Outback Cowboy

by Lexxie Couper

  He strode down the jet’s carpeted aisle, adjusting his cuffs as he went.

  Monet stared after him, her chest tight.

  She couldn’t get out of her seat. Her heart punched so hard in her chest she wondered if her breastbone was still in one piece.

  What did she do if Dylan and Annie…what if they…

  Joseph stopped at the jet door and turned back to her. “I think you need to actually leave the jet if you’re going to talk to someone here, don’t you?”

  The words were spoken with droll sarcasm, and yet a small smile played with the billionaire’s lips, and just before he slipped on black sunglasses, Monet saw warmth in his gaze.

  Then he turned back to the door, now rising outward, and stepped out of the jet.

  Monet stared at the empty doorway, at the saturated blue sky beyond it, a sky like none she’d seen in New York.

  Dylan’s sky.

  She straightened, rose to her feet. Heart still behaving like a wrecking ball, mouth so dry she could hardly swallow, she walked down the aisle and stepped out of the jet.

  Into Oz.

  “Jesus,” Dylan muttered. “Monnie.”

  “Monet?”

  Hunter’s question barely registered in Dylan’s brain. Nor did Annie’s surprised gasp. He stood stock-still beside the pickup, his hand resting on Mutt’s solid body, his gaze fixed on the woman standing at the top of the jet stairs.

  Monet.

  She was here. In Australia.

  He pulled in a slow breath. Clenched his jaw. Released his breath and ran his hand down Mutt’s back. He did all those things to keep himself by his brother’s side. To keep himself from running to the jet, scooping Monet into his arms and kissing her senseless.

  She was here.

  Then what the fuck are you doing standing beside Hunter? Dickhead.

  He started walking toward her.

  Toward the woman who had shaken up his world.

  Halfway across the airstrip he passed Annie’s father. If the man said something to him, Dylan didn’t know. He didn’t take his stare from Monet, watching her walk down the steps, her long dark hair lifted from her face by a playful summer breeze, her eyes hidden by those damn dark sunglasses she’d been wearing the very first time he met her.

  She wore almost the same thing she had then—dark jeans, a snug black shirt and knee-high black boots. New York attire through and through. So completely inappropriate for the scorching Australian summer day, and yet she looked so perfect right there in front of him, so bloody right.

  He was three steps from the jet when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  For a surreal moment he wondered if she was truly there. Perhaps his mind was playing silly buggers with him. He ached for her so much, missed her so much, perhaps his mind had conjured her up.

  “Hello, Dylan.”

  Her accent caressed his senses. Her husky voice stroked his sanity.

  His breath burst from him in a ragged gush and he shook his head. “You really are here.”

  The corner of her lips twitched. “Where else would I be?”

  The urge to haul her close and crush those twitching lips with his mouth smashed through Dylan. Hard and almost impossible to deny. Instead, he stood motionless. He needed to know why she was here before he did anything stupid, like make love to her right here on the dust-covered tarmac for everyone to see.

  “New York?” he responded.

  She shook her head. “There’s something wrong with New York.”

  Dylan’s gut clenched. “What’s that?”

  “You’re not in it.”

  The softly spoken statement made his stomach twist. His groin grew tight. His heart beat harder.

  He shook his head then rubbed his hands over his face. Bristles scratched at his palms, and he realized he hadn’t shaved since returning to Australia almost a week ago. In fact, ever since he’d arrived home he’d done little except work. Mustering the south herd, preparing them for auction, negotiating stud fees with three interstate station owners and introducing the calf born while he was away—named Prince, of all things—back into the north herd with its mother.

  “Bloody hell, Monet. I can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  Her voice was as strained as he felt. Her sunglasses still hid her eyes.

  “This. I’ve spent the last seven days trying like fuck to get over you. I’ve worked my arse off, did more since I returned home than I did in the fortnight before I left. The hired hands are about to kill me and I think I’ve scared off more than one jackaroo with how hard I’ve been working them. And none of it has helped. Every bloody minute of every bloody day I’ve thought of you. Ached for you.”

  “Dylan,” she began, stepping toward him. He shook his head again, raising his hand to stop her. Behind him, he heard distant voices. Annie and her father, judging by the accents involved. It only highlighted just how much he’d messed everything up. Three American accents, all angry and hurt because of him.

  He rubbed his face again and let out a shaky breath. “I get it now,” he said, returning his gaze to Monet’s face. “I get it. Why I feel so fucking bad when I should feel so alive.”

  Monet stood motionless. “Why?”

  “Because ever since I walked away from you, I’ve been pretending that somehow we’d actually work. That someday I’d magically wake up and not be a stockman anymore. I’d fly back to you in New York and we’d spend the rest of our lives together, laughing about the time I was the Down Under Wonder as I earn millions playing the stock market, or investing in who the fuck knows what. And now I know, standing here in front of you, unshaven, my clothes covered in dust, sweat already making me stink after spending two hours dealing with an aggressive bull who didn’t want to be loaded into a truck…I know I can’t pretend anymore. You’re New York, and I’m the Outback. That’s the way it is.”

  For a long moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. He could feel her stare on him through the darkness of her lenses, but as before, her glasses hid so much of her face he had no idea what she was thinking. And then, just when he thought he couldn’t take the silence anymore, she raised her hand and removed her sunglasses, and his heart smashed into his throat.

  Fuck. He was never meant to love someone so gorgeous. There was no way he’d ever survive it.

  “Hey, Dylan!” Hunter’s shout jerked his stare to his brother. “You two want a ride back to the house?”

  Dylan looked at the three people standing next to his ute. Annie was holding her father’s arm, the smile on her face telling Dylan whatever had passed between her and Joseph Prince had ended well. He was happy for her. He truly was. If only he could find his own happiness.

  He shook his head. “No. We’ll walk back.”

  There were things that needed to be said.

  Hunter gave him a nod, his expression uncertain.

  Dylan wanted to laugh. It seemed both Sullivan boys had lost their hearts to an American woman. Who would have thought it?

  Giving Mutt a sharp whistle, he watched his dog jump from the ute’s tray and streak across the airstrip, tongue-lolling doggy grin in place. He reached down, scratching the dog around his ears, Mutt’s liquid-brown eyes gazing up at him with absolute love. Dylan let out a soft snort. The unconditional love of a dog. If only that kind of love existed in the human world.

  “Dylan?”

  He straightened, his dimple flashing in his cheek. “You got a hat in that fancy jet?”

  She shook her head.

  “Here you go.” He removed his and placed it on her head. “You’ll fry like an egg if you don’t cover up.”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “Not yet, please? Let’s just pretend for a minute we’re old mates, catching up. Besides, I wanna show you Farpoint first. Well, a small part of it at least. Let you see where I come from before you fly back.”

  She parted her lips as if to argue but shut them again, reaching up and adjusting his
hat on her head.

  “Sorry it’s a bit sweaty.”

  She smiled, an unreadable expression in her gaze. “It’s perfect.”

  They began walking silently. Dylan knew why. He was a gutless wonder who didn’t want to finally admit that what he longed for with all his soul couldn’t be, regardless of Monet flying halfway around the world to see him. It didn’t matter how much they ached for each other, their lives were too damn different. They’d shared something amazing in New York, but the reality of life was insurmountable. Now the best he could do was show Monet where he belonged.

  It wasn’t until Mutt raced ahead a while later, barking in that special way that told Dylan he was ready for some fun, that Dylan realized where they’d walked to.

  He stopped, looking at the small billabong almost hidden by an outcrop of eucalyptus trees some eight hundred meters from the homestead. Not the main billabong he and Hunter swam in all the time, but the one he sometimes came to when he wanted to get away from the madness of working a cattle station. It was a small body of clear water no bigger than a suburban backyard pool. Very few people came to enjoy its inviting depths, except for the kangaroos that used it as a drinking hole.

  “Wow.” Monet stopped beside him, her gaze moving over the ancient gum trees shading the water, the lush green grass surrounding it, the craggy old rocks that jutted out of the ground on one side, making the most perfect ledge to take a plunge.

  A plunge, Dylan noticed, Mutt had already taken, given that his dog was happily paddling around in the water.

  “This is beautiful.”

  He turned to face Monet. “It is. But not as beautiful as you.”

  “Dylan,” she said, “I know you think you know what’s best for—”

  He didn’t let her finish. He couldn’t. Try as hard as he might, he couldn’t fight the need to kiss her anymore.

  Her mouth opened to his straight away, their tongues mating with a fierce hunger he understood all too well. He feasted on her lips, devoured them. He’d never been so starved for anything like he was Monet’s mouth. He buried his hands in her hair, his hat tumbling from her head as he did so. He didn’t care. Neither, it seemed, did she. They stood beside the billabong, the scorching Australian sun beating down on them, and mocked its heat with the blazing ferocity of their kiss.

  Tongues battled, teeth nipped. They kissed each other as if it was their only hope of survival, and perhaps it was. Perhaps, Dylan thought, it was the only way they could face the rest of their tomorrows apart. This one kiss.

  “Jesus bloody Christ, Monet,” he groaned against her mouth. He was on fire. Aching. “I love you. I wish I didn’t, but I do. How the fuck am I going to exist without you?”

  She pulled away from him, and every fiber in his body screamed out in denial, wanting to feel her against his body again. “You’re a moron, Dylan Sullivan,” she said, her voice a choppy breath.

  He frowned, his chest tight, his balls heavy. “A moron? For loving you?”

  She shook her head. “You still haven’t asked me why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here, Monet?”

  She reached down behind her, snared his fallen hat from the ground and placed it on her head again. “I showed you New York for six days. I think it’s only fair you show me Farpoint.”

  Dylan’s heart thumped hard in his chest. He swallowed, refusing to let his brain take him where it wanted to go. “For six days?”

  Monet shrugged. “I’m getting the feeling Farpoint Creek is too big to see in six days. I mean, I could spend six days just drawing this…this…” She waved a hand at the small body of water. “What do I call this? A pond?”

  Dylan couldn’t stop his grin. Just as he couldn’t stop his pulse from pounding like an insane elephant in his throat, nor his cock from flooding with eager, impatient need. “Billabong,” he answered.

  She grinned back at him. “I think I’ll need to spend at least six days sketching this billabong. At least six. Maybe more.”

  Dylan closed the distance between them with a single step, smoothing his hands around her waist. “How many more?”

  She gazed up at him, his hat ridiculously big on her head, her wholly kissable lips pulling into a wide, seductive smile. “You know us Americans. We never do anything half measure. I’m thinking as many days as truly necessary. Maybe a month?” She gave him another elegant shrug, a second before her hands slid up his chest and flipped open the top button of his shirt. “Maybe more.”

  Dylan’s cock jerked in his jeans and he pushed his hips forward, letting Monet know exactly what he thought of that idea. “Maybe more, ’eh?”

  She nodded. “And when I finish drawing the billabong, I’m going to need to spend at least another month making sketches of all the Australian stockmen around here. You know, for my next exhibition.”

  “All the stockmen?”

  She popped open the second button. “Well, maybe not all the stockmen. Maybe just the Down Under Wonder. Have you heard of him? He’s all I can think about of late. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he flew into New York, made me fall head over heels in love with him and then took off before I came to the realization an artist can live wherever she damn well pleases. In any country she damn well wants.”

  Dylan’s throat grew thick. Almost as thick as his cock. “She can?”

  Monet traced the tip of her tongue over her top lip. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m fairly certain Australia has quite a few art galleries, yes?”

  Dylan’s cock throbbed. His heart raced. “Now that you mention it…”

  “I’m working on a new exhibition. One that I plan on giving no closing date.” Monet released a third button on his shirt. “Titled Happily Ever After—The Stockman and Me. I think you’d be perfect as my inspiration.” She slipped her hands beneath the fabric and brushed her fingertips over his taut nipples. “Tell me, how do you feel about being my exclusive nude model?”

  Dylan sucked in a slow breath, the nails scraping over his nipples doing wicked things to his body. “I think I could learn to suffer for your art.”

  “Good,” Monet murmured, rising onto tiptoe to brush her lips over his. “Because I plan to use you for a very long time, cowboy.”

  The End

  Preview the Next Book

  Outback Master

  Farpoint Creek Cattle Station, Book 3

  Chapter 1

  Amelia Wesson—Amy to her friends—wandered around Harper Shaw’s house in Chicago and resisted the urge to pinch herself…again. She was in America. She was really here.

  For most of her life, she’d dreamed of traveling abroad, seeing foreign countries, experiencing different cultures.

  Hazel Sullivan, the matriarch of Farpoint Creek Cattle Station in Australia, told Amy she had a case of wanderlust, and according to Hazel, she had it bad.

  Her boss didn’t have to tell her that. Amy’s best friend, Josephine, had wallpapered every square inch of her room with pictures of Daniel Johns and Silverchair when they were growing up, but Amy had opted to display the photos of foreign places she’d torn out of old calendars. She’d spend hours looking at the pictures and imagining herself walking the city streets of New York or London, Rome or L.A.

  And now she was here, in Chicago, in the United States of America. Yep. Definitely a pinch-worthy moment. Meeting Harper online had probably been the best stroke of luck Amy had ever had in a life full of nothing special.

  Her mobile phone rang. Speak of the devil, she thought as she glanced at the screen.

  “Hey. How you going?” Amy asked.

  Harper chuckled. “You’re going to have to start working on your American lingo, Amy, if you want to fit in. I’m doing just fine. Sitting in Sydney Airport waiting for the connecting flight to Cobar. Your friends better be there to pick me up so I can take over your life. Figure I’ve only got two weeks to completely wreck the impressionable minds of your students. I’m anxious to start.”

  Amy felt a twinge of home
sickness as she thought about the life she’d so willingly traded away for this adventure. She was the teacher on Farpoint Creek Cattle Station, and her charges—children of the jackaroos and families who worked on the station—ranged from kindy to year six. Once her students entered their seventh year, they finished their education via School of the Air.

  Thank God.

  Amy’s mastery of Algebra and the upper maths courses was shaky at best. Two plus two—no problem. Add in a bunch of wonky symbols and things took a bad turn.

  “I’ve seen your lesson plans, mate, and I know you’re a great teacher. I’m not worried about you messing up anything. Besides, the kids are so excited about meeting you and hearing all about their American pen pals firsthand, I don’t think you’ll have time to teach them much of anything. They have a list of questions as long as the Murray River.”

  Amy had come up with the idea of starting an international pen pal program a year ago and had gone searching on several educational blogs for an American teacher willing to join forces. Through some long, meandering series of clicks—she could get lost on the internet for days—she’d come across Harper Shaw, a fourth grade teacher who was also hoping to find pen pals for her students. They’d begun emailing, making quick introductions and exploring their ideas for the letter-writing lesson. Then the emails turned to IMs, in which they shared work war stories and lesson plans. Finally, about nine months ago, they’d started Skyping, chatting for hours each weekend about anything and everything. Though they’d never met face-to-face, Amy considered Harper one of her best friends.

  “So what do you think of the house? You’re there, right?” Harper asked.

  “I got in about half an hour ago. It’s gorgeous. You made a mistake offering this life swap. I’m squatting here permanently.”

  She heard a voice announce the departure of a flight to London through the phone. Amy could imagine exactly where Harper was sitting as she waited to begin the next leg of her journey. She’d be sitting in that same place in a couple weeks as she returned home.