CULLEN'S BRIDE Read online

  He wouldn't allow himself to be this weak again.

  His accumulated leave would run out in about two months; then he was due back at the Hobsonville base, back to doing what he was best at. In the meantime, he would use every walking hour to complete the most urgent repairs at the farm, arrange for the stock to be auctioned, then leave the property in the hands of a real estate agent.

  Once he left, he would make sure he had no reason ever to come back to Riverbend again.

  * * *

  Rachel woke to the fragrance of coffee and an empty bed.

  Rolling over, she smoothed her palm across the place where Cullen had lain. Cold. Disappointment seeped through her, pushing aside her self-condemnation at the way she'd behaved last night, the way she'd more or less begged him to make love to her. But condemnation aside, she'd still wanted to wake in his arms, to be cuddled and stroked—but she'd always known Cullen wasn't the cosy type. He'd warned her that all he wanted was sexual gratification, but she hadn't wanted to believe anyone could separate their emotions so neatly.

  "You're awake."

  She rolled onto her back. Cullen was leaning in the doorway, barefoot and shirtless, a mug of coffee in one hand. I'm glad I didn't seriously expect a softening in those winter-grey eyes just because we made love, she told herself, because they are just as flat, just as … disassociated as usual.

  "Good morning." Jackknifing, she dragged the sheet over her breasts and pushed hair back from her face. He was almost dressed, fully awake, self-contained, and she was … a mess.

  "Thanks." She accepted the mug he held out, sipped the aromatic brew and tried for a bright smile.

  It was wasted. Cullen searched out his socks, sat down on the side of the bed and pulled them on; then he eased on his boots, before reaching for the shirt he must have picked up off the lounge floor earlier and tossed over the back of a chair. He'd already had a shower; she could smell the clean scent of her soap on his skin, and his hair was still damp.

  Rachel set her half-empty coffee mug down on the bedside table. "I'll see you out."

  He stood, buttoning his shirt. "There's no need."

  Rachel ignored him. She threw the quilt back, deciding she wasn't going to care that she was naked and he was fully dressed. She might as well not have worried at all, because he did a good job of pretending she simply didn't exist as she marched across the room, snatched her robe from the hook behind her door and pulled it on, tightening the belt with a savage twist. So much for behaving in a civilised manner; she found she didn't have it in her after all.

  He was watching her now. She could feel his attention, hear the change in the tenor of his breathing. "I take it this is goodbye," she said flatly, as she led the way out of the bedroom. It was still dark, and she saw with an incredulous glance at the clock in her lounge that it was just after four-thirty in the morning. Even though she knew Cullen was going now to protect her much vaunted reputation, the ease with which he was leaving, his sheer organisation—even bringing her a hot drink in bed—hurt.

  "It has to be."

  She started down the stairs, taking them slowly, carefully, and the anger drained away with every step. Cullen was leaving, as she'd known he would. What they'd shared last night had been, for her, beyond words. She was still stunned by the sheer wild beauty of their lovemaking, the intensity of emotion, the warmth and security of falling asleep with him wrapped around her, even if he'd insisted on sleeping on top of the covers. "I know why you think it has to be goodbye."

  She halted near the door. When he joined her, the small hallway shrank to the proportions of a doll's house.

  "No, you don't," he countered bleakly. "Besides the other, more tangible, problems, I can't offer the steady relationship you need."

  Even though she'd expected Cullen to come out with something like that, his clipped statement hurt. At least with Adam she'd always been aware of his affection and regret. "I didn't expect a declaration of undying love, and I know you didn't want … this, but after last night—" She swallowed, looked down at the warm gold-and-brown tones of the rug beneath her bare feet, then up into Cullen's eyes. "I don't believe for one minute that you're not capable of sustaining a relationship."

  His gaze remained damningly steady. "Lady, I don't think you want what I've got to offer. No decent woman would."

  Rachel knew that this was it. The granite wall. In some ways Cullen was exactly like Adam and her family—he wanted to make all the decisions about what was "best" for her, regardless of what she wanted or needed. "I don't care about your past," she said flatly.

  He stepped back, his shoulders grazing the wall. Rachel realised it was a defensive move, that her simple declaration had rocked him.

  "My past is who I am," he replied grimly, "and I won't inflict it on any woman, no matter how much I want to be with her." His voice dropped to a hoarse rumble, and the bones of his face seemed to sharpen, the hollows becoming more pronounced. "And I want to be with you … very badly. So badly I can't bear to be in the same room with you and not touch you. That's why it has to be goodbye. Once I got you in my bed, I wouldn't let you go."

  Shock spasmed through Rachel. She swallowed, then remembered to breathe. Pieces of what he'd said bounced around crazily in her head, echoing, re-echoing, and always coming back to, "I can't bear to be in the same room with you and not touch you."

  Adam's words.

  Adam's words when he'd explained why their marriage had to end. He'd said he couldn't bear to be in the same room with this other woman and not touch her. Now Cullen was telling her the same thing. The words were for her this time, and still he was walking out on her.

  "So, that's it," she said blankly, still trying to grasp how he could feel so intensely and still leave. "Even though you feel this … compulsion, a one-night stand is all we'll ever share?"

  Cullen's hands closed on her waist. She was lifted, trapped between the cool impervious wall and the hard heat of his body. He'd moved so fast she felt dizzy with it. His mouth dropped down on hers; his tongue filled her mouth. Rachel clutched his arms and hung on, relief and pleasure spiralling through her at the hungry demands of his hands and mouth. For a wild moment hope flared. He would stay. And if he stayed, she would have time. Time to convince him that they had the beginnings of something precious and unique.

  Just as abruptly, she was free—bereft—swaying against the wall.

  Cullen took the chain off the door and opened it. Damp air swirled in. His voice when he finally spoke was low, thick. "I won't touch you again, but what we shared was not a one-night stand."

  The door closed behind him.

  Rachel touched her fingers to her mouth; her lips were swollen and still tingling from his kiss. And it wasn't just her mouth. The rest of her was throbbing, her skin acutely sensitive. She could still feel the imprint of his hands, his body. Numbly, she stared at the wall opposite. Gradually she became aware of the passage of time. She was going to have to shower and change. To somehow pull herself together enough to open the salon and pretend everything was normal. A small moan surfaced from deep in her throat. She shoved her fist against her lips to stop the noise, but the low keening continued anyway.

  Coldness seeped into her, and she began to shiver. Reaching out, she grabbed the bannister for support and began to pull herself upstairs. With every step she took, she could feel the small aches of muscles unused to lovemaking, the tender throb deep inside where she'd stretched to accommodate Cullen's raw power.

  It was ironic, dreadfully ironic, that the words that had destroyed her marriage should be the same ones that would end her fledgling relationship with Cullen. He couldn't have found a more potent way to hammer home that no matter how strongly attracted he was to her, he would never stay.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

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  Cullen eased behind the wheel of his truck, slammed the door shut and crashed both fists down on the wheel.

  The hell with it.

  Damn�
��damn—his lack of control! His complete and utter disregard for anything but the fire in his blood, and his aching need to touch Rachel just once.

  He should have let her drive home alone last night.

  No. He couldn't have done that. Not with that son of a bitch, Trask, still cruising around, maybe getting liquored up for more trouble. He rubbed one hand over his face, rasping the stubble shadowing his jaw, probing the gritty ache in his eyes. A car drove past, then another one, and he became aware that the sun was cresting the horizon and that he shouldn't be parked so close to Rachel's salon.

  And then something Trask had said last night forced its way past his own self-absorption. "You'll go down just like your daddy did," he'd boasted with a sneer. "Two hits, one to the nose and one to the gut. Boom, boom, that's all it would take."

  Cullen jerked the key in the ignition and pulled out into the silent street, heading for home. The only people who knew where his father had been hit were Dan Holt—who'd been the attending officer at the time—his colleagues, and the coroner who'd investigated the death and pronounced that while the alcohol and physical abuse had contributed, Ian Logan had ultimately died by accidental drowning.

  In any event, his father had been hit three times that night, and once again the only people who knew that fact were the officials assigned to the case.

  And Cullen had been the one to administer the first blow.

  After walking in on a strident argument between his father and Ian Logan's latest woman, he hadn't been able to stand there and watch his brutally handsome, charismatic father abuse his mistress.

  At twenty-four, Caroline Hayward had had a youthful dewiness about her, even though Cullen knew that, despite her marriage to one of the district's wealthiest men, she'd been sharing his father's bed for the best part of a month

  Cullen remembered it as if it were yesterday. A cup had shattered against the kitchen door just as he'd opened it; then Caroline had started screaming when Ian Logan backhanded her across the mouth. The noise of the ensuing ruckus had been indescribable, and Cullen's stomach muscles had clenched in distress even though he was eighteen and at least as big as his father.

  Caroline hadn't looked anything like the sleek, rich young woman she was. Dressed in one of his father's shirts, her makeup smudged, her hair tangled and a red mark on her jaw, she'd simply looked scared. Even slumming it, whatever her purpose, didn't excuse his father for frightening or abusing her.

  "Leave her alone," Cullen demanded.

  The low pitch of his voice startled them bath into momentary silence. Shards of the broken cup crunched beneath his boots as he advanced another step into the room, underlining his right to be there, to put a stop to his father's madness. Caroline made a gulping sound and ran at him, plastering herself to his side. She cried out, lifting one bare foot. Blood welled from the pad just below her big toe, where a fragment of porcelain had struck deep.

  "Butt out, Cullen," his father snarled, looking tough and menacing in faded denims and nothing else.

  He was a big man, still muscular and vital—younger-looking than the forty-five years of age Cullen knew him to be. And just as mean as ever when things didn't go his way. But for the first time Cullen wasn't afraid of him. He'd had disagreements with bigger men, and won.

  "Not this time." He met his father's flat, calculating gaze, then deliberately turned his attention to Caroline, detaching her from his side and sitting her down on one of the motley chairs grouped around the kitchen table. Grabbing a tea towel, grimacing that it wasn't exactly in a fresh state, he went down on his haunches to look at her foot.

  Ian Logan stalked to the refrigerator, pulled a beer out, then levered the top carelessly onto the floor as he stood drinking and watching.

  The blood welled sullenly where the piece of porcelain was still embedded in her flesh. Ignoring her gasp of reproach, Cullen removed the shard and wrapped the tea towel around her foot. Despite the heat and humidity of the summer evening, her skin felt clammy and cold. "Get dressed, then go home," he'd said.

  "She'll go when she's ready."

  "Oh, she's ready." Cullen straightened. "After what you just did to her, I doubt she'll be back for more of the same. Am I right, Caroline?"

  She didn't answer.

  Cullen made the mistake of turning his head and seeking confirmation in Caroline's eyes. He heard his father move, sensed his intention even as the bottle came toward him. Shifting on the balls of his feet, Cullen was able to lessen the impact of the blow, but even so, the half-full bottle of beer connected just below his temple, just missing his eye and making lights explode in his head. Automatically, he ducked and weaved to the side, years of defending himself on the streets coming into play. Wind whooshed by his mouth as his father's follow-up punch just missed connecting. Then, one eye already puffing up and closing, Cullen sent his fist driving forward in a fast, hard punch at his father's jaw, rocking the older man back on his heels. Cullen's knuckles split with the force of the blow.

  It was the first time he'd ever struck back at his father. Years of fear and anger washed through him, condensing into a rush of triumph. That one blow had been empowering—the rage spun hotly through every cell of his body, blocking out pain, blocking out everything but the need to hurt back. To hit again and again. But as the adrenaline faded, he just felt sick.

  With a groggy, confused look at his father, who was hanging on to the fridge to keep himself upright, and Caroline cowering in the corner watching him with a horrified fascination, Cullen stumbled to the bathroom, flipped the lid on the toilet and lost the contents of his stomach.

  The ugliness of the scene made him feel tainted. Dirty. He didn't think he would ever forget the pure, hot pleasure of burying his fist in his father's face. A groan scraped past his raw throat as he flushed away the sour smell of nausea. Ah, God, no one should have to feel that! Least of all a son when he was hitting his father. And to cap it off, he was pretty damned sure it was the same brutal pleasure he'd seen on his father's face on occasion. Usually when Ian Logan had been beating the hell out of him.

  He spun the basin tap on full. Icy water gushed out, splashing up and over the stained, chipped bowl. His stomach revolted again, and his eye hurt as if there were a knife plunged through the centre of it. It was already swelling and discolouring. Dipping forward, he rinsed his face, then held his bleeding, abraded hand under the cold stream.

  Turning the water off, Cullen reached for a towel. His jaw clenched against the stiffening pain in his hand, the steady throb pounding at his head. The scene in the kitchen kept replaying itself in short, violent flashes through his mind, making his head spin with darkness and despair.

  Caroline had looked at him with horror and fear. He began to shake. No way was he like his father. No way.

  When he walked out into the kitchen, the room was empty of everything but broken crockery and bloodstains and the stench of violence. Of any room in the neglected homestead, he reflected, the kitchen was the most betrayed. It was a large, farmhouse kitchen and should have been the cosy centre of a large, happy family. Instead it was dirty and grey, the windows bare to the blank darkness of the night, the walls in need of another coat of paint, the hardwood floor in need of a sander to take off the layers of grease and dirt. The wide, practical counter was covered in a jumble of his father's dishes, and the smell of countless fried meals was heavy in the air.

  A car revved and screamed down the drive. Caroline's bright red Porsche. At least she'd had the sense to get out.

  Grimacing at the effort it took him, Cullen swept up the mess on the floor and wiped up the smears of blood. His father was in the lounge, watching television. As if nothing had happened.

  Maybe nothing had, on Ian Logan's scale of things. His lover hadn't liked being roughed up and had walked out on him. His son had finally got up the guts to take a poke at his old man. Now, he was comfortably sunk on the sofa, nursing his bruised jaw and the ringing in his ears with another beer to act as a general anaesthe
tic. Big deal. Life goes on.

  But it couldn't go on like this for Cullen.

  After chucking the cloth he'd used in the bin, Cullen stared at his reflection in the window over the sink. He looked like hell. His eye was puffed up and starting to darken, but that wasn't what held his attention; he'd had black eyes before. In the garish light from the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, the expression in his undamaged eye was old, ancient … accepting. His mouth a bitter line.

  Something moved inside him, tightening up his chest, pushing at his throat until a harsh sound forced its way out from between tightly clamped lips. Sweet hell, he was crying.

  He dashed at his face, stifling a curse at the double beat of pain from his sore hand and swollen eye. Why had he come back here, anyway? What kind of instinct had aimed him back at this nothing town and deadbeat farm?

  In Riverbend he was less than nothing. A loser.

  The only way he could make something of himself was to leave. He sniffed, cursing the pathetic sound and daring himself to take one more look at his equally pathetic hide in the reflecting blankness of the window. Despite his resolve to leave, another tear coursed down his lean tanned cheek, mixing with the stubble on his jaw. It wasn't as if he were leaving a home, he castigated himself. He wouldn't know what a home was if it leaped up and hit him in the face.

  He was leaving a violent drunk, a broke piece of dirt and the dream of a mother who had stayed around only long enough to expel him from her body.

  It took him half an hour to load the Harley; then he dossed down in the barn beside the bike, knowing he needed sleep before he hit the road, and not trusting his father to leave either him or the bike alone. Besides, it had started to rain—the heavy, tropical kind you would have to be crazy to ride in. Well, he wasn't crazy yet, despite the urge to run as far and as fast as he could. He didn't want to see his father again, to look into cold, metallic eyes so like his own. It was bad enough looking like a carbon copy of his old man; he didn't have the strength yet to face the fact that he was him.