Free Rage of Passion by Diana Palmer Page A

to take the child and run. She glanced at Gabe, at the sheer magnificence of him. Perhaps they'd said something to Dennis in the early days of their marriage, something that had made him suspicious. Dennis had an active imagination, and he was good at twisting the truth to suit himself. She dreaded the thought of having him create a scandal that would involve Janet as well as Gabe.
    Gabe was watching her closely over dinner. After Becky was tucked up in bed and Janet had gone upstairs, he waylaid Maggie and dragged her off into his study.
    “Let's talk,” he said curtly, motioning her into an armchair.
    She refused his offer of brandy and sat with her hands folded primly in her lap. “What about?” she asked hesitantly.
    “About that little girl upstairs,” he returned, dropping into an armchair across from her. “And why she's terrified of men. What did that son of a rattlesnake do to her?”
    “Dennis in a temper can do that even to big people,” Maggie said miserably. She studied the hard lines of his face. “Oddly enough, I'm not afraid of your temper. Not anymore,” she added with a faint smile. “I used to be. I'll never forget the day you beat up that cowboy at the grocery store in town.”
    His eyes darkened, narrowed. “He touched you,” he said curtly, as if that explained everything. “He put his hands on you. I could have broken his neck.”
    She stared at him, curiously. “I wondered,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying. “I always wondered if it was because of that.”
    He shifted in the chair, bringing the brandy to his lips to break the spell. “You didn't know anything about men. I wasn't going to let one of my hands back you into a corner.”
    She studied his lean, beautifully masculine hands, wrapped around the brandy snifter. “You always were like a bulldozer.”
    “When I wanted something,” he agreed. He studied her over the rim of the snifter. “I wanted you. But you were sixteen.”
    She colored softly and stared into his eyes. “You never did anything about it.”
    “I told you why. You were sixteen.” He swished the amber liquid around, watching the patterns it made in the glass. “I might have gotten around to it, if you hadn't gone off to boarding school.” He smiled slowly. “It would have been the last straw, trying to take you out with all those giggling girls watching.”
    Her lips trembled into a smile. “Really? Would you have?”
    “I suppose I'd have come to it eventually,” he said enigmatically, shrugging his wide shoulders. “You were a pretty kid. You still are, haunted eyes and all.” He searched those eyes, watching the shadows in them. “You aren't afraid of me physically.”
    “Yes, I know.” She twisted a strand of her short hair uneasily and watched him. He'd taken off his jacket and vest and unfastened the top buttons of his white shirt. Dark skin and darker hair were visible in the deep V, and she felt a thrill of excitement at the memory of being held against his long, hard body.
    He laughed, his voice deep in the stillness. “Don't start getting nervous. I'm not going to pounce on you. I hope I have more finesse than that, especially after what you've been through.”
    She studied her hands. “I don't suppose anything frightens you. But I'm not physically strong, and I've had years of abuse, mental and physical. I carry my scars where they don't show, but they're very deep. So are Becky's.”
    He leaned back in the armchair, and for once he wasn't smoking like a furnace.
    “Becky's young. Hers will heal. But yours won't. Not without help.” He watched her with narrowed eyes, his dark head like ebony in the overhead light.
    “Are you offering me the cure?” she asked, feeling bitter. “A little sexual therapy?”
    He lifted an eyebrow. “I'm not that damned unselfish,” he replied quietly. “And I don't need therapy. No, honey,” he added, leaning forward to pin her with his pale eyes. “If I made love to you, it wouldn't