Firestorm by Brenda Joyce Page B

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.
    â€œReally?” 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.”
    â€œI would love to,” Storm said.
    Brett, who had moved closer and was standing behindher, 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.
    â€œYour protegée is already a big success, darling,” Grant said, kissing her cheek gently.
    Marcy glowed.
    â€œHas 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.
    â€œHe’s taken her riding,” Grant replied. “He thinks she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”
    â€œBrett, 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.
    â€œLord, I hate seeing Brett with that vain twit,” Grant said.
    â€œGrant, 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!”
    â€œYou 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 stayswere constricting and uncomfortable. She couldn’t even remember her partner’s name.
    When she stepped on his foot, she wanted to die. “I’m sorry!”
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said.
    â€œPlease,” Storm said desperately as she missed another step, “could we stop?”
    â€œCertainly,” 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.
    â€œAre you enjoying yourself, Storm?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” 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