Violet Fire Read Free Page B

table, and hefted it menacingly. Rathe skidded to a stop, with difficulty, hands held high. His blue eyes sparkled. “Put the vase down,” he said coaxingly, his tone honey-sweet.
    â€œDespot,” she cried, and she threw it.
    He ducked. So did van Horne and two other guests, all in her line of fire. It missed everyone and broke against the wall. Rathe charged. She shrieked as he lifted her and slung her upside down over his shoulder, then slipped to the floor as if she were weightless. His hand settled on a perfect palmful of buttock, too intimately. She started twisting and kicking and then grabbed handfuls of his hair. “Let me down, you beast!”
    He used one hand to grab both of her wrists and held them down by his chest. “What do you want me to do with her?” he asked.
    â€œHold her for the constable outside,” van Horne ordered.
    Rathe strode out of the salon and down the hall amidst excited murmurings while his burden spit and hissed from his shoulders.
    â€œUnhand me, you—bastard.”
    He laughed and stepped out into the night.
    â€œDo you promise to behave?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” she gasped. “Just put me down.”
    He released her hands, and unable to help himself, slid his free hand over her firm round buttocks again. Disguised though she was in the baggy dress, there still was no mistaking the fact that she had an exceptional figure. She swung a fist toward his ear for his efforts, the blow glancing off him harmlessly, and he slid her to the ground gently but slowly—her body slipping down against his. The top of her bonneted head came to his chin; she was tall for a woman, and for a second they stared mutely at each other.
    It was dark in the street, but Rathe got a vague impression of fragile features, high cheekbones, and big, dark eyes. He thought, surprised, Why, she’s pretty .
    She looked into a face unshadowed by a hat and saw perfectly sculpted features and sensually full lips. It was the most handsome face she had ever seen, and for some reason, that made her even more furious.
    He smiled.
    She glared.
    â€œDon’t worry,” he murmured, his hands tightening on her shoulders. “I won’t let the police get you.”
    For one more instant their gazes locked, his warm, hers ice-cold. And then she kicked his shin as hard as she could.
    He buckled at the knee; she fled into the night.

Chapter 1
    Mississippi, 1875
    Grace O’Rourke sat perfectly erect, shoulders stiff and squared, gloved hands clasped primly in her lap. She looked out from beneath a gray bonnet at the passing countryside—green and lush and so very hot in August. They had passed through rolling, wooded hills and small, cultivated plots of land, by vast fields of cotton, shimmering white in the sun, ragged shacks with sagging roofs, and huge, partially destroyed antebellum mansions, with blackened-out windows, a testimony to the recent past. The train was already chugging its way across Mississippi. In a very few hours she would arrive at her destination. Unconsciously, her hands tightened.
    She made a nondescript figure in her dowdy gray traveling suit. There was a light dusting of freckles over her perfectly small, slightly upturned, classically Irish nose. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles also rested on that nose, but could not disguise wide, almond-shaped eyes of the most remarkable color—violet. Her mouth was lush and full, especially when relaxed and not primly pursed in thought or vexation. The hat hid every single strand of her fantastically red hair, a near impossible accomplishment, for it was a hip-length mass of untamable curls. Her eyebrows, arched above the ugly glasses, were a darker auburn, almost but not quite the exact same shade as her hair.
    Grace was very anxious. She was terribly afraid that something might go wrong, that she might lose the job she was traveling to Natchez to claim. A very proper appearance was crucial. Her