Firestorm (24 page)

“Storm…the memories,” he said. Her hand stopped, then moved again, kneading deliberately. “I know,” she whispered.

He sighed and rolled over so that his knee slid against her silk-clad thighs, his face poised inches from her soft breasts. Her hand on his shoulder froze.

Taking a deep breath, Brett snuggled his face into the bounty of her lush breasts. Heaven, he thought, restraining a shudder of pure desire. “Hold me,” he whispered raggedly, hoping he sounded like a man grieving, not like one with a rigid arousal.

She didn't hesitate then, but cradled his head deeper into her bosom, her hands moving in his wavy hair. Brett sighed, nuzzling against the silk of her gown, his closed eyes pressing against bare flesh. His knee slid casually against her lower thigh, slipping between her legs, forcing the silk to hike up and retreat. She continued to stroke his hair.

He shifted his face, moving the silk of her gown down, working it down further with another nuzzling movement until one soft, rich globe was bare against his cheek and lips. It was so hard not to kiss that swollen flesh. He moved his hand from between them onto her waist, then down to the ripe curve of her hip. His splayed fingers almost enclosed one buttock.

Storm had been carnally aware of Brett for days, although she was trying to ignore that and be compassionate. Now her heart was racing wildly, her breasts tingling, her groin swelling demandingly. She shifted without thinking, and the result was that her nipple, achingly hard and
somehow bared, moved closer to Brett's mouth, catching his nose. Her buttock moved, too, and his hand shifted over the silk until his fingertips were resting inches from her womanhood.

Brett nuzzled the offered breast with a groan. Storm's hands on his head suddenly tightened, pushing him closer to the hard bud. His hand tightened on her buttock, squeezing, releasing, and then he kissed the soft under-swell of her breast. “Beautiful. Beautiful…” he murmured.

His brushing lips were torture. Storm shifted again, seeking his mouth with her nipple, and her knee brushed the hard, naked tip of his swollen phallus. She gasped, then was silenced as he pulled the hard peak into his mouth, nipping it again and again, making her moan, and then he was suckling like a baby.

She cried out as his teeth caught and teased, as his tongue soothed and lapped, darting, only to give way to sharp, tugging teeth again. His other hand kneaded her buttock, dipping low, sliding between her thighs, rubbing insistently. He caressed her swollen mound from behind, teasing it with a bare finger, tracing the outlines of the lush folds, then sliding upward to tease a throbbing apex. Storm threw her thigh over his torso to accommodate his search.

“Storm,” he groaned. “I need you,
chère
, badly…”

“Yes,” she panted. “Yes, Brett.”

His hand bared her other breast, and his mouth found her other nipple, his tongue emerging to flicker repeatedly over it, to lick, tingle, tempt. A hard, seeking mouth closed over it, teeth catching, tugging insistently. Storm cried out.

Brett had already pulled the offending gown up to her waist. With her thigh thrown over his hips, her knee bent, she was open and waiting for him. He fondled her buttock leisurely now, intent on devastation, caressing and strok
ing, threatening to dip into that inviting, wet sanctuary, yet not doing so. Storm's behind began to move frantically against his hand. She moaned. “Please…”

“Yes, darling, soon,” he told her, still suckling her taut nipples. He moved his hand to her belly and explored the soft flatness there. She whimpered demandingly. His hand strayed lower; his fingers slid through soft, tangled curls; one finger delved even further. He slid into that wet delta. Storm gasped. He retreated, barely able to breathe, releasing her nipple, pausing to concentrate on the exquisite torture he was intent on inflicting.

His finger explored, teased, slid slickly into deep recesses, moved up and began to rub rhythmically. Storm writhed against him. She pumped against his hand. She panted wildly. Brett shuddered, pressing a kiss to her ribs when she cried out, loudly keening, and he shoved three fingers into her, hard, pumping, amazed at the strength of her contractions, his thumb still on the apex he had been manipulating so deftly. He could feel the entire mound quivering again and again under his hand.

“Oh, Storm,” he moaned when she lay still and breathless on her back.

He closed his eyes to regain control, and when he had found it, he knelt over her, studying her.

The green gown was twisted around her waist. Her eyes were closed, her hair in disarray, streaming over the pillows and between and around her full, ripe breasts. He noted that the nipples were still hard, and, unable to resist, he mouthed one briefly. Her eyes flew open. Brett smiled at her dazed look.

Her long legs were spread invitingly. Her curls were damp and dark. Her woman's flesh glistened invitingly. Brett grabbed her hips and lowered his head. When his mouth kissed the tender pink folds, she gasped. He tightened his hold on her, kissing the soft perimeters, then moving closer and closer. His tongue flicked out to trace
the depths of the long cleft. She clenched his head, whimpering.

When her hips were thrusting uncontrollably against his seeking tongue, Brett raised himself up and moved the tip of his member over her slickness. She gasped, her wide eyes meeting his. He rubbed himself leisurely against her, smiling.

“I love you,” he rasped, moving languidly over her.

She gasped again.

He bent his head over her. “Tell me,” he demanded, moving suggestively, the engorged head of his shaft dipping and rubbing and stroking. “Tell me how much you want me.” For the first time he kissed her, claiming her lips savagely. When he raised his head, she gasped his name in a plea.

“Do you love me, Storm?” he panted, sliding slickly over her. “Do you love it when I do this? And this?”

She moaned.

“Do you love it when I'm deep inside you?” He poised at the threshold of her entrance without penetrating. He tested that small entry gingerly, prodding it. “Tell me!”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Oh, God, I want you,” he said, and he thrust into her.

They came together wildly, fiercely, straining against each other, slick and wet. Brett thrust harder and harder, having lost all control.
My Storm
, was all he could think. And then she cried out, contracting against him, around him, while he throbbed inside her, and he cried out, too, pumping his seed into her, draining himself, moaning her name.

 

Storm awoke to find herself entwined intimately with her husband.

Memories of the night before came rushing upon her. Wonderful memories, of his touch, his mouth, his hands
playing her. Burning memories of how he felt, so warm and hard against her, on her, in her…He had said he loved her. Had he meant it? Storm remembered vividly exactly what he was doing when he said those three words, and she flushed. A more complete recollection flooded her. The things he had said to her! The things he had made her say back! How he had made her beg for him, and how she had meant it. Dear God! Certainly a husband didn't treat a wife like that. Like a whore.

She wrenched away and sat up, her heart starting to pound. Every fiber of her being went stiff when she felt him move next to her. She would not look at him. She could not let him treat her like that. She felt his hand drifting down her thigh. Storm threw both legs over the side of the bed, lunging to her feet in one hard, abrupt movement.

In a second she was flat on her back, Brett on top of her, pinning her, his eyes black and alert, as if he hadn't been sleeping at all. “Storm?”

“Let me up,” she gritted, struggling.

He loosened his grip but didn't move. “Is this the way you greet me?” His gaze was piercing. “Are you angry?”

“Of course not,” she said with dripping sarcasm.

A look of genuine confusion crossed his face. “After last night,” he murmured, “I would expect you to be purring with pleasure, not leaping out of my bed.”

“You arrogant boor,” she snapped.

Suddenly all confusion and indignation were gone. He smiled, his dark eyes brightening. “If you're trying to get my attention,” he murmured seductively, “you needn't have gone so far.” He shifted, grinning, and the throbbing tip of him caught her inner thigh. Storm gasped. Brett covered her mouth with his, hungrily, as if he hadn't made love to her four times that night, his tongue darting within, thrusting eagerly.

Storm's whole body began to burn. She ignored it. He
wasn't going to get away with this. She twisted her face away.

“Oh,
chère
,” he breathed, lifting his head, “how I want you.” He rubbed himself against her thigh. “That's how much I want you, love.” Their eyes caught. His widened when he realized she was glaring.

He found himself shoved rudely off. “Now what?” he asked, trying to sound annoyed, but how could he be annoyed? He had just spent the most incredible night of his life with the most incredible woman he had ever known—and that woman happened to belong to him. His wife. His alone. No one else could have her. It was a heady thought. A million strange, warm, uplifting feelings were shooting through his body, wrestling in his heart. He put an arm around her hips and smiled up at her stormy gaze. Nothing could dampen his mood. “Now what?” he repeated.

“Last night…” she began, stopping and giving him a look as sharp as daggers.

His grin widened, and he nuzzled her long neck.

“Stop it, dammit, Brett! I'm serious!”

“So am I, sweetheart,” he said, and in one deft, unexpected movement he had pulled her down and on top of him. “This is our honeymoon,” he purred.

Storm's eyes filled with tears.

A pang of fear seized him. “Storm, what is it?” He was horrified—horrified that the thought of their honeymoon would make her cry. But how could he have thought she would change after one night spent intimately with him? He had almost forgotten, she despised him. One night was not going to change his stubborn wife's mind.

“I don't like being treated like a whore, Brett,” she said furiously. But she was sniffing, and he saw that she was hurt.

Brett sat up, pulling her up with him, cradling her. “What are you talking about,
chère?
” His voice was soft
and tender. His forefinger removed a crawling tear from her cheek.

“The things you said to me,” she whispered, as if afraid to be overhead.

“What?”

“No man talks to his wife the way you talked to me.” She blushed.

He suddenly understood, and bit off his laughter. “How would you know?”

“I just know.”

He stroked her cheek. “Sweet, you seemed to enjoy it last night.” He grinned. He couldn't help it.

She looked away.

“No, Storm, look at me. Anything you and I do together is all right as long as we are both willing and it pleasures us.”

She regarded him doubtfully.

His hand slid to her shoulder. “I want to give you pleasure. I want you to be as excited as I am.” He cupped one full breast. He palmed her nipple. “We're married. You are not a whore. You are my wife. It's all right to tease in bed to increase our pleasure. Trust me.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe him. It was getting hard to think, hard to remember why she had been so angry. She was very aware of the movements of his fingers on her nipple. “Brett.”

He cupped her face, staring into her eyes, one thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You're my wife, Storm,” he said. “Never forget that.”

It was noon when they finally left their apartments and came downstairs. Storm kept stealing admiring looks at her husband when she thought he wasn't looking. She couldn't seem to keep her eyes off him. She couldn't stop remembering the passion they had shared, both the frenzied, savage times and the strangely tender ones, too. He was so handsome! And she liked the way he was dressed now—in skintight riding breeches and high black boots, and a simple linen shirt. He was so broad-shouldered, so powerful, so male and virile. As they passed through the empty salon on the first floor, Storm saw the second looks the two maids gave her husband and felt a momentary thrill of pride and possession. This man is my husband, she thought, amazed. Mine!

They were eating breakfast in the high-ceilinged dining room, alone in companionable silence. Feeling Brett's gaze, Storm looked up from her piece of melon and was rewarded with a warm smile. Her heart turned over, and she stared, unable to look away. He leaned close to her and tenderly brushed her lips with his. For another moment their gazes met. Storm's heart was bursting with the love his eyes contained.

“How quaint,” Elena said from the doorway. “How picturesque.”

Brett stood. “Good morning, Tía.”

She swept to him and poised her cheek for his perfunctory kiss. Then she gave one of her own to Storm. “Did you two sleep well?”

Storm blushed while Brett laughed. “As well as could be expected,” he said, flashing Storm a warm glance and sitting down.

“Don Felipe is up,” Elena said casually, sitting opposite them. “He knows you're here.” Her glance held Brett's, and Storm had the feeling a silent communication was exchanged.

Brett shrugged. “I will pay my respects after I eat. How is he?”

“Dying,” Elena said.

Storm gasped.

“My dear,” Elena told Storm, “if you knew him as we all do, you, too, would know his days left with us are limited. That is why Sophia is here.” She looked at Brett. “After losing her son to that dreadful disease, and her husband barely six months in the grave, I did not want her to be alone with a houseful of servants.”

“Of course not,” Brett said without inflection. “No cousin Diego? Has he not joined us to await Father's grand departure?”

“Brett!” Storm gasped.

Elena remained unperturbed. “Diego comes by almost daily.”

“And where is Doña Theresa?” Brett asked.

“She is either in seclusion in her rooms grieving for the loss of her children, or she is with Don Felipe. He can't stand her, you know. He usually orders her away after only a few minutes. Her tears and moaning lamentations drive him crazy.”

Storm looked at Brett's aunt. The woman was undeniably beautiful, even in her black mourning dress, which was cut as low as a ballgown, revealing voluptuous breasts. Her skin was white and satiny smooth, and her
waist was narrow, her hips round but not ample. She was very beautiful, and very cruel. Storm felt it in the marrow of her being. She also did not like the way she looked at Brett, as if he amused her, as if she knew some wonderful secret joke, as if she knew him—in the biblical sense.

“There you are,” Emmanuel said, striding into the dining room, smiling with genuine affection. “Good morning, you two. Brett, she is a ray of golden sunshine.” Emmanuel's admiration was frank.

“Isn't she,” Brett said, looking at Storm with rapt and warm attention. She had never felt more lovely.

“Finish up, my boy,” Emmanuel said. “Don Felipe is eager to see you.”

Brett stood and laughed. “Has he said that?”

Emmanuel grinned sheepishly. “Not quite.”

“Hah! I'll bet the old badger has pretended he doesn't even know I'm here!”

“He knows,” Emmanuel said. “Ease up on him, Brett. He still has the Monterro pride.”

Brett shrugged. “It doesn't matter to me,” he said casually. He leaned down, tilting Storm's chin up and kissing her fully on the mouth, deeply, despite his aunt and uncle's presence. “They have a quaint custom here,
chère
,” he said in a low voice. “It's called a siesta.” He grinned.

Storm knew what a siesta was, of course, and she blushed, managing not to look at either of Brett's relatives.

“Ah, to be young and in love.” Emmanuel sighed with good-natured exaggeration.

Storm's color deepened as they walked away, her gaze on her husband's beautiful masculine form. Am I in love? she wondered, and knew the answer instantly. Yes! Her whole being was filled with Brett. She didn't know how it had happened, it just had.

“How long have you been married, dear?” Elena asked, watching her closely.

Storm stopped her daydreaming. “About two weeks,” she said.

“I see.” There was a moment of silence, and Storm continued eating. “How do you like the hacienda?”

“It's beautiful,” Storm said honestly. “Now I understand why Brett is so—so—polished.”

Elena looked at her. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Why, his being raised here,” Storm said.

Elena laughed. Storm didn't like her laughter, especially since she did not understand the joke. At that precise moment, Sophia swept in, a younger version of her mother, breathtakingly gorgeous. “What's so funny, Mama?”

“Sweet Storm,” Elena said, her laughter subsiding, “understands how Brett has come to be so polished.”

Sophia frowned, sitting and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “I don't understand.” She gave Storm a short glance. Storm did not miss the rudeness. Sophia hadn't even said hello.

“Brett's being raised here,” Elena said significantly.

Sophia chuckled. “Just how well do you know your husband?” she asked pointedly.

Storm felt her hackles rising. “Very well in some ways,” she said with her own innuendo, remembering how Sophia had looked at Brett yesterday. Sophia was attracted to Brett, Storm knew it, and she felt a moment of triumph. Brett was hers. Sophia might want him, but she couldn't have him.

“Any woman can know any man well in those ways, dear,” Elena droned tolerantly.

Storm was instantly deflated. The lovemaking they had shared—what he had done to her, how he had made her feel—Brett had shared those moments with other women. The reminder was enough to shatter her mood of euphoria. In fact, she had forgotten how he had been with Audrey
before he had come home to her after his trip, then taken her against her will. Damn! Damn, damn, damn!

“Brett is certainly looking fine,” Sophia said, breaking into Storm's thoughts. “Emmanuel says he's quite the success in San Francisco.”

“Yes,” Storm said, pride slipping through the moment of despondency. “He was the most sought-after bachelor in the city. He has a saloon, a hotel, several restaurants, and he owns quite a bit of land. The saloon and hotel are the most elegant and refined in the city. He is also partners with my uncle in a shipping line.”

Sophia and her mother exchanged glances. “Who would ever have thought,” Sophia finally said, “that my bastard cousin would grow up to be such a man.” She stressed the last word.

Anger rushed through Storm. “Excuse me?” She couldn't believe what she had heard.

Sophia raised a brow.

“How dare you,” Storm said, standing. “How dare you call my husband names.”

“Relax, dear,” Elena said, touching her wrist. “We're all family here. Sophia didn't mean to insult Brett. She was speaking matter-of-factly. After all, it is unusual for a penniless bastard to become so successful and so cultured.”

Storm was stunned. She couldn't grasp what they were saying. “Brett is a bastard?”

The two women looked surprised. “Surely you knew that much?” Elena said.

Sophia laughed. “Not only is Brett a bastard, Storm, but his mother was a common whore in Mazatlán. French, but a whore.”

Poor Brett, Storm thought, remembering how she had called him a blue-blooded pig, and how furious he had been.

Then she remembered all the times she had called him
a bastard, and she was horrified with herself. Why hadn't anyone told her? Poor Brett!

“I do believe we've shocked her, Mama,” Sophia said, smiling slightly.

“Please sit, Storm, and finish your breakfast,” Elena said.

Storm sat, still assimilating all she had learned. She remember how Elena and Sophia had laughed over her comment about Brett's refinement coming from having been raised here. She remembered how Brett had been grim and cold when she had asked him if he'd had a falling out with his father. The night Brett had come home drunk, he had said his mother had sold him to his father. Had it been true? Oh, God! Suddenly Storm thought she understood. But she wanted, desperately, to understand better.

“Good morning,” boomed a male voice from the doorway. “And who is this?”

Storm looked up to see a man clad in the traditional garb of the Californios: tight belled black pants riveted with silver studs, a short bolero jacket, a crisp white shirt. He was dark and extremely handsome, every inch the son of Elena and the brother of Sophia.

“Diego, come greet Brett's wife,” Elena said.

Diego strode forward, his black eyes bright with interest. “
Cara
, I am overwhelmed,” he said, taking her hand before she even knew what was happening. “Never have I seen such beauty, never!”

Storm blushed. She didn't know what to say to such an outrageous comment. Then he kissed her hand, his mustache tickling her skin, his lips lingering, and she was sure she felt the tip of his tongue. She gasped, trying to pull away and failing. “I hope you will honor me by letting me escort you around Don Felipe's beautiful hacienda.”

“I—I don't know,” she managed.

“Ah, cousin Brett will not mind. He and Don Felipe have much catching up to do, believe me.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Storm said. She needed to talk to Brett. She wanted to hold him and tell him he didn't need to keep any secrets from her. Not anymore.

“Tomorrow, then,” Diego said, smiling. His teeth flashed white against his dark skin. “Now, where is my cousin?”

 

Brett stared at his father, momentarily shocked. Then Don Felipe turned his head, his black eyes brilliant and gleaming and unchanged, and their gazes locked. Brett shoved away his pity. The once leonine man might be shrunken and white-haired, but his spirit remained undiminished. Brett almost felt sixteen again beneath the impact of that baleful stare. It was judging and condemning and condescending. He felt like “the bastard” again.

“Come here,” Don Felipe ordered.

He was sitting in a chaise, a blanket pulled to his waist. He was no longer a giant of a man, but thin and scrawny, shrunken even in height, Brett could see. His voice, too, was weaker; it quavered.

Brett moved forward. “Father,” he said evenly. Etiquette called for more of a greeting, but the old bastard had never treated him like anything but a curse, so why should Brett bother?

Don Felipe's eyes scorched him from head to toe. Then, looking into Brett's face, he laughed. “Still the rebel, eh, boy?”

There was nothing to say to that. Brett just stood, hating himself for feeling ill-at-ease.

“Why did you come?” Don Felipe said shortly.

“Emmanuel begged me.”

“Ah.” The black eyes were assessing. “Perhaps you came like the others, to wait for my death. I'm not ready yet, boy.”

“Why should I care whether you live or die, old man?”

Don Felipe chuckled. “At least you're honest, Breton,
that's one thing about you—you're honest. It's more than I can say for the rest of the schemers who surround me, with few exceptions. Have you met your sister Gabriella yet?”

The change in topic took Brett by surprise. “No.”

“If you think I'm going to leave all this”—a thin arm swept out—“to you, you're wrong.”

It was Brett's turn to laugh. “Good. I don't want it, not one damn acre!”

They glared at each other.

“Why the hell not?” Don Felipe shouted. “You're my son.”

“I'm your son now? Ten years ago I wasn't your son—just your bastard.”

“You were—and are—both my son and my bastard,” Don Felipe said. “Even God can't change that fact of life.”

“No, He can't.”

“Emmanuel says you're a rich and successful businessman.”

“Quite.”

“With a new wife.”

“Yes.”

“You should have married a californio.”

“Never,” Brett said, appalled at the idea. “I am sorry you are lacking heirs, Father, but there is Diego.”

“Never.” Don Felipe snorted. “That weakling nephew! All he does is gamble and wench. Did he save Emmanuel's hacienda? Did he fight for what was his against the greedy Americanos? If I left him this, it would be gone, destroyed, ruined, within a few years.” Don Felipe was red with rage and breathing harshly, but Brett only clenched his fists rigidly until the don caught his breath. He coughed. “Those two female vipers and that spineless rakehell have been awaiting your arrival like Christians waiting to be tossed to the lions.” He laughed, pleased.
“They want all this. They're afraid we'll reconcile and I'll give it all to you.”

“If you do, I'll sell it,” Brett warned, meaning it.

“As if I'd leave you anything,” Don Felipe rasped, his black eyes locking with Brett's.

Brett hated him. “I told you, old man,” he said softly, “I don't want it, and I never have.”

They glared. “You made that clear,” Don Felipe said, “when you walked out of here ten years ago.”

“You didn't even try to stop me.” It was a standoff, and they both knew it, but Brett wondered what he had expected: a confession, an apology?

“Let them simmer, greedy bastards,” Don Felipe said finally. “To protect Gabriella. I don't trust Elena and Sophia.”