Firestorm by Brenda Joyce Page A

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.
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    â€œSo 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.”
    â€œIndeed, 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 andelegant. 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.
    â€œStorm, 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 walkedin 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.
    â€œCome, 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.
    â€œShe’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