were having lunch at Brett's hotel. She couldn't help wondering why Brett had acted so strangely last night. Could it be that he had been jealous when Storm and Randolph had disappeared into the garden? Marcy had seen them go from across the room, and she'd seen Brett and Leanne trailing almost in their wake—as if Brett were deliberately following Storm. But that was silly.

Brett's hotel was an elegant Victorian brick building on the corner of Stockton Street. It was surrounded by shops, eateries, an ice cream parlor—and two blocks down, the Golden Lady. The lobby boasted plush gold Turkish carpets, crystal chandeliers, couches in striped silk, and velvet draperies in white and gold. Huge windows let in lots of sunlight, and the high ceiling was glass-domed. The lobby was an atrium, surrounded on all four sides by the guest rooms, starting on the second floor. The design was original and impressive. Marcy could see that Storm was awed.

The dining room was as elegant as the lobby, also decorated in gold and white, the walls upholstered in a heavy gold fabric showing the Tree of Life in corals, greens, and blues. Starched white linen covered the tables, and crystal glasses gleamed. Marcy smiled at Storm's wide-eyed expression.

Two matrons and another party of three men stood in front of them waiting for the host to seat them. The men were discussing a business venture involving China. Suddenly Marcy heard her last name. One of the matrons, whom Marcy knew slightly, had said, “…at the Farlanes' last night.” Marcy's ears perked up.

“She was
outside
—with
two gentlemen?
” demanded Mrs. Butterfield.

“Without her shoes on. And then she fainted,” said Mrs. Chase knowingly.

“Which one kissed her?”

“I don't know. But to go out alone with two men—I wonder if we've even heard the whole story.”

“You don't think…What do you think?”

“If she had her shoes off, maybe she had her hose off, too.”

Marcy was shocked into momentary speechlessness, and then the host was leading the two gossips to their table. Marcy glanced at Storm, but she was so involved in her rapt perusal of the appointments that she appeared not to have heard a word of what was said. Marcy was furious. She should have known that malicious little Leanne would start spreading rumors as fast as she could. With her mother's help, of course. Marcy intended to pay a visit to Mrs. Chase later that afternoon and tear her apart.
And
set the record straight.

“I've never, ever dreamed a place could look like this,” Storm whispered.

Marcy tried to calm down. She didn't want Storm to think anything was wrong. “It's one of San Francisco's most elegant establishments. I thought you'd enjoy it.”

Storm smiled. “I just can't believe it.”

They were soon seated at a round table for four by a window overlooking the street. Storm spent a good deal of time studying the menu, apparently fascinated. Marcy leaned forward. “Do you need any help with that?” she asked, then looked up to see Brett approaching.

“I just can't decide,” Storm said, flashing a smile. “Everything sounds so good.”

“Maybe I can help,” Brett said.

Storm gasped and looked up to see him standing there, his eyes warm, a soft expression on his face. She was momentarily flustered.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, glancing briefly at
Marcy before turning his gaze back to Storm. “You both look ravishing today.”

Marcy smiled. She knew the compliment wasn't for her.

“May I?” Brett asked, pulling out a chair between them.

“Please,” Marcy said.

Storm stiffened.

“What are you in the mood for, Storm?” Brett asked, his eyes never leaving her face. “Although, as boastful as it may sound, everything on the menu is good.”

“I don't know,” Storm managed, taken aback by his pleasantness and the way he was looking at her. She wanted to ignore him, or better yet, tell him off, but she knew that would be unbearably rude to Marcy, who was good friends with Brett.

“Try the salmon. Have you ever had salmon? It's a freshwater fish we ship down from up north. It's quite good.”

“I'll have the pheasant,” Storm said, folding her menu and looking out the window.

“Storm!” Marcy exclaimed, not able to believe the girl could be so rude.

Brett's face closed with a rush of anger. For a moment he didn't speak. “I would like to offer my sincere apologies for anything I might have done to offend you last night,” he said.

Storm glanced at him and nodded. She saw his anger deepening. She looked at Marcy and realized that she was stunned and upset with her. She managed a weak smile. “Thank you. Your apology is accepted.” She looked out the window again, not wanting Marcy to know she had just lied. She was too angry to accept his apology.

“Thank you,” Brett said, his tone cool. “Perhaps, then, we can start over?”

She was forced to look at him. His face was hard and stiff. “Of course.”

“Good. How about a ride tomorrow? I'll call for you at two in the afternoon.”

Storm gaped. “But…”

“That's a fine idea, Brett,” Marcy interjected. “You and Storm should get over whatever differences are between you. And two o'clock will be fine. That will give Storm a chance to entertain her morning callers.” Marcy flashed him a smile.

“Good. That's settled then,” Brett said, standing. “Enjoy your lunch, ladies.”

Storm watched his tall, broad-shouldered yet elegant figure as he made his way out of the dining room. She turned to Marcy. “I don't want to go riding with him. And what morning callers?”

“But you love riding. And let him think you already have callers—besides, you probably will.” Marcy's tone became reproving. “No matter what, Storm, a lady is never rude. Your behavior just now was uncalled for.”

A guilty flush washed over Storm. She liked Marcy. She wanted her friendship and approval. “I'm sorry,” she said as contritely as she could.

“And it won't hurt you to go riding with Brett,” Marcy declared. “You may even have a good time.”

“I doubt it,” Storm said before she could stop herself. Seeing Marcy's expression, she added, “But I'll try.”

A few minutes later, after they had ordered, their waiter returned to the table with a bottle of French champagne. “We didn't order champagne,” Marcy said.

“Compliments of the house, madame.” The waiter popped the cork and poured two glasses.

“I don't understand,” Storm said.

“The house is the establishment,” Marcy told her.

“But why would they send you champagne?”

“I do believe it was for you,” Marcy said evenly. “Brett owns the hotel.”

Storm gaped.

 

For some reason Storm couldn't sleep that night.

The next morning she felt keyed up, restless, with a tingling anticipation. She kept thinking about Brett. Dandified though he was, she had to admit he was handsome. Of course, she was irritated beyond all end that he had taken advantage of the situation yesterday and gotten permission to take her riding. If Marcy hadn't been there. Storm would have told him exactly what she thought of his high and mighty ways.

She did have two callers that morning, Randolph and another gentleman whose name she immediately forgot. Marcy had told her what to do if she had callers—she entertained them in the parlor if it was before noon and had refreshments served. Storm was nervous, having no idea what to talk about, but Randolph saved the day. They wound up talking about horses, then Texas. Storm found herself telling stories about her father when he was a Texas Ranger. Both Randolph and the other man—his name was James she realized when Randolph called him that—seemed very interested. James had even come to California overland, passing through Texas, and he had a few stories of his own to tell. It was close to noon when he left, and shortly thereafter, Randolph did, too.