Rage of Passion by Diana Palmer

that with your ex-husband?”
    She shook her head. “I never really wanted him physically,” she said. “I suppose he knew…. Do men know?” she asked, lifting plaintive eyes.
    He nodded slowly. “I would, anyway,” he said. “It's hard to fake.”
    “He couldn't make me want him. That made it worse. He had so many women, and I tried not to mind, but after a while, I felt like a Medusa.”
    “Why did you marry him?” he asked.
    She shrugged. “He was a lot of fun. He'd take me places and give me things.” She smiled sadly. “I'd never had a man pay me any attention. Not like that. I was a pushover.”
    “I could have,” he said half under his breath, and the look in his eyes disturbed her. “If you hadn't been so young, honey.”
    “You were almost thirty,” she remembered, searching his hard face. “Already a grown man. You fascinated me.”
    “I know.” There was a world of emotion in those two words. He brushed back the hair from her temple, his fingers warm and hard and strong. “And frightened you. It was because of me that you stopped coming here to see the girls, wasn't it?”
    “Yes,” she confessed softly, smiling. “I knew I couldn't hide what I was feeling. I was afraid you'd see it and make fun of me or be embarrassed.”
    “I wouldn't have done either,” he told her, his voice gentle. “I'm not sure how I would have handled it, but I'd have managed without hurting your pride too much.” He pursed his lips musingly. “I lost track of you after the girls left school. I always meant to look you up again, but your family moved to Austin.”
    “It's just as well,” she said. “You'd have wanted more than I could give.”
    He smoothed her hair. “No, I wouldn't have,” he said firmly. “I'd have respected your innocence. I wouldn't have asked you to give it to me without a commitment.” His chest rose and fell slowly. “Maggie, are you going to be able to handle a physical relationship again?”
    She felt her body relaxing against his, felt her helpless reaction to his strength. Her fingers played with a button on his shirt, and she bit her lower lip, succumbing to old memories and new hungers all at once.
    “I don't know,” she said.
    He nuzzled her cheek with his. “Shall we find out?”
    Her lips parted on a trembling breath. “I'm afraid.”
    “No reason,” he said gently. His mouth brushed over her cheek, her ear. “I'm older. It's hard for me to lose control now. I won't do anything you don't want me to do.” He smiled against her cool cheek. “No sex, honey. Just some very light lovemaking.”
    She lifted her eyes to his. “I want to,” she said, letting him see the mingled hunger and apprehension.
    “Remember who I am,” he breathed, touching her hair. “I'm Gabriel. I'll never hurt you. Never.”
    She reached up and he bent to lift her, but he grimaced and had to set her down.
    “Damn,” he groaned, rubbing his arm and laughing through the pain. “Damned snake! It's still sore.”
    “Your poor arm,” she said softly, touching it lightly. “I'm sorry.”
    “So am I,” he said, sighing. “It's slowed me down a little.”
    She smiled. “I think I like that. For now, at least.”
    He glared at her, moving into the big armchair with slow ease. “Come here, then,” he said, holding out his hand. “But watch where you touch.”
    “Prude,” she accused, and actually laughed. It was the first time she'd been able to joke in so long.
    He drew her onto his hard thighs and shifted her so that her head lay against his shoulder. But instead of kissing her, he just sat, holding her. Outside, rain was beginning to come down. The room was dimly lit and cozy. Her eyes wandered around to the heavy oak desk, the large burgundy leather sofa, the long, wide, matching divan, the huge bookcases against one wall and the wildlife paintings covering the other. It was a man's room. Gabe's room.
    Closer, she heard his heartbeat, slow and heavy and regular at her ear, felt