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Firestorm
Chapter OneSan Francisco, 1859.
Brett sat at the large, leather-topped mahogany desk with a frown of concentration that deepened to a scowl. He turned the pages of the oversized ledger. Damn. He should have known. This was the first time he'd made an error in judgment about a man, and hopefully it would be the last. Furious now, he snapped the book closed and rose to his full six feet, two inches.
He paced to the window and stared broodingly out at Stockton Street. He was not going to let his bookkeeper's theft ruin this day. A slight smile formed on his ruthlessly sculpted face. Not that he was being sentimental just because it was his birthday. But ... maybe he was. Today he was twenty-six, and he had everything he wanted. His smile widened.
Not bad for the son of a whore.
Not bad for the bastard of a Californio.
D'Archand did not resemble his mother, who was French, petite, chestnut-haired, and blue-eyed. Instead he was almost an exact replica of his father, Don Felipe Monterro-tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, harshly handsome. And dark, very dark, with nearly black eyes that held little softness and short, crisply curling black hair.
The last time Brett had seen his father he had been graying at the temples, Brett recalled, and instantly grew tense and angry. A scene flashed through his head, which he tried, but failed, to ignore.
"I'm leaving, Father," a sixteen-year-old Brett had said, waiting, begging silently for his father to stop him.
The handsome, lean man remained emotionless. "Where will you go?"
Brett refused to feel the pain. He was a fool. He had neverbeenaccepted by his father, had never been more than the bastard in the stable, insurance against the possibility that there would be no other heirs. Now he was no longer needed. When he had heard Don Felipe's new wife's infant boy begin to cry, he had wanted to cry, too. Instead, his face was as cold and stiff as the don's. "I'm going to Sutter's Fort," he answered.
"Ah, gold," the haciendado said. It was early 1849.
"Yes, sir." He could barely get out the words.
The don gave him a blooded Arabian stallion and a few hundred pesos. Brett rode out that day and never looked back.
Unconsciously, Brett's fist smashed against the windowsill, the hard planes of his face rigid. "I won't look back," he growled aloud. "For all I care, the old sonuvabitch is dead. And good riddance! I don't need him. I have what I want-success, respectability ... everything. "
From outside his office came a loud crash of breaking glass.
Brett froze, listening, but made no move to leave his large, elegant office. It was decorated in a classic style, with mahogany doors, an Oriental rug in coral and blue, a large sofa in wine-colored leather. There were two French chairs covered in pin-striped silk, blue velvet drapes, and wall-to-wall bookcases. His first mistress, Suzanne, had decorated the room for him under his watchful, critical eye when he had acquired the Golden Lady and moved out of his other, shabbier offices in the Miner's Girl-his first saloon and first investment.
He had to smile, remembering how he had scraped together enough gold dust to buy into a partnership in that sinkhole. A profitable sinkhole upon which he had founded the wealth he owned today. He almost laughed.
The Golden Lady was one of San Francisco's classiest establishments, every inch as plush and elegant as his office. Even the second floor-where hostesses earned top dollar satisfying their customers-was tastefully decorated. Because of the lack of women in San Francisco even now, ten years after the gold rush-city government and society tolerated its houses of ill repute. Being owner of the Golden Lady didn't detract from Brett's reputation, because it was the most elegant establishment in the city. Then, too, Brett had diversified over the past five years. He now owned a hotel, two restaurants, a partnership in a shipping line, a freight line, and shares in a ranch across the bay. He had also acquired land just west of San Francisco, which people were starting to, buy and build homes on. At the age of twenty-six, Brett was one of the wealthiest men in San Francisco.
He pulled a gold watch on a chain from his silver brocade vest. He had just enough time for a short interlude with Audrey, his current mistress, before meeting his partner in the shipping line, Paul Langdon. He slipped on a black suit jacket and automatically adjusted his black necktie. He had just added his black Stetson when another crash and a woman's scream came from somewhere in the building.
Linda, one of his girls, thrust open the study door. "Brett, you'd better-"
He was already striding past her, his face taut. "What is it?"
"Some loony," she said, hurrying behind him down the shining waxed floor of the corridor."He has a gun, and Susie."
Brett paused on the threshold of the saloon, which was embellished with rich mahogany, brass, and green velvet.At this early hour of the afternoon half the chairs were empty.A dozen men dressed in well-cut suits were standing uneasily at various tables.The dealers in their brocade waistcoats looked equally wary.Two of Brett's girls stood white and immobile at the end of the long bar.The bartender, James, stood frozen facing the middle of the room.
There on the floor lay Luke, the two-hundred-pound bouncer, his temple bleeding.
A few yards away stood a dirty man in a flannel shirt and muddy boots.Clenched in a harsh embrace in front of him, the barrel of a gun pressed against her right temple, was Susie, pale and wet with sweat, her kohled eyes huge.
Firestorm. Copyright © by Brenda Joyce. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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