Rage of Passion by Diana Palmer Page A

the sigh of his breath on her forehead. He smoothed her arm gently and his warm fingers felt good.
    “It feels good, holding you,” he said after a minute. He crossed one leg over the other, shifting her closer. “Comfortable?”
    “Yes,” she murmured drowsily, closing her eyes. She moved her hand experimentally on his broad chest and arm, feeling the bandage through the thin fabric of his shirt. “How long will it take to heal?” she asked.
    “Not much longer, I hope,” he muttered. “Damned fool, I should have looked where I was reaching. I dropped my rope behind the chute where we were working the small herd, and didn't look when I leaned over. The rattler got me right on the arm.”
    She studied his face curiously. “I never heard what happened to the snake. Blood poisoning…?”
    He glowered at her. “The snake went the way of most snakes that come too close to me. I took my rifle and shot him.”
    “With snakebite?” she gasped.
    “I had the rifle right next to me,” he admitted. “And just enough bad temper to do it before the poison started working. The boys got me to the emergency room, snake's head and all, and they gave me the antivenin. I was sicker than I want to remember for a couple of days. I'd just gotten back on my feet when you showed up with Mother.”
    “And spoiled your recovery,” she recalled, smiling.
    “I wouldn't say that.” He nuzzled his cheek over her hair. “I have to admit that you've brightened up the place. Nothing like having a woman around to get a man well.”
    “You should have married,” she murmured.
    He lifted her left hand, noting the absence of a ring. “Becky's the one who's going to get hurt by the court suit, you know,” he said unexpectedly, caressing her fingers gently with his. “From what I saw today, her father won't care who he destroys to get that money.”
    “Money always meant everything to him,” she said. “He grew up poor. Really dirt-poor. But it warped him. He doesn't really care about anyone except himself.”
    “Stop feeling sorry for him,” he chided. “People make their own hells, haven't you noticed? It isn't life that does the damage, Maggie—it's the way people react to it. Attitude is everything in this world.”
    “This, from a man whose attitude is to flatten anything that gets in his way?” she asked, eyebrows arching.
    “It makes things simpler,” he said, grinning.
    She shook her head. “You always were too much man for any ordinary woman. I never thought you'd find a woman brave enough to take you on.”
    He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful, curious. “Plenty have tried, as you might have gathered. Mother's done her best to supply me with a wife.”
    “She only wants happiness for you,” Maggie said gently. “She doesn't like seeing you grow old all alone.”
    “Neither do I, sometimes.” He brushed his thumb over the palm of the hand he was holding, feeling its softness. “I want a son,” he added, looking straight into her eyes.
    She felt the wildest kind of excitement. He was only making a statement, she told herself, only expressing a buried desire. But the way he said it, and the way he looked at her, made her body burn to give him that child. She felt herself trembling and knew he could feel it, too.
    “I wanted to talk to your attorneys while we were in the city,” he said after a minute. “But I thought it was more important to get Becky out of that lunatic's reach. I'll fly back down on Monday and meet with them.”
    “But—”
    “It doesn't do any good to argue with me,” he said reasonably. “Haven't you discovered that by now?”
    “I don't want to be taken over,” she began.
    “Sure you do, honey,” he murmured, smiling gently as he folded her against his good side and eased her down in the big chair. “And this is as good a time as any to show you that you do.”
    “Gabri—”
    The rest of his name was buried under his warm, ardent mouth. She sighed gently