CULLEN'S BRIDE Page 9

  But she sure was a looker.

  Trask licked his lips and stroked a hand over his fly, feeling a gloating satisfaction at the bulge growing beneath his fingers. She had a body on her, make no mistake. A little slap around and she would open her legs for him, and damned if he didn't feel like showing her just what she was missing out on.

  Anticipation hardened him even further when he saw what she was wearing. Her breasts weren't huge like he really liked 'em, but they stuck out against that silky little top like she was begging for it, and her long pale legs were nice. Yessir, just one yank and he'd have that short skirt up around her waist. Yeah. It excited him to rough up the action a little. Made it better for the woman, too.

  A vision of the four Sinclair brothers wavered through his mind, making him frown. They were big, hard bastards, and he'd had run-ins with them all at different times.

  But now there was only Cole.

  He grinned to himself in the shadows. Hell, if he was ready to take on Logan, he could handle Cole Sinclair. And besides, if the little lady was lying down for Logan, she must like it rough, despite her refined appearance.

  Trask licked his lips. And didn't he just know the type? Slick city bitches with a greedy yen for what they couldn't get from those soft office boys.

  * * *

  Rachel knocked at the front door of Cullen's house one more time. The sound echoed hollowly, as if the house was as empty and sad on the inside as it looked on the outside. After waiting another few seconds for a reply, she gave up and walked toward a low building that she hoped was the shearing quarters where she knew Dane was staying. She'd expected to find lights on in the house, to find some evidence of activity, and the air of darkness and isolation was disconcerting. She was almost at the freshly painted building when a man stepped out of the shadows. "Dane?" she said on a ridiculous wave of relief.

  "Try again, darlin'," a coarse voice answered.

  Fear and adrenaline jolted through Rachel. She recognised that voice, even though she'd only heard him speak once. Frank Trask. "Oh, I—are you visiting your son, Mr. Trask?"

  "Mr. Trask," he echoed, stepping close enough for her to make out his heavy-bellied form, smell the beer on his breath and the sour sharpness of unwashed clothing. "I like the sound of that. I like the sound of 'Please, Mr. Trask' even better."

  Rachel swallowed and glanced around, trying to keep her movements considered and normal, trying to keep the apprehension off her face. But Trask moved in anyway, crowding her personal space, sending fear and fury rippling through her. She stepped back, stumbling on her heels. He laughed, taking pleasure in her discomfort, stepping in close enough that her flailing hand brushed against his spongy gut. The feel of him was repulsive, igniting a fierce anger that only seemed to excite him further. He took another half step, invading her space again, and his breath washed over her face. It was hot and moist, unbelievably fetid. She remembered Cullen's warning not to get caught alone with Trask, that any self-defence tricks she had up her sleeve probably wouldn't work on him, but she wasn't going to go quietly. Whatever Trask wanted to do to her, whatever foul violation he had in mind, he would have to knock her out to do it, and meanwhile, she was going to get her hits in—scratch him, hurt him and scream for all she was worth.

  Trask's hand closed on her wrist. Rachel jerked against his hold and opened her mouth to scream, when the sharp sound of hooves striking hard-packed gravel cut through the night.

  With a desperate swing, Rachel took advantage of Trask's momentary surprise, putting all her force into the blow. She managed to connect solidly with his throat. He made a satisfying gurgling noise, released her wrist, then roared with rage as he lurched toward her.

  "Move away from her, Trask," a deep voice rasped from the shadows. "And do it real slow, so I don't get too excited."

  Frank Trask froze, then stepped back with a slowness that would have been comical if the situation hadn't been so alarming just moments ago. He craned around, eyes bugging from his head as he tried to pinpoint just where Cullen was.

  Cullen decided he wasn't about to let him wait. He prowled into the open. Trask flinched and whipped around, because Cullen wasn't where his voice had just been. But then, Trask's senses weren't particularly keen. By the reek of beer mixed in with the foul odour of his body, he'd spent the day at the pub, liquoring himself up for his next act of cowardice.

  "Go into the house, Rachel." Cullen didn't shift his gaze from his twitchy, sweating prey. "The door's unlocked."

  "If you need some help—"

  "I can handle it."

  "He hurt Dane's mother. I saw her in town yesterday."

  Rachel's voice wobbled a little, making the fury coursing through Cullen chill down to an icy resolve. He would do his best to ensure that in future Frank was real careful he didn't so much as walk on the same side of the street as Rachel.

  "Do you want me to phone the police, Cullen?"

  "Just go inside, babe. Let me handle this. The police haven't had a lot of success at slowing this creep down, but Frank and I talk the same language. Don't we, Frank?"

  Rachel knew she should move, but the soft rumble of Cullen's voice was hard to turn aside from. There was something mesmerizing about his cool control, the utter confidence in every word he said. He made her feel safe.

  Trask backed up until he was flat against the wall of the shearing quarters, and the cold glitter in Cullen's eyes turned even icier. Trask tried harder to melt into the wall.

  A shiver went down Rachel's spine. Cullen looked grim and remote on a good day, but with his dark hair slicked back with sweat, a shadow of stubble roughing up his jaw, and nothing on but a pair of scuffed riding boots and tight denims, he looked like hell's own definition of dangerous. A fierce, wholly feminine satisfaction filled her, pushing back the ugliness of Trask's intent, the vulnerability he'd forced on her. She'd always abhorred violence in any form, but Cullen's defence of her touched a primitive chord. Right or wrong, he had the equipment to protect her from everyone and everything.

  "Move it, honey," Cullen prompted, still in that same controlled voice.

  Rachel flicked a final look at Trask, who seemed to shrink before her eyes, and decided Cullen didn't need her help. "I'll make some coffee," she said firmly. "It'll be ready in just a few minutes."

  Cullen waited for the front door to close behind Rachel before he took one long stride toward Trask.

  Trask eased along the wall, his hands opening and closing as if searching for a weapon, anything to give him an edge. "You don't know who you're messing with," he snarled. "Lay one hand on me, pretty boy, and you'll go down just like your daddy did. Two hits, one to the nose and one to the gut. Boom, boom, that's all it would take."

  Cullen grasped the dirty cloth of Trask's shirt, then jerked upward. A burst of bad breath washed over his face, but he'd smelt worse, seen worse, than Frank Trask could ever be. And, like most bullies, Trask was a coward.

  "Dream on, Trask," Cullen said in a cool whisper. "My father was a drunk. I'm not. But while we're on the subject of violence, let's clear up a few things that have been bothering me for a while. I hope I never get to hear about you beating up on a woman again, because you're starting to irritate me. And when I get irritated, sometimes I lash out at whatever it is that's ticking me off. Now, I know you're used to fighting women and children, and taking on a fully grown male will be something of a step up for you, but I'm prepared to make allowances. For instance, I won't break any bones the first time around, but I can't make any promises about a rematch. You might have heard that if I get angry enough I could probably even kill a man. But you shouldn't believe every bit of gossip you hear, and that particular piece of information happens to be all wrong. Because you see, Trask, if you touch my woman again, I will kill you."

  "I won't—won't touch her—" Trask gasped. "Didn't realise she was yours— Pl-please—can't breathe—"

  Cullen calmly tightened his hold, cutting off the cowardly, stumbling rush at denial.
He leaned closer, close enough that he could smell the spittle dribbling down Trask's fat, unshaven jaw and the hot, stinking fear rising up from the man's sweating body. "Just one more thing."

  Trask's head nearly wobbled off his thick neck in his effort to show how very willing he was to listen to this one last piece of advice.

  Cullen smiled coldly. "If I ever see your wife, or any of your children, with bruises, I'll take it as a personal invitation to call around and see you."

  Trask shook his head, dragging in the tiny amount of air Cullen was allowing him with a tortured whine that almost tempted Cullen to ease back on the pressure. But there really was just one more loose end. "And, Trask," he continued softly, "don't think you can get away with hitting them in those other places. You know the ones I'm talking about—the soft, hidden places that nobody sees. Because when I was in the army, I did some special training. If you've heard all the other gossip that seems to be so rife around this place, you may have heard about that."

  "You were SAS," Trask gurgled.

  Cullen showed his approval by jerking just a little tighter on the shirt. "That's the one. They taught us some … interesting things, mostly for our own protection, you understand. But it means I've got all this knowledge—and, I'll have to admit, not a little experience—and if I ever see any member of your family walking as if they're hurting, or even just not moving right, I'll be looking for you."

  Trask bounced his head.

  Cullen opened his hand. Trask dropped like a stone, ending up splayed out in the dust in an untidy heap. He stared up at Cullen, wiping the spit from his mouth, eyes filled with fear and a pure evil hate; then he turned on his side and vomited. Cullen ignored the sour smell, the strangled, grunting sounds, as Trask emptied his miserable gut onto Cullen's dry dirt—gauging instead just how effective his tactics had been. A man like Trask just naturally got himself into all sorts of unpleasant situations—and he could stammer and act with the best of them. Trask retched one last time, then lurched to his feet, avoiding Cullen's hard, measuring gaze as he headed toward his utility at a shambling run.

  The ignition screamed as Trask worked the starter motor until the worn, smoking engine finally caught; then he buried his foot and sent the vehicle fishtailing down the drive. The lumbering Holden hit the cattle stop with a thump, and Cullen winced as metal sheared against metal, but his post stood solid, scraping paint and scoring a long dent in the vehicle's already battered hide.

  Trask was panicked but not out, Cullen decided, as the other man recovered enough to plant his foot again and spray gravel from hell to breakfast as he headed for the county road. But at least Cullen was fairly sure he wouldn't go near Rachel again.

  The front door opened, spreading light across his barren front yard.

  "Cullen?" As Cullen strode toward her, Rachel saw with relief that he wasn't hurt. "Did he…?"

  "We didn't fight. We just had a little … discussion."

  Rachel could imagine what the "discussion" had entailed; Cullen's eyes still smouldered with a controlled fury. "I brought your coffee."

  Cullen stepped up onto the verandah and accepted the mug, but he didn't drink; instead he took hold of her hand. "Did he touch you anywhere?"

  "He grabbed my wrist. You didn't give him the chance to do anything else."

  Cullen was silent for a long time. He turned her hand over and, examined the faint red marks on her wrist. His thumb smoothed over the sensitive skin with a gentleness completely at odds with his size and strength. The simple caress started an inner shaking, and suddenly she needed to be in his arms and held tight. Rachel stiffened and forced her expression to blankness. She wasn't accustomed to throwing herself in any man's arms, and yet the impulse to do so now was almost too strong to deny. Not that it mattered one way or the other. Cullen had drawn the boundaries of their relationship—he'd made it clear he didn't want intimacy—and she'd already run into his granite wall one too many times.

  Cullen released her and began drinking his coffee, half-turned away so that all she could see was the hard, remote cut of his profile, the sheen of light sliding off one bronzed shoulder. "Did he say anything to you?"

  "He—wasn't big on conversation. I don't think verbal communication is very high on Frank Trask's list of priorities."

  "You shouldn't have come here," he said abruptly.

  Hurt washed through Rachel, followed by an incredible dragging weariness. She didn't know why, but after what had just happened, she'd expected Cullen to be different with her. Softer. Her chin came up. "I wanted to talk to you about Dane's mother. I saw her outside the supermarket. She was so bruised… I thought Dane should know—"

  "Dane helped her shift out this afternoon," Cullen interrupted. "Using my truck. The family's moved into the Women's Refuge in Fairley. Dane's staying with a friend who lives nearby until Emily can arrange permanent accommodation. He won't be back until everything's sorted. Trask was probably looking for Dane when you showed up instead. He can't afford to go near his wife. She's taken out a restraining order against him. Hopefully this time she'll go the whole way and start divorce proceedings. It sure as hell can't be any picnic living with an animal like Frank Trask."

  Cullen's jaw tightened at Rachel's instant recoil at the mention of Trask. He could never allow himself to forget that if he'd stayed in Riverbend after his old man had died, he would probably be like Trask. The army had given him control, discipline, an outward respectability that Trask didn't possess—but it had also harnessed the very violence that was at the core of his soul, honing it to a degree that even a man like Trask couldn't imagine. As bad as Trask was, he didn't even rate the reserves bench in Cullen's game.

  Cullen gulped down the rest of his coffee, willing some of the knotted tension in his gut to dissolve. But not too much. He couldn't afford to relax, because if he did, he would touch Rachel, and in his present mood he wouldn't let her go. He would take the sweetness she was offering and damn the consequences.

  Fury still vibrated through him that Trask had laid his dirty paw on her, that he'd intended to hurt her. Along with the rage came a savage regret. Cullen wished that Rachel hadn't had to see him dealing with Trask on his own level. He'd tried not to let her opinion—her expectations—become important to him, but they had. He found he wanted to be her white knight after all. Only trouble was, he came from darkness and shadows, and they were all he knew.

  He stared into the empty mug before placing it on the verandah railing, steeling himself to meet Rachel's gaze. "Are you okay to drive?"

  "Of course."

  Her eyes were wide, dark, and her skin was far too pale. It was all he could do to stop himself from reaching for her. "You're shaking."

  "It's just reaction. It'll go away. I'm quite capable of driving."

  "I don't want to let you drive," he growled. "If Dane was here, he could follow in my truck and I could take you in. But as it is, the best I can offer is to follow you."

  "You don't have to do that. You're tired, probably hungry—"

  "I'm not leaving you to get home alone this time."

  Her eyes flashed at the reference to all the other times he'd walked away. "I can manage. Despite what you probably think, I didn't come out here chasing you. You've already made it clear you're not interested."

  Cullen's hands curled into fists at her blunt statement, and he knew he was about to make a huge mistake. He couldn't have her, but he was damned if he would let her go on believing he didn't want her. "If you think I'm not interested, you couldn't be more wrong. Baby, I'm so interested I can hardly think of anything else. But it's just not possible. We're not possible. When I said you shouldn't have come here, I meant you shouldn't be near me. For your own good. Around Riverbend, I'm bad news—and whether there was reason for the mud that was thrown or not has never made one bit of difference. It sticks. It'll stick to whoever associates with me, and it won't matter how clean your reputation is. You've got a business at stake. If you want to make a comfortable life
for yourself in Riverbend, forget about me."

  "And if I can't?"

  The very blankness of Rachel's expression was arresting. Perversely, her shuttered distance added to his ferocious tension. He found he wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. He didn't want her to hide anything from him, ever. Heat slammed through him, and between one breath and the next he was fully, achingly aroused, his muscles taut, twitching with the strain of not acting. "Lady," he said, his voice harsh, guttural, "you've got to try."

  Rachel felt the bleakness of Cullen's statement like a blow. But his words were at odds with his expression—it was primitively male, sexual and possessive, and so hungry her heart missed a beat. It was the kind of look that stopped women's lives, then sent them spinning in another direction entirely.

  The kind of look she'd been waiting for her whole life.

  The thought came out of nowhere, stopping the breath in her throat. Rachel nodded, barely aware she wasn't agreeing to Cullen's request to keep away from him but was simply moving her head in reflex.

  She wondered what on earth was happening to her. The seesawing depth of her emotions was completely uncharted territory; she felt as if she'd been cast adrift—that the goals that had defined her life had shifted. That she had changed in some fundamental way.

  She'd always been so sure about what she wanted from a relationship, and this wasn't it. She'd never imagined she would be so fiercely attracted to a man who both didn't need her and yet, was every bit as demanding, as dominating, as any of her brothers. A man who affected her more powerfully than she'd ever imagined one human being could affect another.

  Something squeezed painfully in her chest. She knew with a frightening clarity that if she let herself, she could love Cullen, and that what she would feel would be beyond the scope of anything she'd ever felt before. She also knew that he wouldn't allow himself to love her. He'd always been blunt on that point.