by Mari Carr
“Is that all it takes nowadays?” The charming smirk was back on Phillip’s lips, but Dylan couldn’t help notice his spine was straighter, his shoulders squarer. “An accent and a hat? I should have gone to Urban Outfitters months ago.” He turned back to Dylan. “Maybe you can teach me a few choice Australian phrases? The kind to woo Monet into going all wobbly inside, eh?”
Wanker. How’s that for a choice Australian phrase? The thought shot through Dylan’s head, dark and more than a tad aggressive.
Fighting to control the unexpected reaction to Phillip’s obvious pissing contest, he drew a deep breath. “All right. How’s this sound?” He turned to Monet, giving her a crooked smile. “G’day, love. Fancy getting dolled up and joining me on a shindig to the local pub?”
The exaggerated Australianisms, so far removed from how Dylan normally spoke, made Monet laugh, and as it had before, his body reacted to the husky, warm sound. “Oh Dylan. You had me at ‘g’day’.”
He chuckled, his hand instinctually coming up to steady her as she nudged him with her shoulder. The second his palm smoothed over the dip of her slim waist, the second his fingers brushed the subtle curve of the top of her backside, his breath caught in his throat and—completely indifferent to the fact she wasn’t the woman he was here to meet—his cock grew thick in his jeans.
Fuck a bloody duck, Sullivan. Get your hands off her, now.
But he couldn’t. He stared down into Monet’s face, into eyes the color of the Outback sky, and wanted more than life to kiss her.
To slide his arms around her waist, pull her to his body and capture her lips with his. To delve into her mouth with his tongue. To taste her sweetness…
She gazed up at him, her laughing smile slowly fading. Fading until she stared at him, her lips parted, her breath ragged, her hands smoothing over his chest, up to his shoulders—
“Ms. Carmichael?” a female voice shouted behind them. “The caterer’s here.”
Monet all but jumped away from Dylan, as if he’d suddenly started shooting live electricity from his body. She blinked, her teeth catching her bottom lip before, with a glance at Phillip, she hurried across the gallery.
Dylan watched her go, his heart not just thumping in his throat but bloody well slamming around in there. Like a sledgehammer swung by a maniac on steroids.
“Well, that was fun.”
He turned back to the man beside him, Phillip’s smirk once again pissing him off. “Fun?”
Phillip slid his gaze to where Monet stood talking to the caterer. “You know, the whole I’m-a-sexy-Aussie-cowboy seduction thing you got going. Pity it’s wasted on Monet.”
“Stockman,” Dylan said. “And tell me, why’s it wasted?”
It was idiocy of course. There was no point to the conversation. He wasn’t trying to seduce Monet. But for some bloody reason, his brain—perhaps jet-lagged, perhaps still trying to deal with the fact Annie was on the other side of the planet—decided the best course of action right now was to poke at Phillip’s disdainful conceit the way he used to poke at red-belly black snakes when he was a kid, just to see what they would do.
Phillip adjusted his cuffs. “Because Monet is a woman of style, taste and class who needs a man of the same caliber to satisfy her.” He smiled, apparently satisfied with his argument. “And you…are a cowboy.”
“Stockman,” Monet said as she slid between them, saving Dylan from doing something he was bound to regret. Something stupid, like knocking Phillip to the ground with a swift punch. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Phillip, I think we all know this conversation is over.”
Phillip’s eyebrows shot up again. He stared at Monet and then let out a snort. “Now I see why you wouldn’t let me get past first base. You’re not frigid or a lesbo like I thought. You’re just into—”
Dylan smashed his fist into the bloke’s jaw.
He couldn’t help himself. One second he was standing there, listening to the moron carry on and wondering if it was politically correct to tell him he was a dick. The next, shocked hurt crossed Monet’s beautiful face and Dylan was balling his hand into a fist and slamming it hard into Phillip’s clean-shaven jaw.
There was a dull bone-hitting thud, a collective gasp from the people setting up Monet’s exhibition and then Phillip dropped to the floor.
Holy shit, Sullivan. You’re in trouble now.
Chapter Three
Monet gaped at him. She’d never gaped at anyone before in her life, but here she was, gaping at Dylan, eyes wide, hands frozen halfway to her face, as if they didn’t know whether to clap together or cover her open mouth.
Oh God, he’d punched the crap out of Phillip.
“Dylan,” she managed, shaking herself out of her stupor. “You can’t just…” She shot a look at Phillip sprawled on the floor. Blood oozed from a cut on his lip, his face a mix of stunned confusion and indignant disbelief.
“I’m going to fucking sue!” he blustered, trying to scramble to his feet. It seemed an exercise in futility, however, when his heels slipped, his ass slapping back to the polished marble floor.
Monet ignored him, swinging her attention to Dylan. “You can’t just…hit someone because you don’t like what they say about you. Not in New York.”
The shadow cast over Dylan’s face from his hat couldn’t hide his incredulous expression. “Hell, love.” He took a step back, shaking his head. “I didn’t hit the bastard ’cause of what he said about me. I hit him because of what he said to you.”
Monet shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. Why would you hit him because of me?”
Dylan’s frown turned him into the poster boy for all things rugged and manly. “I don’t care if this is New York, when a bloke insults a woman like Phillip insulted you, a man steps in and shuts him up.”
Monet’s mouth fell open. Again.
He’d defended her honor. The Aussie cowboy just defended her honor.
Is he for—
The thought didn’t even finish forming in her head. It couldn’t. Not when her body took over and propelled her forward.
Straight into his arms. Her lips claiming his.
The kiss took her completely by surprise. As it did Dylan. Monet could tell by the way every muscle in his body—his hard, firm, muscular body—locked up. For a brief second, she thought he was going to push her away. He should. He was here for Annie. Hell, she should pull away. But she couldn’t. And he didn’t.
Instead, just as one-date-only Phillip sputtered, “What the fuck?” from the floor, Dylan’s arms slid around Monet’s waist, his hands flattened on her back and he hauled her closer to return the kiss.
Really return her kiss.
His tongue delved past her lips, finding hers and stroking it with possessive greed. He bunched his hands into fists, knotting the cotton of her shirt as he subtly urged his hips forward. Monet moaned into his mouth, the undeniable length of his thickening cock making her head swim. Or maybe it was the sheer potency of his kiss. His teeth caught her bottom lip, nipping gently before he sucked on the fleshy pad.
She whimpered, raking her nails over his back, drowning in the waves of pleasure washing over her.
Monnie, stop…Annie…
With a growl, Dylan’s mouth laid claim again, his tongue wild and hungry as it mated with hers. She rolled her hips, needing to feel his cock rub against the curve of her sex.
Stop, Monnie…the gallery…people watching…
Dylan’s mouth dragged up to her ear, to the sensitive dip beneath it. Monet’s gasp left her on a hitching breath, her belly flip-flopping as his tongue darted over her flesh. She bowed her neck, the feel of his lips exploring her skin too exquisite to deny.
He groaned against her throat, drawing her closer to his body, his hands smoothing down her back to her ass. He cupped each cheek, holding her as his lips returned to hers and his tongue fucked her mouth. It was unlike any kiss she’d experienced before. It told her exactly what effect she had on him, exactly what he wanted to do t
o her.
Oh Monnie, think about what you’re doing…
Somewhere at her feet, someone unimportant cursed again. Somewhere to her left, someone made a wooo! noise. Other people clapped enthusiastically. None of it mattered. How could it when she was being swept away by a single kiss?
A kiss so right, so damn perfect she could feel her panties grow damp. A kiss so fierce and demanding and impatient she wanted to strip naked and ride Dylan’s face, his tongue. A kiss so carnal she wanted to impale herself on his cock as his hands cupped and squeezed her breasts. Wanted to be taken by him right here, right now, on the gallery floor as the whole of New York witnessed her pleasure.
She dragged her nails over his broad back, around his narrow hips until, wriggling one hand between their bodies, she found his belt buckle—
He jerked away, moving back a step. And another. Nostrils flaring, chest heaving, he stared at her, his eyes hidden by the shadow of his hat. “Fuck, what am I doing?” He scraped his hands down his face, shaking his head as he did so. “What am I doing?”
The question was muffled by his hands but Monet heard it all the same. It sliced into her like a hot blade, the truth of it painful. What was he doing? What was she doing? She wasn’t Annie, and Annie, her best friend, was who Dylan was here to see.
Guilt smashed into her. Hot. Cold. Stinging and damning. She shut her eyes tight, her stomach rolling. What kind of friend was she?
“I’m sorry, Monet. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Dylan’s apology snapped her eyes open. He stood tense before her, his Adam’s apple working in his throat. Around them, the gallery’s staff watched, silent and rapt. More than one pair of feet shuffled.
“Fuckin’ right you shouldn’t have!”
Phillip’s indignant snarl made Monet flinch. Damn it, she’d forgotten all about him. Belly rolling some more, she tore her stare from Dylan and gave Phillip a wobbly smile. “Phillip, I—”
She stopped, unable to think of a single thing to say. What the hell did she say? I’m sorry Dylan hit you? She wasn’t. Phillip was a jerk. One date had been enough for her to recognize he was always a jerk, and tonight he was in fine jerk form. Unfortunately, the guy had delusions of grandeur, and he was one of New York’s most influential art collectors. Pissing him off wouldn’t help her career at all.
“I’m…” Nothing followed, her mind still a blank.
“You know what?” Phillip raised a hand, his lip curling. “Don’t bother. You’re not worth my time.” He slid a glare of contempt over Dylan and then turned back to Monet, his suavely handsome face twisted in a spiteful smile. “Just remember, when you’re fucking the Down Under Wonder tonight, that’s not a cock. This,” he grabbed his groin and gave it a squeeze, “is a—”
Dylan’s fist smashed against Phillip’s jaw. Again.
And again, Phillip slumped to the floor, this time bone-limp, his eyes closed.
“Sorry.” Dylan tipped his hat back off his head, giving Monet a very sheepish look. “But that joke was too bloody lame to let him finish.”
Monet’s mouth fell open. “Shit, Dylan, you really know how to make an impression, don’t you?”
He let out a sigh. “This is gonna come back and bite me on the arse, isn’t it?”
Monet nodded. “Probably.”
With a soft chortle, he reached up, removed his hat and ran a hand through the blond shaggy hair he’d revealed. Monet couldn’t stop herself from staring at it. It was so glossy and sexy. How the hell was it possible to have sexy hair? Not even Ryan Gosling had hair that sexy. Just who the hell was this stockman from Australia?
“Oh well.” Dylan returned his hat to his head, once again a misplaced cowboy in New York. “I’m used to trouble.”
The grin he gave Monet said just that. The trouble for Monet wasn’t that Phillip Montinari could try to destroy her successful art career; rather, everything about Dylan Sullivan pushed every sexual button she had. And then some. What the hell was she supposed to do about that?
Run. Run away. Call a cab, shove Dylan in it, pay the driver a massive tip to take him to the airport and get away from him. Now!
“Kerrie?” The gallery curator’s name burst from Monet’s lips before she even realized she was thinking it.
A whip-thin man with snow-white hair and candy-apple-red horned rims hurried over to her from the whispering onlookers, his lips twitching as he shot Dylan sideward glances. “Yes, mon cher?”
Monet shot her own glance at the unconscious Phillip and then let out a short sigh. “I think I’d better get Dylan out of here. Can you call the paramedics for Mr. Montinari and finish setting up for the opening?”
Kerrie nodded, his twitching lips not quite pulling into a Cheshire Cat grin. “Of course I can, oh talented one. You run along now. And don’t you worry about Mr. That’s-Not-A-Cock.” He leaned toward Monet, hiding his twitching mouth from the rest of the gallery with a melodramatically placed hand. “I know one or two things snugged away in Phi-Phi’s closet he surely won’t want…coming out.” He dropped her a wink and then turned to Dylan. “And as for Mr. Down-Under-Wonder…honey, you can come back any time.”
The dimples on either side of Dylan’s lips flashed. “Good on ya, mate.”
Kerrie’s immaculately waxed eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I have no idea what you just said but it gave me chills. Chills!” He turned back to Monet. “Mon cher, if you don’t take this man home right now and ride him silly, I will.”
Monet opened her mouth to tell Kerrie—one of her favorite gallery curators, and one of New York’s most flamboyant—that she wasn’t riding Dylan anywhere, but was stopped by the Australian’s deep, completely relaxed laugh.
“I like that idea. Got any spurs? They wouldn’t let me bring mine through Customs.”
Struggling to hide the unsettling affect Dylan and Kerrie’s tête-à-tête was having on her libido, Monet wrapped her fingers around Dylan’s biceps and gave a little tug. “Come on, cowboy. Time to leave.”
Swinging his gaze to her face, he tapped his fingers to the brim of his hat and, in a flawless American drawl, said, “Yes ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes. “I think I prefer the ‘g’day love’.”
He laughed and, with a wink at Kerrie, willingly let her lead him from the gallery.
* * * * *
He should have flown straight back home. The second he made eye-contact with Monet Carmichael—no, change that, the second he saw Monet Carmichael—in her snug black leather pants, with her wild tumble of dark hair and her tiny waist, kissable lips, cheeky smile and full, round breasts, he should have climbed into a taxi and got his arse back to Australia. Instead, he’d let his dick do the thinking.
Stupid dick.
It had taken all of about five seconds of sitting in the taxi beside Monet, the silence stretching between them as they headed for her apartment, to know his trouble wasn’t Phillip “I’m a Wanker” Montinari. It was his own libido.
Twenty minutes of chatting later, during which he answered her casual questions about Australia and Farpoint and God knows what else—truth be known his brain wasn’t really paying attention to anything except the memory of their kiss back in the gallery—they finally pulled to a halt outside Monet’s building.
Two minutes after that, with Tommy Taberknackle’s curious stare following him through the door like a bush fly that wouldn’t leave him alone, Dylan found himself riding the lift with Monet to her apartment.
Her apartment. The one right next to Annie’s. The apartment he was meant to be sleeping in tonight.
Dylan fought the urge to shuffle his feet. Neither he nor Monet had raised the issue of that kiss, as if by ignoring their shameful behavior, it hadn’t happened. That was stupid, of course. It had happened. He still had the semi hard-on to prove it. His balls throbbed with unmet need.
And yet here they were, pretending otherwise.
Pretending they were just acquaintances with a mutual friend.
A ten
se silence stretched between them as the lift slowly rose, tugging on Dylan’s churning stomach.
Bloody hell, he felt nervous. Like the time he and Hunter got caught by their dad when they were ten, sneaking a peek at a Playboy owned by one of Farpoint Creek’s hired hands. Their father’s reaction had been simple. He hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, studying them with those piercing blue eyes of his before walking away. The next morning, Dylan and Hunter found themselves with the task of rounding up all the breeding heifers due to be serviced. On foot. Without the aid of any of Farpoint’s working dogs or jackaroos.
It was a lesson both Dylan and Hunter got straight away. Sex is a fact of life and comes with a whole lot of hard work. Both had remembered that lesson and, while he and Hunter had certainly had their fair share of sexual partners by the time they were in their thirties, they’d each taken something different from the childhood lesson.
For Dylan, it was don’t get caught with your pants down unless you’re prepared for sweat, shit and a whole lot of pain.
For Hunter, it was don’t get caught. Period.
Is that why you’re nervous now, Dylan? You’ve been caught with your pants down? In the metaphorical sense? Here for one woman and kissing another in front of a crowd?
No, he was nervous because he didn’t know what to say to Monet. What to do when they crossed the threshold into her apartment and the door closed behind them. Because try as he might, and for Annie’s sake, he was trying bloody hard, he couldn’t forget how amazing Monet felt in his arms.
The soft chime of the lift told him they’d stopped, as did the sudden clunk of the twin doors sliding apart.
Dylan’s heart smashed into his throat. He drove his nails into his palms.
Walk into her flat, ask to use the phone and call home. That’s what you’re going to do. Walk in, call Hunter, ask him about Annie, talk to Annie and then take a shower. And once you’re under the water, take matters into your own hands and flog the shit out of your dick until all these traitorous, wrong thoughts about Monet are gone. That’s what you’re going to—
