Free Violet Fire by Brenda Joyce

innuendo.
    â€œAn invitation?” she said blankly. Then, “I suppose you’ll be telling Louisa about this?”
    â€œNow why would I do that?” Rathe asked, riffling Geoffrey’s hair.
    He was pulling at Rathe’s big, calloused hand. “Come an’ look, Mistah Rathe. Look at my A ’s an’ B ’s.”
    Rathe laughed at Geoff’s enthusiasm and allowed himself to be pulled forward. “Ah ha,” he said, squatting and studying the slate. “Why, I have never seen a finer A or B in my entire life.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally.”
    Geoffrey shrieked a cry of gladness, bouncing around in a little jig, while Rathe and Grace’s gazes met—hers hard, his soft.
    â€œDon’t play with me, Mister Bragg,” Grace finally said, stiffly.
    He smiled at her innocent words, imagining vividly how he would like to play with her. He would start by loosening that bun and letting her glorious hair flame free. He stood. “I’m not playing with you, Gracie. When we play, you’ll know it.”
    She stared blankly, frigidly.
    There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that she had never been with a man. Her innocence, at her age, with her intellect, was astounding.
    â€œAre you or are you not going to inform on me, Mister Bragg?” she said rigidly.
    â€œRathe,” he coaxed. “Rathe. And I never tell on a lady.”
    This time she understood, and this time she blushed.
    He grinned. “I give you my word.”
    She raised her chin, her expression one of utter contempt.
    It amused him. “You doubt the word of a Texan?”
    â€œI doubt the word of a scoundrel.”
    Rathe laughed, a rich rumble of sound. “Then you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you.”
    â€œI’d rather not.”
    Once again, he wondered if her animosity was directed solely at him, or at all men. “Maybe if you tried trusting me, you wouldn’t be disappointed.”
    She laughed. “You are the last man on this earth that I’d ever trust!”
    He was genuinely insulted. “Another challenge? Gracie, I think it’s only fair that I warn you,” his gaze held hers, “that I find challenges irresistible.”
    She clenched her teeth. “That is your problem, not mine. If you’ll excuse us? Geoffrey, come on, we don’t have all day. I want to see your A ’s and B ’s again.”
    Geoffrey came running and plopped down. Grace made a point of ignoring Rathe, who made no move to leave. She watched her student making near-perfect letters. “Very good. Do you remember what C is for?”
    â€œ C is for cat.”
    â€œThat’s right. And C looks like this. There. Now you do it.”
    She watched him make a large, irregular C , trying to ignore the man standing with his boot-clad calf in the peripheral range of her right eye. The boot cleaved to thick, but not squat, muscles, and was gleaming with polish. Her eye wandered up to a doeskin-clad knee, lingered at the edge of a powerful thigh. She quickly looked back down as Geoff gave a cry of triumph and shoved the slate at her. “Excellent. Let’s see four more.”
    â€œLet me see,” Rathe said, and Grace watched the boot move practically against her arm as he came to stand behind her. She realized, as he bent over her to look down, that she was holding her breath. She exhaled, and it came out in a large rush of sound.
    â€œThat is excellent, Geoff,” Rathe said.
    He beamed and began enthusiastically making more C ’s.
    Grace flinched when she felt a pair of large, warm hands cup her shoulders. It was getting hotter out; she was perspiring. She pulled away, then rose to her feet. “What are you doing?”
    â€œDoesn’t it hurt, holding them so stiff like you do all the time?”
    Her shoulders went squarer. “You have no right to touch me. What are you even doing here? Why don’t you