Violet Fire (23 page)

The heat in his gaze thrilled her. No matter how much she wished it didn't, it did. He lightly brushed his lips over hers. “But I'm afraid it will be too much for you. You're so small.” He paused, then grinned wickedly. “And I'm not exactly that.”

She went pink. Did other couples discuss such things? She had lowered her lashes, careful not to look at him, and she was finding it distinctly difficult to breathe. How could he talk so graphically? Slowly, newly aware of her body and what its heavy throbbing meant, she raised her glance to his. She found herself staring at his mouth. He inhaled sharply.

She looked at his chest. I'm sitting in a bathtub with a man who is not my husband, she thought, and I'm feeling lascivious toward him.

“Touch me,” Rathe urged huskily.

Her gaze flew to his. That hot light was her undoing. Languidly, she lifted a hand and laid it on his shoulder. His body quivered like a finely tuned bowstring. She ran her palm down his bicep, exploring the rippling muscle, the hard male flesh and bone.

He kissed her again.

His arms were braced on either side of the tub while his mouth locked with hers. Grace clasped his shoulders, unable to let him go, gladly accepting his tongue and capturing it with her own, unwilling to release it. The heat racing through her body was more brilliant than the first time. Her heart was trying to rise out of her breast.

He lunged free of her, and before she knew it, he was out of the tub and walking away from her, putting on a robe. It clung to his wet body when he turned back, making her eyes widen and her breath catch.

He was so utterly aroused and so utterly magnificent.

“I'm afraid I'll hurt you,” he told her harshly. “You'd better bathe alone.”

“Oh,” Grace said. Confusion gave way to disappointment.

They had finished breakfast and Grace was playing idly with a spoon when Rathe broke the silence. “I just have to run out for a bit,” he said.

Grace felt warm beneath his gaze. His look was hard to interpret, because it was so thorough and so very intent. Then he rose and pulled her into his arms, kissing her shamelessly, hungrily. When he finally left she was breathless.

Grace stared at the door, clutching herself.

She was this man's mistress.

She sank into a chair. Everything had happened so quickly. She wasn't even sure how she felt.

She looked down at herself, clad in his navy silk robe, without a stitch underneath. Indecent, scandalous, utterly improper. All through their meal he had touched her, his hand lingering on her arm, or her knee, or her waist. His gaze had been riveted on her face. Warm, bold. Yet soft, too.

She hadn't been able to eat more than a few bites. Her heart had been lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. His scrutiny had embarrassed her, yet it had also made her pulse pound. She had been so very aware of him, as a man, sitting so close to her. In fact, never had she been so aware of another human being in her entire life.

Never had she felt so utterly alive. In his embrace, Grace didn't think, she only felt. How could she have ever imag
ined that a woman could experience such feelings in a man's arms? Such passion. It had not been the way she thought it would be. Never had she dreamed her own wild response. She also had not expected such tenderness from him.

Grace shuddered. She really did not know how she felt. A part of her, she supposed, was frightened; another part was shocked. There were other feelings, too, nameless emotions which she did not want to face. She had the uncanny fear that if she did try to analyze them, she would be irretrievably lost.

She looked around the room and realized she had absolutely nothing to do. He hadn't said how long he would be gone, or that she should wait for him to return. Well, it was the middle of the day, the perfect time to find Geoffrey and begin organizing a class.

She found half a dollar lying atop the bureau and used it to rent a buggy at Tom's Livery, just across the street from the hotel. As she prepared to go, she found herself wondering where Rathe was; then she thought about Allen. If he didn't know by now that she'd become Rathe's mistress, he would soon. She felt she owed him an explanation, but couldn't bring herself to do it today. She was a coward.

She had no trouble finding the home of Geoff and Clarissa's family, just north of town, on the outskirts of Natchez. Smoke curled from the chimney, a sure sign supper was on. Workers were trudging in from the fields carrying their tools, and she saw an old man sitting on the porch in a rocker. “Hello,” Grace called, stepping down from the buggy. “How are you today?”

He got to his feet and smiled. “You're Geoffrey's teacher, ain't you, ma'am? I'm his granpappy. An' thank you, I'm jes' fine.”

“I'm Grace O'Rourke,” she said, extending her hand.

He stared, shaking his head, but he was grinning. “They says you is different,” he remarked, taking her palm.

Just then Clarissa and Geoff came peeling out of the
cottage at the same time, the latter shouting her name in excitement. Grace beamed at the warm reception. After an exchange of greetings, she was led into the house by their grandmother, Maddie, who insisted she stay for supper. Knowing their fare was meager, Grace refused.

When she told them her plans to hold free classes, the entire family enthusiastically agreed to help her organize the children.

“Don't you worry about it at all,” Maddie said. “Tomorrow at noon you'll have a churchful of children waitin' for you.”

Grace was thrilled, but she knew she couldn't stay.

Rathe had intimated that he wouldn't be long. She had already been gone for a couple of hours; he was probably back. Was he waiting for her? Thinking of seeing him brought a strange, unexpected excitement. Warm, insistent memories tugged at her: his hard, driving passion, his delicate tenderness, the warmth in his eyes when he smiled at her. Don't think like this, she told herself sternly. He's a philandering rogue, and you're his mistress. It's as simple as that.

The sky was just starting to turn gray when she returned the buggy and mare. She found herself skipping across the street, her heart pounding despite her resolve to be nonchalant and even briskly businesslike. When she let herself into their room, her heart was beating joyfully.

His face lit up at the sight of her.

Grace stood still against the door, unable to prevent herself from gazing at him raptly, taking in every detail of his appearance, from his high black boots, his fine white doeskin breeches, to the casual lawn shirt left open at the throat.

He came to her. “Where have you been? I've been waiting for an hour.”

His hands closed on her shoulder. Grace opened her mouth to reply, but it was no longer necessary, his mouth eagerly took hers. “I have something for you,” he said huskily. He grinned with the eager look of a schoolboy.

Rathe hadn't been able to stop thinking about her for a single minute of the past few hours. He had experienced many infatuations before, but never one like this. If he didn't know better, he would think he was falling in love—which was silly. Still, his first and most insistent thought after making love to her, other than doing it again, was buying her a beautiful gift.

If he could, he was going to spend the next year showering her with beautiful gifts.

He had spent a long time choosing something for her. Now he couldn't wait to see her expression when she saw it. He couldn't wait to watch her lift stunned eyes to his—then glow with pleasure. He liked it when Grace glowed with pleasure. His heart was beating uncontrollably.

“Here,” he said, reaching to the bureau behind him, smiling.

Grace saw he was holding out a long, flat jewler's box. An acute feeling of dizziness and nausea welled up in her. This was what she needed to remind herself of the exact nature of their relationship. To shake her out of her state of confusion. Respectable ladies did not accept gifts from men, other than their husbands. She felt a moment's pang, because they could have been man and wife. Then her lips finned. She was being rewarded for her favors, which was to be expected. But it was so blatant and hurtful Grace did not want to take the box.

“Grace?”

She looked up at him, trying to contain the hurt behind a facade of coldness. It was so very hard to do.

Rathe stared at her expression. She was not glowing; she seemed upset. He heard his tone change, sounding almost apprehensive. “This is for you.”

She wanted to fling it back in his face and tell him she didn't want it, that the deal was off, that she could not go through with it—she could not be his mistress. She wanted to weep. Instead, she resolutely took the box from his hands and opened it.

His gaze riveted on her face.

A brilliant necklace of amethysts and diamonds twinkled up at her. She thought of the men who gave their wives presents like this because they loved them. He was giving her this present because she had earned it by being his whore. Oh, God, it hurt.

“Grace?” he asked, not breathing.

She looked up at him with frozen features. “Thank you.”

There was a stricken look on his face, but she only saw it for a second, for he turned away and walked to the table. Grace looked back at the necklace, and she had to admit, through the blur of tears, that it was beautiful. She would sell it the first chance she had. It would pay her mother's bills, maybe for the next year.

She had her back to him, and she used the opportunity to discreetly brush the few stray tears from her face. Then, elaborately, she tossed the box on the bed, knowing full well he was watching. “I think we should come to some sort of agreement,” she stated, turning to face him.

His eyes left the black velvet case lying carelessly amidst the rumpled covers. They were singularly icy as they returned to her. “What sort of agreement, Grace?”

Her hands closed over the back of a chair. “In the future,” she said, “I would prefer cash.”

He sucked in his breath.

“Or a cashier's check will do.”

He shook from head to toe.

Grace actually shrank back from the intensity of his reaction.

“In the future,” he choked, fists clenched, face red, “you will most certainly have cash.” Then he whirled and moved across the room in a maelstrom of rage. Grace was momentarily afraid to breathe.

He tore out of the room like a cyclone, slamming the door thunderously behind him.

Grace sank, shaking, into a chair. She was so confused. Why had he gotten so angry? She had every right to de
mand cash. And why did she feel guilty and awful, as if she were at fault? And why, oh why, was she crying?

She expected him to return, first for supper, and then to retire for the night.

But he did not.

 

“I'm out,” Rathe said.

A groan greeted his statement. “You no-good bastard,” George Farris said good-naturedly. “You've cleaned us up.”

Rathe was sitting in the Black Heel with what was left of a full table of poker players. He pulled his winnings forward. He knew he had close to five thousand dollars, but he did not smile. He felt no pleasure, just grim satisfaction. A picture of her formed in his mind's eye, lush and pale and voluptuous and naked.

Anger, icy cold, froze in his veins.

He had been playing for twenty hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were circles beneath them from lack of sleep. His face was scruffy with a day's growth of beard. He was rumpled and worn-looking, his shirt opened, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. But he wasn't tired. Far from it.

She wanted cash, did she?

Well, now she would have it.

He saw her tossing the velvet box aside, and the anger in him threatened to become red and hot. He began folding the bills carefully. Five thousand dollars took a while to fold and put away.

His first instincts yesterday had been to wire New York for money. But Rathe had a longstanding policy. Ninety-nine percent of his net worth was tied up in investments. He reinvested every dividend, living off his winnings at the card table. It was easy to do because he was such a successful player, and because he loved the game.

Yet yesterday he had actually gone to wire New York when he realized it was Friday. It would be days before he could throw the money in her face. He couldn't wait
days. He was too furious. His desire to play her game the way she called it made this poker match the most important and hateful one in his life.

“You look like you could use a hot bath, honey,” purred a lush blonde who'd been assigned to looking after the back room after the waiter had gone home exhausted several hours earlier. Players, too, had come and gone, though Rathe had been winning steadily. Even George had only joined in at ten o'clock last night.

“You're right,” Rathe said, standing. He patted her shoulder. “A hot bath and a warm bed.” He thought of Grace.

“I think I can take care of that,” the woman said archly.

Rathe looked at her. “I've got a very expensive
lady
waiting.” He felt another surge of fury.

“Oh, yeah,” she spat. “That prissy redhead, I bet. You get tired of those boobs an' that hair, let me know.” With that, she stalked off.

The anger boiled again. It seemed to be his perpetual state. He didn't like anyone casting slurs at Grace.

George had the good sense to wipe the smile from his face the moment Rathe turned a cold gaze on him. “Hey, go easy on her, okay?” he offered.

Rathe's icy blue eyes stung him. “If I want your advice,” he ground out, “I'll ask for it.”

George backed away.

Rathe strode out into the bright afternoon, blinking a few times in the sunlight. Then he strode across the street and up the hill and into the Silver Lady. Even though he moved with the coiled, tightly restrained energy of a mountain cat about to spring, his heart was hammering way too loudly. He imagined her expression when he paid her cold, hard cash.

She wasn't in their room.

He knew it the instant he stepped through the door. He kicked it shut, glancing around. Just where the hell was she? It took him a moment to realize that there was no sign of her in the room at all. He reminded himself that
she hadn't brought anything with her the night she had appeared hysterically at his door. A lump of fear tried to worm its way into his anger. He insisted on ignoring it, on flinging aside the covers of the made-up bed, as if some sign of her might be underneath.

Furious, he kicked a chair over, displaced pillows, flung open the wardrobe and the drawers of the bureau. All his things were intact and as he'd last left them. Grace might have never been in this room.

They had a deal. There was no way he was going to allow her to run out after one night.

No way. Especially after it had been such an expensive night.

 

She wasn't at Harriet Gold's either.

“I don't know where she is,” Harriet said, catching him as he was about to bound up the stairs. “And I want a word with you.”

“Later,” Rathe began. “Have you seen her at all since yesterday?”

“Oh no, Rathe Bragg. You're not diverting me. I'm too old for your tricks. Your mommy and daddy aren't here, but I am, and you need a good talking-to.”

Resigned, Rathe let her lead him into the kitchen, where she shut the doors. She turned on him. “I hope you're proud of yourself.”

Rathe, no fool, knew exactly what she was referring to, and he blushed like a guilty schoolboy.

“That's right, feel guilty. You've taken a good girl and ruined her, dragged her right through the mud. If your daddy knew of this, you know what he'd do?”

“I know,” Rathe said grimly. “He'd thrash my hide.”