CULLEN'S BRIDE

by Fiona Brand

  Rachel hadn't been close enough to describe exactly what he'd looked like, but even at the tender age of twelve, she could see the hot wildness in him. His hair had tumbled to his shoulders in a thick, black mane, and as he'd swung one long denim-clad leg over the bike, his unzipped jacket had parted, revealing a broad, naked chest. He'd moved with a powerful grace that had riveted her young gaze as he ignored the garage owner, Sal Tremaine's, half-hearted offer to pump the gas, filling the bike himself before prowling inside to pay.

  She'd seen bikers from a distance before, but she'd never seen such a darkly, insolently beautiful male. She'd stood on the sidewalk with her eyes wide and her mouth dry, suddenly feeling the gulf between childhood and maturity, and unable to tear her fascinated gaze from him.

  Ethan and Cole had walked out of the supermarket, talking and laughing, until they had noticed the biker.

  "Cullen Logan," Ethan had said, jerking his head in the direction of the garage just as Cullen had mounted the bike and kicked it into pulsing, growling life.

  The flat of Cole's hand had connected with the small of Rachel's back as he began herding her toward the car. "Yeah," he'd muttered. "With any luck, he's on his way out of town."

  Shock had washed through Rachel then, too, because she'd heard her brothers talking about Cullen Logan before, and she knew he was eighteen, the same age as Ethan.

  Even then, she'd realised that Cullen Logan hadn't looked like a teenager.

  There had been a hard, seasoned quality to him, an edge of danger you would have to be plain stupid to miss. A shiver had eased down her spine, thrumming in time with the roar of the big bike as it accelerated out of town in a shimmering heat haze.

  If Cullen Logan had been eighteen then, he'd been eighteen going on thirty. Not counting last night, Rachel hadn't seen Cullen since. His property abutted the eastern corner of Sinclair land, but for years now the Logan holding had been leased out to whoever had the money and the inclination to eke a living out of the several thousand acres of rough hill country that had reportedly been one of the reasons Cullen's violent, womanising father, Ian Logan, had given up farming in favour of drinking.

  Rachel gulped at her too strong coffee, her mind struggling to absorb the two conflicting images of Cullen Logan; the bad-to-the-bone outlaw, and the cool, sternly controlled man.

  "Okay, shoot," Cole said impatiently. "What happened last night?"

  She lifted one brow at the outright demand in Cole's voice. "I was accosted, but the boy didn't touch me. He didn't get the chance. Cullen Logan arrived before anything much could happen."

  Cole let out a breath and came to stand in front of her. He took the coffee out of her hands and placed it on the bench, then awkwardly pulled her close for a hug. "And in your first week back, too," he said softly.

  "It's all right, Cole," she protested, returning the hug briefly, grateful for his gesture, but knowing that if she gave in to the urge to tell him that the attack had shattered her idyllic image of Riverbend and she was still struggling to regain her perspective, she would only confirm what he already thought; that she should have stayed in her tidy apartment in Auckland, kept her old job, and given herself time to get over her failed marriage.

  Firmly, she pushed free and retrieved her coffee. As far as she was concerned, all discussion about her reasons for wanting to live in the hometown she'd never really had a chance to belong to since she was seven was closed. The abrupt end to her marriage had left her feeling like she'd been the victim of a hit-and-run. When she'd been able to think beyond getting through each day and had taken stock of how unsatisfactory her life had become, she'd instinctively grasped at the idea of moving back to Riverbend. The thought of returning to live here permanently had sustained her through those dark, lonely months.

  Riverbend was home, and she was determined to stay.

  "If anyone got hurt," she said calmly, "it was the boy."

  "If the Trask kid touched you—"

  "He didn't. Cullen took care of me, and he took care of the boy."

  "Did Cullen touch you?"

  There was a coldness in Cole's eyes, a bite to his enquiry, that made her bristle. "He helped me up after I tripped over some of the stuff that had fallen out of my bag. I guess if you call a helping hand 'touching,' then yes, he did touch me."

  "That wasn't what I meant."

  Rachel controlled a flash of anger. After the loss of Rachel's mother at her birth, Cole and her other brothers had taken more than the usual brotherly interest in her, even after she'd been sent to live with her Aunt Rose in Auckland. Looking out for her had got to be a habit with them. Unfortunately, their methods were often blunt and heavy-handed; they generally didn't try to understand her point of view so much as manage her. "Cullen Logan extricated me from a situation I couldn't handle. He was kind enough to gather up all my things, then he dealt with the boy who attacked me. That was all."

  "Did you tell him who you are?"

  Rachel frowned. "I told him my name, but I don't see why that should mean anything other than that I could be some relation to you."

  Satisfaction took some of the chill out of Cole's expression. "If he knows you're a Sinclair, he won't waste his time even thinking about you."

  "I don't believe you said that!"

  Cole shrugged and busied himself turning his bacon over. "The only reason Cullen's back in the area at all is because Carson, the old guy who leased his land and ran his stock for him, has died. Word is that Cullen's only staying long enough to get his farm into a fit state to sell, then he's out of here for good. So far he's had the good sense to keep to himself. He's also not stupid. You're way out of his league. Do you want me to give you a lift to the police station this afternoon? I'm going into Fairley around two. While I'm collecting weed spray and feed, you can make your statement."

  Rachel's half-empty cup hit the bench with a snap. Her nerves were still humming from last night, and now, on top of that, she was mad. "I'm quite capable of driving into Fairley myself and doing whatever is required."

  Cole shot her a wry glance. "I just want to make sure you do the right thing and don't end up feeling sorry for the guy who attacked you."

  "If I were you, I'd concentrate on that bacon. Smells to me like you're burning it."

  Cole's hands shot up in the traditional sign of surrender, but Rachel wondered what his reaction would be if she told him that his suspicions were all twisted the wrong way. When Cullen had strode into the alley behind her salon, he'd radiated a clean strength and purpose that were still imprinted on her mind. If anyone had wanted to do any touching, it had been her. She'd been the one who had wanted him to stay.

  And Cullen hadn't been able to get out of that alley fast enough.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Cullen parked his truck across the road from Rachel Sinclair's salon just before closing.

  He'd timed it carefully. He needed to speak to Rachel about Dane, ASAP, and with any luck, most of her customers would have gone, granting them some measure of privacy.

  Especially since he now knew just exactly who she was. Even before he'd known for sure that she was old money—the oldest in town—and Cole Sinclair's pampered only sister, his instincts had told him to leave her alone. Cullen wasn't big on backing away from trouble, but he wasn't about to walk smack into it, either. And Rachel Sinclair, with her sexy voice and lush, vulnerable mouth, had to be the most trouble he'd seen since the last time he'd taken up residence in Riverbend.

  The door buzzer sounded. Rachel automatically glanced in the mirror. Cullen Logan. Heat bloomed on her normally pale skin, intensifying the uncomfortable humidity of late afternoon.

  He was standing by her reception desk, a sleek, hot panther of a man with shockingly light, winter grey eyes that calmly met her gaze in the mirror. A five o'clock shadow darkened his jaw, and his jet-black mane of hair was rumpled by wind and sweat. With his big shoulders stretching the hell out of what looked like an ol
d army fatigue shirt—minus the sleeves—and his long, powerful legs moulded by a pair of faded denims, he looked like he'd just finished a hard day's work and hadn't bothered to pretty himself up to come into town.

  Cullen eased some of the tension from his shoulders, keeping his expression carefully blank. Oh, man. Rachel Sinclair was a lady, all right. Her features were pale and delicate—not pretty, exactly, more patrician. Like something out of a French impressionist painting. A Renoir. Yeah, that was the one. She should be in a garden, wearing one of those graceful straw hats to protect her complexion. And a flowing white dress. She was the kind of woman who was born to wear white.

  Her dark gaze was steady on him, and unusually direct. There was an intensity there that caught and held his attention more strongly even than the waves of attraction thrumming through him. This was a lady who said what she meant and meant what she said, and right now she was taking him apart, piece by dissected piece, and examining each rough-and-ready part of him.

  A grim smile almost succeeded in tugging at the straight line of his mouth. He should tell her not to bother. If she went over every rough edge he had, they would be here until doomsday, and he wasn't planning on staying that long.

  He almost grinned at the shocked quiet in the place, which was saying something. He'd never thought he would find anything to smile about in Riverbend. Aside from the steady hum of a blow-dryer, no one was saying a word; he felt like the wolf who'd just wandered into the henhouse, and the occupants were all still too stunned to squawk. And he couldn't blame them. He looked like hell. His jaw was as rough as Hades, and he'd ripped the back out of his shirt straining at a broken fence post he could swear had been cemented in. And he needed sleep bad. He'd been skimping on sack time, pushing himself for weeks now to get through the mountain of maintenance work the farm needed. His eyes had that familiar gritty feeling he'd got so used to on combat operations.

  After the episode in the alley, he would be surprised if he'd got two hours, max, last night.

  Rachel flinched as her assistant, Helen, snapped her blow-dryer off. The profound silence that followed was broken by the click of Helen's high heels as she sauntered across to the front desk.

  Even though Rachel knew Cullen wanted to talk to her, and that letting Helen deal with him was just a delaying tactic, she found she needed a few seconds to shake off her response to him.

  It hadn't taken long for gossip about what had happened last night to spread like wildfire through Riverbend, and she'd been plied with stories about Cullen all day long—whether she'd wanted to hear them or not. According to local legend, Cullen's mother, Celeste, had drifted into town and almost immediately plunged into a wild affair with the broodingly handsome Ian Logan. The affair had culminated in marriage, despite predictions to the contrary. Just when people were adjusting to the permanency of the relationship, a pale, bruised Celeste had abandoned both her husband and her newborn baby shortly after giving birth. She'd never been heard of since.

  With a start like that, it was assumed that Cullen would be as wild and unmanageable as both his parents. In this, at least, the townspeople hadn't been proved wrong. From age seven, Cullen had run away more times than anyone could count; then, when he'd stopped running, everyone had wished he would take it up again. Foster homes and reform schools hadn't held him, and when he was too old to be institutionalised, he'd turned up in Riverbend again—a wild, angry teenager, not just looking for trouble, but making it. The whole town had held its breath, waiting for all that badness to explode.

  They hadn't had long to wait. When Cullen's father's battered, whiskey-soaked body was found half-submerged in a roadside ditch, everyone was certain the next stop for Cullen was a cell in a maximum security prison.

  But Cullen hadn't gone to prison, he'd gone into the army. And, as far as she knew, he hadn't been back. Until now.

  The level of interest in a man who'd been absent for a good fifteen years was bizarre, to say the least. But right now, the only thing that registered on Rachel was that the man taking up her mirror space emanated a raw, hot vitality that battered her senses. Heat poured from him, radiating from the sweat-sheened copper of his skin, leashed in the cold crucibles of his eyes. Handsome was way too weak an adjective. He was beautiful in the way she imagined ancient warriors must have been. If he ever smiled, he would be sinful.

  Rachel didn't think Cullen Logan was about to smile—not around her, anyway. He looked like he didn't want to be here at all.

  "Well, join the club, cowboy," she muttered beneath her breath, willing away her blank fascination, the disturbing awareness she wanted no part of. Even though she was grateful for the way he'd helped her out last night and still felt the need to thank him, for her own peace of mind, she wasn't sure she wanted him around either.

  "Rayyychel."

  Helen's mocking summons came too soon. Rachel set her scissors down, drew out the ends of both sides of the bob cut she'd just completed and smiled at her client. "All done," she said a trifle huskily. "I'll get Helen to finish off."

  Helen lifted both brows as Rachel crossed the small distance to the reception area. "How come you get all the men?" she said cheekily, giving Cullen a flirty look that bounced off him like a rubber ball hitting granite.

  "It's a curse," Rachel retorted drily. "Try starting life with four brothers. Will you dry Janine for me, please?"

  Rachel looked Cullen Logan straight in the eye, not bothering to try for a smile. "What can I do for you, Mr. Logan?"

  He showed no surprise that she knew his name.

  "I need to talk to you about last night."

  The salon, already quiet, grew as silent as a confessional. Mrs. Reese, who was sitting waiting for her daughter, Eleanor, put her magazine down and began adjusting her hearing aid. Eleanor swivelled around in her chair and was unashamedly watching and listening. Helen hadn't moved to switch on the blow-dryer.

  Rachel felt like saying, "Go away, Cullen Logan, you're making more gossip, and I'm already in up to my neck." But she didn't, and the blow-dryer finally whirred into life, followed by a huffy exclamation from Mrs. Reese.

  Rachel stared into Cullen's unnervingly light eyes with a calm she didn't feel, and suddenly she wanted to disturb him, to dent that impervious male assurance. "If you want to talk to me with any degree of privacy, you'll have to let me do something with your hair. I still owe you for last night. I'll listen while I'm cutting."

  Reaching up, she touched the thick, glossy black strands grazing his shoulders. It was a normal hairdressing gesture—she did it all the time—but this didn't feel like business. She felt like she was touching fire, playing with fire—and the banked look in his eyes told her that he knew it, too.

  Gritting her teeth against his censure, she injected the kind of reckless challenge into her voice that she just knew she was going to regret. "How would you like it?"

  The look he returned her was, for a stretched moment, as blank and clear as stone seen through water, but Rachel realised she'd crawled in way out of her depth when a dark humour surfaced and the faint twist of his long, brooding mouth turned sensual.

  "How many ways are there to have it?"

  Rachel's hand jerked back from his hair. The gesture had been too intimate; it had taken her too close to his work-hardened body, to the waves of heat pulsing off his sleek skin. Her chin came up—a useless gesture, as it didn't afford her enough height to make any kind of difference. "Short and fast," she drawled back, "or long and slow."

  Something that could almost have been shock flared in his eyes before they narrowed with a speculation that made her want to take her words back and bite her tongue off before she got herself any deeper into trouble. For a minute there she'd forgotten the rumours and the stories. She'd forgotten that Cullen Logan had probably killed a man.

  The silence lengthened, gathering tension with every drawn out second, then he let out a long, slow breath.

  "Short and fast … for today."

  Rachel almos
t closed her eyes at the next question she had to ask. "Wet or dry?"

  "Are you doing the washing?"

  She glanced at Helen, who was putting the final touches on Janine's hair. The other hairdresser was very pretty, with a shiny blond elfin cut and pert features. A lot of the male customers came in because she worked here. "Helen's busy, looks like you'll have to put up with me. Is that a problem?"

  This time the amusement spread all the way across his mouth, although the faint uplift at the corners couldn't be classified as a smile. "No problem."

  Rachel led the way to the basins, suddenly wishing the caramel-coloured shift she was wearing could grow another couple of inches. And her hips and breasts could lose a few. It was an illogical and inappropriate response. She knew she was no more than ordinarily attractive; her clothes were practical and well cut rather than alluring, and she had no outstanding talents to her name.

  And the man following her into the private alcove where the basins were situated, making her salon seem small and claustrophobic, didn't have the slightest interest in her other than to discuss something about last night's attack.

  Briskly she seated him, fastened a waterproof cape around his neck, then guided his head onto the concave basin rest. He watched her, and, despite her resolve, she felt herself getting hotter. It was a relief when she started washing his hair, because she didn't have to acknowledge what was in his eyes.

  He hadn't wanted Helen to wash his hair. He'd wanted her to do it, and now it felt unbearably intimate to put her hands on him.