Violet Fire by Brenda Joyce Page A

and walked away.
    In seconds, the horse appeared alongside her, making her a bit nervous, for she was unused to animals. “That’s good,” he murmured. His tone was very sensual, and before Grace could react, he was on the ground beside her. “That’s very good,” he drawled softly, “because now we can start over.”
    She was assailed by his masculine scent, mingling of leather, sweat, and horse. “There is nothing to start.”
    â€œYou don’t think so?”
    She shot a glance at him, and found that there was laughter in his eyes. That he might find her amusing angered her. “I know so.”
    She stared straight ahead and ignored him. But it was impossible to ignore her own physical reactions to hisproximity—a tightening of her breasts, an uncomfortable, yet delicious tingling of her loins, a breathlessness. Nerves, she told herself.
    â€œHow has your first morning gone?”
    â€œJust fine.”
    â€œThe girls give you any trouble?”
    â€œNot really.”
    His hip bumped hers. She shifted immediately away. “If they do,” he said, unaware of the touch of their bodies, or so it seemed, “you come to me. I’ll straighten them out.”
    â€œThank you, Mr.—”
    â€œBragg,” he cut in quickly, “Rathe Bragg, at your service, Gracie.”
    â€œYes, well, thank you, Mr. Bragg, but no thank you. I’ve been a teacher for years, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”
    He took her hand, stopping them. “I’m sure you do.”
    His hand was warm, damp, hard, and very large. Aghast and angry at his nerve, she yanked her hand away. “How dare you! And stop calling me Gracie! It’s Miss O’Rourke to you!”
    â€œHow dare I call you Gracie or take your hand?” He chuckled. “I dare both, easily.” He leaned toward her. Her hand was suddenly in his again. His breath, when he spoke, was soft and warm, his tone low and husky. “Your hand is so small and delicate, and soft—like silk.”
    Grace stared, speechless.
    He smiled slightly, raising her fingers to his lips.
    At the touch of his damp, firm mouth on her flesh, she reacted. With a gasp she pulled her hand away, her eyes blazing. He lifted his head, and she found herself staring at his beautiful mouth, lips still slightly parted.
    Her temper flared. “You are going to jeopardize my job! I don’t think Mrs. Barclay would like you plying your charms on me! So please, ply them elsewhere!”
    He stared, then threw back his head and laughed. “You have a bad temper, Gracie, but you know what? I like it,I truly do! It definitely proves a point! Why do I rile you so when I’m only being friendly?” With superb grace he swung onto the stallion. “Is it just me that you so dislike,” he asked, “or is it all men?”
    â€œI don’t think you would care for the truth,” she flung over her shoulder, striding away.
    â€œI can handle the truth, all right,” he said chuckling from behind her. Grace whirled to fire a retort, but he was faster. “But I wonder if you can.” He winked and cantered off.
    Insufferable and conceited.
    Impossible and arrogant.
    Never had she met such a man.
    Â 
    That afternoon both girls yawned frequently, pretended not to listen, or actually didn’t. Grace could tell that they were several years behind in their lessons. Margaret Anne, at six, had not the foggiest idea of the alphabet. Mary Louise spelled like a first grader, and her reading was equally atrocious. Of course, her handwriting was as dismal as her stitches.
    Halfway through her task of writing the word cage twenty times, Mary Louise threw her pencil aside. “Pooh! I hate this! This is stupid! I don’t need to spell, my husband will do all my writing for me!”
    â€œI hate this, too,” Margaret Anne yelled, throwing her pencil aside. With Grace at her elbow, she