CULLEN'S BRIDE

by Fiona Brand

  She looked blindly away. "You won't have to."

  He touched her jaw, bringing her gaze back to his. The lingering stroke of his fingers was so indescribably tender that she drew in her breath against the light tingle of it, closed her eyes against the shiver of need that rippled through her.

  "Don't," he muttered thickly.

  His warm palm slid possessively around her nape, his long, strong fingers rasping gently against her skin, slipping into her hair. He dipped his head, his teeth closing over the sensitive flesh of her lobe, and the sharp pleasure-pain tore a small sound from her.

  He lifted his head but didn't take his hands off her. Both hands now, cupped around her throat. "If you've got any sense you'll slap my face. Now."

  He was going to kiss her. And Rachel knew with a sickening twist in her stomach that she shouldn't let him do it. Not again. It was bad enough standing here while he rejected any possibility of a relationship—while he expressed his frustration at even being attracted to her—and at the same time made love to her with every rasp of his work-hardened fingertips, every warm brush of his breath sliding across her cheek. If he caressed her with his mouth, she wouldn't want him to stop.

  But she didn't have the strength or the will to stop something she wanted so badly, and that stark realisation filled her even as his breath filled her mouth. She'd never felt this aroused, this alive, with Adam, and Cullen had barely touched her. Her marriage had been happy, satisfying, everything she could have wished for, but she hadn't felt this consuming hunger, this deep wrenching sensation, as if the man fitting his firm, brooding mouth to hers had reached down inside her and taken possession of everything she was, everything she could be.

  And then she couldn't think. Cullen's hands shifted, tilting her head as his lips stroked across hers in a slow, tantalising caress. She could feel the sun heavy on her eyelids, hear the slow, deep passage of the river flowing over smooth rocks, and then everything receded as her senses focused on the increasing intimacy of the kiss. His mouth parted hers, and his teeth closed on her lower lip. Rachel gasped out loud. Then his tongue pushed inside her, and his taste exploded in her mouth, hot and male, as deeply disturbing as the strong, complex man cradling her with such restraint against his big body.

  Once again she'd expected him to ravage her mouth, and his tenderness tore away the last of her defences. She couldn't fight this attraction when he was kissing her with more attention, more simple sweetness, than she'd ever had from any man, including her husband.

  Cullen almost groaned out loud when he finally lifted his mouth from Rachel's. The breeze sifted against his skin, cooling the moisture dampening his lips. He needed to kiss Rachel again more than he needed his next breath. "We've got to stop." The words were harsh, guttural. His hands curled around her upper arms, forced some space between them.

  Rachel's mouth was wet and red from his. Her eyes confused. Cursing inwardly, Cullen grabbed her hand and drew it to the heavy wedge of flesh straining the front fastening of his jeans, demonstrating as graphically as he knew how just why they had to stop. He took his hand away, leaving hers there, pale against sun-hot, faded denim. But instead of rejecting his crude gesture, her fingers tightened around him.

  A hoarse sound ripped from his throat at the sinuous caress. Cullen's head went back, the sun searing his closed lids with a fire that was a pale facsimile of the fire streaming through his body. With a hungry growl, he closed his hands on her waist and took what he needed: her mouth, her breath, the moonlight-cool imprint of her body fitted tight against his. And in the damp, thin swimsuit, she didn't just look naked, she felt naked. His tongue drove into her mouth, and she parted her legs over his thigh, altering the way she was leaning against him so that he was cradled between her hips. It was an instinctive movement, one a woman made to accommodate her lover. One a woman made when she wanted to be made love to. And he doubted she was even aware she'd done it.

  Her hips swayed in small, subtle movements, stroking him in time with the rhythm of his tongue, and the ache in his loins turned savage. With fingers that shook, Cullen pulled down one shoulder strap of her swimsuit. The round whiteness of her breast, with its delicate, surprisingly dark tip, brushed his palm. She cried out, her back arching at the brief contact.

  Cullen swore, his breath coming harshly. She was so responsive, too responsive. With a groan, his mouth closed over one breast, his hand over the other. Her breath came in a gasp as he pulled her into his mouth, tongue swirling tightly around the lengthening bud of her nipple. With a gulping cry she freed herself from the swimsuit straps and clasped his head, holding him against her breast.

  When Cullen released her, the sight of her breast, wet and swollen from the attention of his mouth, sent such a powerful surge of desire through him that for a moment he couldn't breathe. His control wasn't just shredded, it was damn near nonexistent. If he touched her again…

  "No," he said from between clenched teeth.

  Rachel was momentarily paralysed by Cullen's sudden withdrawal. She could barely take in his denial. The reality of him against her—her hands wrapped in his thick, strong hair, holding him against her breasts—sank in, and mortification washed through her with a peculiar piercing pain that leached all the blood from the surface of her skin. She felt it go, felt the pale chill that replaced it. How could she have lost herself so thoroughly that she'd forgotten he didn't want her?

  Correction, she thought shakily, he wanted her; she could feel his arousal. What male wouldn't want a near naked woman who'd made her willingness, her availability, clear? He was simply reacting as any healthy male would, on a purely physical level that didn't include any of the side benefits of love or commitment, or even friendship.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. She stumbled back, jerking at the straps of her swimsuit.

  "Sorry?" His hands shot out to grasp her wrists, stopping her desperate attempts at covering up. His mouth was wet and sensually full, his eyes dark, almost frighteningly intense. "What do you mean 'sorry'?"

  She shook her head. The sun beat down on her bare breasts, and she felt the humid moisture on her skin drying, her skin tightening. How could she explain that she was sorry she'd given in to her need to touch him, that she was sorry she'd been stupid enough to run straight at a granite wall?

  His voice dropped. "Are you apologising for this?"

  His hands cupped her breasts. The sight of his strong fingers cradling her much paler flesh sent fresh heat spearing through her, driving the humiliation in even deeper. "Don't," she snapped huskily. "Don't touch me unless you mean it."

  "Oh, I mean it," he retorted grimly.

  And then his mouth was on hers again, his tongue plunging deep as he hauled her so tight against him her breasts were flattened against his chest. The world tilted as he lifted her, then he was pulling her down, easing her on top of his long, muscular body as he settled himself against the unforgiving rock. With gentle hands he stroked her skin and smoothed the hair from her face, and she could no more stop the soft sounds deep in her throat than she could stop herself responding to him. Cullen's hand moved between them, stroking the damp apex of her thighs; then he eased the thin barrier of fabric aside. She cried out again as his fingers gently explored her exquisitely sensitive flesh. Then he was murmuring to her, soft words, endless words, coaxing her closer, telling her how beautiful she was, how desirable. Telling her how much he wanted her, needed her.

  His mouth found hers in a deep kiss as one long finger penetrated her, and the world shivered and rippled out of focus, then came apart in a sweet, rending sunburst of delight.

  After what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, he stirred, gathering her in his arms and lifting her as he surged smoothly to his feet.

  "Where are we going?" she mumbled sleepily.

  His voice wrapped around her, deep and rough-velvet as a purr. "Shh, just relax. I'm going to bathe you."

  Cullen ignored the fact that he still had his jeans and boots on as he wade
d thigh-deep into the river, too intent on the woman in his arms to even register that after the radiant heat of the rock shelf, the water was icily cold. He shifted Rachel in his arms, letting her slide against him until her feet found the riverbed; then he began to lave water between her legs, over the soft hollow of her belly where the cream swimsuit bunched, over the alabaster perfection of her breasts and down the elegant, sculpted curve of her spine.

  He wanted her more with every stroke of his hand, every trailing stream of water silvering her delicate skin. He was still fully, painfully aroused, his breathing was too rapid, and sweat kept dewing his skin despite the cool water that swirled around his thighs. But he kept his touch gentle, restoring the straps of her swimsuit to her shoulders with as much care as his fumbling rough fingers could manage. When he was done, he cradled her in his arms again and waded across the shallowest point to the far side, carrying her back to where she'd left her clothes. "Are you all right to ride?"

  Rachel's eyes snapped open. She was startled by the flatness in Cullen's voice as he set her on her feet, and for a moment the world spun out of control. She was still caught up in the tender care of his touch as he'd bathed her. But the arid lack of expression on his face grounded her with a thump. If he'd expressed his regret at touching her out loud, he couldn't have been clearer. "I got here," she said, as evenly as she could. "I expect I can make it back."

  "I can double you on my horse if you need help, or if you're prepared to wait, I can go get the four-wheel drive. There's an old stock trail farther up in the foothills that will take a vehicle in the dry."

  "I said I can manage. I don't need your help."

  Cullen's jaw hardened, and for the briefest moment she thought he was going to ignore what she'd just said, pick her up and carry her back to wherever he'd left his horse. His reaction was at odds with the lack of emotion in his voice and the cool offer of help which had successfully relegated the shattering intimacy they'd shared to a one-sided sexual encounter that he had no desire to repeat.

  Rachel raked her chin up a notch. Cullen could backtrack as much as he liked, but he couldn't take back his barely leashed response to her, his hoarse declaration of need as she'd come apart in his arms. "Don't expect me to pretend that what … happened, didn't."

  His gaze met hers, and there was nothing cool in it. He looked hot, and so hungry that the hairs at her nape stirred. "It would be better for both of us if you did." With a last brooding glance, he strode back the way he'd come.

  Rachel listened to the fading sound of his footsteps, the splash of water as he forded the river, the thud of hooves as he rode away.

  Her body still throbbed from her release, and her mind reeled from the sharp immediacy of her response to Cullen, the shattering completeness of her surrender. How could she be so drawn to a man who wasn't even remotely interested in commitment?

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Rachel moved into her flat the next day. Cole and three of his men helped shift in the furniture she'd had stored at the farm. They also cleared out the tiny garage at the rear, which she'd been unable to use because it was choked with the previous owner's junk and all the leftover debris and building materials from the recent renovations. Helen helped her get the place straightened, hang curtains, and put crockery and silverware away.

  "It's nice," Helen said wistfully, looking around. "I like what you've done with it. I never would have thought that clay colour could look so good."

  "I wasn't sure, either," Rachel admitted, taking pleasure in the warm honey-glow of the sun on the walls, the way it complemented her comfortable furniture, bright rugs and shelves of books.

  "Well, it certainly looks a lot different than when Maisie Jackson had it." Helen glanced around, shaking her head in memory of the last owner of the salon, who'd had a fetish for seventies kitsch and who, judging from some of the wild colour combinations she'd favoured, had been colour blind. "I hope you'll be happy here."

  "Oh, I intend to be," Rachel said with a determined smile. Just being in Riverbend answered a need she'd always been aware of—despite some of the unpleasant things that had happened since she'd moved back. "Riverbend is my home."

  When Helen and Cole and the farmhands had left, Rachel sank quietly onto a sofa, her gaze touching on all the things she'd gathered around her since she was a small girl exiled to a city that was too big, too impersonal and too far away from her family. She was an inveterate pack rat—or so her father had said. She'd kept every photo, every gift, every book she'd ever enjoyed—hoarding them close in an instinctive search for security and familiarity.

  And now, once again, possessions were all she had.

  Shaking off the morbid thought, she sprang to her feet and snatched up the grocery list she'd made earlier. If she didn't make it to the supermarket soon, it would close and her cupboards would remain bare until tomorrow.

  At this time of night the supermarket was near empty, and Rachel was enjoying the relative freedom of the aisles when she rounded a corner and ran into Cullen. For a frozen moment she stared at him, so shocked at the unexpected encounter she almost missed the unguarded rawness of his expression before he spun on his heel and strode in the opposite direction, a container of milk dangling from his fingers.

  Rachel forced herself to keep strolling the aisles as if nothing had happened, staring at her scribbled list and repeatedly walking past items she needed before doubling back in frustration. Just when she thought she had herself back under control, she glanced up to find him looking across his shoulder at her instead of at the girl checking his groceries. The hot darkness in Cullen's gaze sent a melting pain through her bones, followed by a surge of anger.

  Damn him. If Cullen Logan crooked his little finger, she would drop the loaf of bread she'd just picked up and walk into his arms without counting the cost. But he wasn't going to do that, and on cue a blankness as familiar as the metallic colour of his eyes closed out every last trace of emotion. He completed his transaction, picked up his grocery bag and strode out.

  The glass doors slid closed behind him, and Rachel looked down at the bread she'd somehow managed to crush against her chest. Releasing a tired breath, she dropped the sorry loaf into her trolley. There was no point in shopping for anything more—her concentration was shot. Tossing her list back in her bag, she wheeled her cart to the checkout.

  As Rachel left the supermarket, another woman hurried toward the entrance, towing two small children along with her. Emily Trask. Dane's mother.

  As the other woman passed, she kept her head down, but even with the avoidance of eye contact and the clothes that wrapped her from neck to ankle in the sweltering humidity, Emily Trask couldn't hide the fact that she'd been beaten black and blue, and a whole lot of other colours besides.

  Rachel smiled and nodded, careful not to stare, to make the other woman more self-conscious than she must be about the disfiguring marks, but her mind reeled at the sheer brutality that had put those ugly swellings and cuts on Emily's face. The same brutality that had the two children huddling in tight against their mother, clutching at her skirts as if afraid to let her go.

  As Rachel dumped her groceries on the back seat of her car, then returned her trolley to the trolley park, she came to a decision. She was going to do something.

  Rachel didn't know what, but it was beyond bearing that anyone should be treated like that, and that the police couldn't do a thing about it. Tomorrow she would take advantage of the small-town gossip and make discreet enquiries, using the grapevine that appeared to flow directly through her salon.

  * * *

  By the next afternoon, the grapevine hadn't turned up anything Rachel didn't know already. Emily Trask regularly sported bruises. Various people had tried to intervene, but they'd only made it worse for Emily and the children. Frank Trask had done time for assault and battery once, but that had been because he'd got drunk enough to make the mistake of hitting someone who wasn't afraid to lay charg
es. To compound Frank's mistake, the man he'd hit had been his boss, so he'd lost his job, as well. Unfortunately, the construction company went bust a few months later, and when a new crew moved in, Frank got his old job back.

  Despite Rachel's reluctance to expose herself to any more grief, she decided there was only one person she could appeal to who could possibly offer a solution that might help the Trask family. After work, she was going to see Cullen.

  * * *

  Frank Trask peered in the window of the shearing quarters. The boy wasn't there, and the risk Trask had taken in driving brazenly onto Logan's land suddenly manifested itself in the burning rage that had been coiling deep in his gut ever since he'd found out his old lady had done a runner, taking the kids and shifting into the Women's Refuge in Fairley that afternoon. Word was that Dane had helped her pack and then driven her over there in Logan's truck.

  Frank lurched in the darkness, swearing beneath his breath as he nearly ended up on his butt in the dirt. Maybe he shouldn't have had that last beer before heading out here? He snickered. Make that the last half dozen. Not that it would make any difference when it came to the business end of this little trip. When he caught up with Dane, he would teach the bastard that no one crossed him. He would teach him just as good as he'd taught his mother a couple of days ago. Just the thought of smashing his fist into the boy's skinny ribs made him feel better. The pleasure of thinking about it was almost as good as actually doin' it.

  And the boy needed another lesson. All Frank's mates at the pub agreed with him on that point. Family was family, and no half-assed soldier-boy like Cullen Logan was goin' to interfere with Frank Trask's disciplining of his family.

  The sound of a car approaching had Trask stumbling back into the shadows. Sweat leaped from his pores as he considered the possibility of an actual confrontation with Logan; then the air whooshed from his lungs as he watched a woman climb out from behind the wheel of a shiny little city car. He recognised her instantly. Rachel Sinclair had been the topic of more than a little speculation down at the pub, not the least that she was carrying on with Logan.