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the centre of a lively group most of them men and one of them was Richard Hayward, a walking,
talking advertisement forGentleman's Quarterly.Haywardwas senior partner in the law firm that did the
lion's share of the legal work for several small country towns, including Riverbend. Just the thought of him
putting his elegant, manicured hands on Rachel's pale skin filled Cullen with an irrational fury.
He didn't trustHayward. Fifteen years ago, the lawyer had offered to represent Cullen free of charge
when Cullen had been pulled in for questioning about his father's death. But something about the
smoothness of the offer, the casual assertion that Cullenneeded representation, when he knew damn well
there was no case the police could bring against him, had made Cullen instantly wary. The subsequent
offer to dispose of Cullen's land for him had grated, too, even though at that point in time in the cold
anonymity of the police interview room he'd had no desire to retain the land, no desire to do anything
but get out of Riverbend and never come back.
Haywardhad changed Cullen's mind just by being nice.
Nice hadn't sat easily with the coldness inHayward's eyes. Especially when he'd never offered anything
other than contempt or indifference before.
A woman insinuated herself into the group, and Cullen recognisedHayward's wife, Caroline. She was no
less elegant than her husband her silk blouse and matching pants moulding a body that was as
expensively well looked after as her carefully tended face and blond hair.
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Cullen's jaw tightened. He wondered what the couple were doing at a simple country gathering like this.
The Haywards had moved out of Riverbend years ago, when Richard had taken his father's place in his
practice in Fairley, and from all he'd heard, city lights and city vices were more to their taste than a farm
barbecue.
As if the intensity of his scrutiny had pulled at her, Caroline Hayward paused in her disinterested perusal
of the crowd. Her eyes flew wide when she finally spotted him. She jerked her gaze away just as her
husband handed her a glass of some clear liquid. Lifting the glass, she took a long swallow. From the
hectic colour that spread across her cheeks, Cullen deduced it wasn't water she was knocking back.
Haywardlooked at him then, and something about the bland lack of reaction in his glance sent cold
warning snaking down Cullen's spine. Beside him, Russ crumpled his now empty beer can. The sound
was preternaturally loud, even against the considerable background noise of the party.
"Here comes the cavalry," Russ murmured.
Cullen barely acknowledged Russ's comment, but a cold smile touched his mouth as Cole Sinclair,
six-foot-two of mean, hard muscle, insinuated himself intoHayward's group and slid an arm around
Rachel's waist. The man might as well have hung a Don't Touch sign around his sister's neck.
It was crazy. Cullen hardly knew her, and she wouldn't tolerate it, but he'd wanted to do the same thing
himself. "They'll have to get past Cole and maybe even some of those other big brothers of hers," he
commented. "Now I'dreally like to see that."
* * *
"What were you doing withLogan?" Cole asked in clipped tones as he walked Rachel far enough away
from the socialising groups to ensure privacy.
"It's none of your business," she retorted, "but my shoe got stuck in a paver. Cullen caught the meat tray
before I dropped it and ruined everybody's dinner."
"It didn't look like the tray he was holding to me."
Rachel stepped away from Cole's hold, perversely wishing she had her two-inch heels back. Closer to
eye-level contact might just remind Cole she was out of school. "He was giving me a lecture, not a
come-on."
The grim set to Cole's mouth told her that he didn't believe a word she'd said. "Stay away from him, Sis.
You've had enough grief. Cullen's a hard man. The only thing I've ever heard of him doing with a woman
is taking her to bed."
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