Rage of Passion. Diana Palmer
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“A person could freeze to death just sitting near him,” she muttered.
Janet shook her head and reached for her coffee. “I'm so sorry.”
“You aren't responsible for his actions, and at least now I understand a little better than I did,” Maggie told her with a smile. “It's all right. I'd like to stroll around a little, if you don't mind.”
“I don't mind,” Janet returned. “Just do stay out of his way, darling,” she cautioned.
“You can count on that!” Maggie laughed.
She went out the back door, in fact, tugging on a yellow windbreaker over her beige blouse and jeans. It was still a little nippy, but she loved the coolness. She loved the outdoors, the land stretching lazily to the horizon, dotted with mesquite trees and prickly-pear cacti and wildflowers.
It was so different from her home in the middle of downtown San Antonio, so removed from urban traffic. Although the city was delightful and there was plenty to see and do, and colorful markets to visit, she was a country girl at heart. She loved the land with a passion she'd never given to anything else. Even now, with an enemy in residence, she could hardly contain her excitement at having so much land to explore, to savor.
She walked from the backyard down to the fence that stretched to the stables and stared over it at the few horses that were left. Most of them had gone out with the cowboys who were working the far-flung herds of cattle.
Her eyes were wistful as she stared at a huge black stallion. There wasn't a patch of white anywhere on him, and he looked majestic in the early-morning light. He tossed his mane and pranced around like a thoroughbred, as if he knew that he had an audience and was determined to give it its money's worth.
“Do you ride?”
The rough question startled her. She whirled, surprised to find Gabriel Coleman leaning against one of the large oak trees in the backyard, calmly smoking a cigarette while he stared at her.
She shifted a little. He looked bigger than ever in that old long-sleeved chambray shirt, and its color emphasized the lightness of his eyes under the wide brim of his hat. He was formidable in work clothes. So different from Dennis, who'd always seemed a bit prissy to Maggie.
“I…don't ride very well,” she confessed.
He nodded toward the stallion. “I call him Crow. He was a thoroughbred with a bright future. But he killed a man and was going to be put down. I bought him and I ride him, but no one else does. There isn't a more dangerous animal on the place, so don't get any crazy ideas.”
“I wouldn't dream of taking a horse without asking first,” she said levelly. “Perhaps you're used to more impetuous women. I'm careful. I don't rush in without thinking.”
His eyes narrowed at the insinuation, and he took a long draw from his cigarette. “Then why are you down here?” he asked coldly.
“Your mother invited me,” she said.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” she countered.
He smiled, and it wasn't friendly. He threw down the cigarette and moved toward her.
It was a deserted area. The house was hidden by a grove of oaks and pecan trees, and none of the men were around. Maggie, who'd had nightmares about physical intimacy since her marriage, began to back away until the cold bark of another oak tree halted her.
“Nervous?” he chided, and kept coming. “What of? I heard what Mother said the first night you were here. I know what you came for, Maggie. So why run away from it?”
She felt her body going rigid as he loomed over her, her eyes wide and green and frightened. “You don't understand…” she began.
“So you keep telling me,” he said shortly. He rested his hands on either side of her head, blocking off all the exits, and he smelled of wind and fir trees and leather as he came even closer, favoring his right side a little where the arm was swollen.
“What is this?” she breathed.
“You're another consolation prize,” he said with a mocking smile. “My mother thinks it's her fault that I'm such a lonely man. She brings me women by the gross. But I'm getting damned tired of being handed women on silver platters. When I marry, if I marry, I can choose my own bride. And I'll want something fresh and warm and sweet-smelling. A country girl—not a social butterfly who's been passed around like a plate of hors d'oeuvres.”
Her lips opened to retaliate, but he pressed his thumb over them in a movement that startled her into silence. He'd always seemed like a cold, indifferent sort of man, but there was experience in the way he played with her mouth, and her surprise widened her eyes. How incredible, after all these years, to be this way with him, to see him as a man instead of an enemy; to feel the impact of his masculinity in a different way, a sensual way. Yes, he was experienced. His eyes told her so, and she wondered how she could have thought him cold when just the brush of his finger against her warm mouth was sending her mad.
“Yes, you like that, don't you, Maggie?” he whispered, his voice deep and slow and faintly contemptuous. “You didn't realize how sensitive your mouth was, did you? It can be teased and provoked into begging for a man's lips,” he said softly, tracing the upper lip with the very edge of his thumb so that he could feel the moist underside and watch its sudden helpless trembling. “Like that,” he murmured, increasing the pressure, seeing her face flush, her lips part involuntarily. Her body tautened, and he smiled because he knew why.
“No,” she said on a sobbing breath, and even as she said it, she realized that he wasn't paying the least attention. He was powerfully made; she could feel the strength of him threatening her, the warmth that radiated from him with a leathery scent not at all unpleasant. Years ago, she'd dreamed of being touched, kissed, by him. She'd wanted him, and she'd known he was aware of it. But she'd also known, as he had, that such a thing was forbidden between them—because of her age. Her age had protected her…then. And she'd thought he was too cold to be tempted. Fool!
“Did you ever wonder?” he asked unexpectedly, tilting her chin as he bent. “Did you ever wonder how my mouth would feel moving on yours?”
Tears stung her eyes. It was fascinating that she could feel like this with him, that she could be hungry, physically, after what Dennis had done to her. She felt her own fingernails gripping the hard muscles of his upper arms, tugging gently. “Gabe,” she whispered, giving in to the raging attraction.
“What did my mother offer you, Maggie?” he breathed against her mouth.
“Offer…me?” she whispered brokenly.
He moved closer, his legs suddenly trapping hers, his body demanding as his mouth hovered warmly over her lips. “She brought you down here for me. She's given up bringing me career girls, so now she's dredging up old memories. She wants me to marry you.”
“Marry…you?” It was barely penetrating her hazy mind.
“Don't pretend,” he said. His eyes were cold, not loverlike, as they met hers. “I heard you both plotting. Well, I'm not in the market for a wife, little Maggie,” he said curtly. “But if you want to play around, I'm more than willing. You always did burn me up….”
Even as the last word faded in the air, his mouth came down on hers. But the tenderness she'd expected wasn't there. He was rough, as if the feel and taste of her had suddenly taken away his control. He made a sound, deep in his throat, and groaned as he pulled her too close and hurt his swollen arm. But he didn't let go. If anything, he was more ardent.
She felt his rough heartbeat and felt his strength with mute terror. “No!” she burst out. “Not…like this!” She tried to twist away from him.
He caught her hips with his, pressing them back against the rough bark of the tree. “What's the matter?” he taunted, lifting his mouth long enough to look down at her. “Does it take the promise of a wedding ring to get you in the mood?” His mocking voice