Keith started, swinging his head toward Hazel Sullivan, his gut knotting.
The matriarch and owner of Farpoint Creek Cattle Station stood at the mouth of Whippet’s pen, her expression set in a disarming mix of curiosity and disappointment. Keith fought the urge to fidget.
Since Dylan and Monet—Hazel’s son and his new wife—were in Paris on their honeymoon, Hazel had taken over the job of keeping the hired hands and jackaroos in line. Dylan was a hard but fair boss who demanded perfection from the men and women who worked on Farpoint. Hazel was equally tough. However, whereas the hands and jackaroos knew if they slacked off with Dylan, he’d make their lives hell with a grueling workload, no one wanted to let down his mum. She was just so bloody warm and caring.
Except when she caught someone being a bludger. If that happened, if she came upon one of the hands or jackaroos not working when they should be, no matter how long they’d been at Farpoint, well…suffice to say, Keith had seen grown men sobbing after Hazel was done with them.
It was a bloody good thing she had a soft spot for Marc.
“You can come out now, Mr. Thompson,” she called, a twinkle in her faded-green eyes. “I can see you hiding behind your horse.”
Keith bit back a chuckle as his friend—who’d grown up on Farpoint, just like Keith himself—slowly straightened.
“Mrs. Sullivan,” Marc murmured, tipping the brim of his hat.
Hazel threw a quick smile at Keith, so quick he wasn’t sure if it was a smile. “Mr. Thompson. Do you mind telling me why you and Mr. Munroe are here and the American is not?”
Marc flicked a look at Keith. “Big Mac sent us out to rescue a cow stuck in the old eastern billabong, Mrs. Sullivan.”
“And did you rescue the cow?”
Keith stepped forward, running his palm over Whippet’s flank. “There wasn’t one, Mrs. Sullivan.”
Hazel Sullivan had changed his nappy as a baby, bandaged his knees as a snot-nosed kid learning to ride, and hosed him down more than once as a teenager when he’d come home drunk as a skunk from the local Bachelor and Spinster balls in town. Keith’s mum and dad had passed away years ago, but Hazel had filled the void. That didn’t mean she wasn’t likely to chew his arse off for not doing the job she’d given him.
“Mr. McNamara sent you to rescue a cow,” she repeated, her unwavering gaze sliding between Keith and Marc. “A cow that wasn’t there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marc answered, still standing behind his horse.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the YouTube clip, would it?”
Keith couldn’t stop his snort at Hazel’s mild question.
Marc stared at the grandmotherly woman waiting patiently for his answer. “Ummm…”
Hazel let out a sigh. “Okay, boys, let me make this clear. While Dylan is away, Hunter is the boss of the hands. Not Ronnie. He may think he is because he’s older than most of you, but he’s not. The chain of command here at Farpoint during moments of crisis—such as Dylan being out of town, it seems—goes me, Hunter, you Keith, and then Ronald McNamara.”
Keith started again. “Me?”
Hazel nodded. “Ronnie was trucking the south paddock mob to Darwin when Dylan was in New York, so he didn’t get the memo.”
“There’s a memo?” Marc asked, his eyebrows so high Keith couldn’t see them behind the shaggy strands of his dark-brown fringe.
Hazel’s lips twitched. “There will be when I get back to the house and tell Hunter to write one.” Her attention returned to Keith. “And of course, Mr. Munroe, when you’re not acting the goat and fooling around with Mr. Thompson, you’re a pretty decent stockman. One of these days you’ll figure that out and we’ll all be bereft of your company when you start up your own station.”
For the first time in his twenty-eight years, Keith blushed. “I don’t…”
“And,” Hazel turned her direct green gaze back to Marc, “you’ll be next on that list, Mr. Thompson, instead of Ronnie, if you keep pleasing my sons. Of course, beating Dylan at poker the night before his wedding probably wasn’t wise. Nor was causing havoc in town when Hunter sent you to Cobar last week for a supply run. I know you two lads have a very close relationship and get up to some rather…dubious carrying-on at times, but you both forget I know everything that has anything to do with Farpoint. Do I make myself clear?”
Marc nodded.
“Now,” the steely edge in Hazel’s voice made Keith want to fidget once again, “as for the American, or lack thereof, I’m assuming Ronnie collected her himself, is that correct?”
Marc nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”
“How long ago?”
“’Bout four and a half hours,” Keith supplied.
“And they’re not back yet?”
Keith shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
Hazel pursed her lips. “Hmmm, this is not good. I’m going to try to track them down on the satellite phone. If I’m not successful, or they’re not here in fifteen minutes, I’ll need you two boys to go out and find them.”
“In the chopper?” Keith’s heart thumped fast. As much as he was bellyaching about Big Mac, he didn’t really want anything to happen to the man, and a lot could happen to a person in the Outback when things went askew. Death by snakebite, death by spider bite, death by dehydration. Hell, even death by sun exposure. Added to the fact Ronnie was driving back with the teacher from America, a woman who, according to Amy Wesson, rarely set foot outside of Chicago, and Keith began to worry. Big-time.
“In the chopper,” Hazel echoed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to let Hunter know what’s going on.” A scowl pulled at her softly seamed face. “He’s not going to be happy.”
She turned on her heel and strode from the stables, heading in the direction of the main homestead. Keith watched her go for a second, his hand resting on Whippet’s shoulder, before turning back to Marc. “What’s your gut telling you?”
Marc walked out from behind his horse, removed his hat, dragged his fingers through his shaggy hair and stuck it back on his head. If it weren’t for the sudden foreboding turn of the afternoon, Keith would have given him a hard time about getting a haircut. “Could be anything,” the jackaroo said. “Ronnie’s a shit driver though. Knowing him, he’s hit a ’roo and flipped the bloody ute.”
“Christ. What are we going to tell Amy if something happened to her best friend? She’s already had a gutful of living out whoop whoop. She’ll never come back to Australia if the American gets—”
The sound of a door slamming outside the stable brought Keith to a halt. He exchanged a look with Marc then spun on his heel and strode outside.
Only to stop two steps out in the scorching midday sun, his stare locked on the woman alighting from the station’s communal work ute. A woman who looked so damn out of place in the Outback, Keith’s mind couldn’t comprehend it.
A woman dressed in black leather knee-high stiletto boots, leg-hugging black jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt so snug it could almost be a second skin, black sunglasses, and a black scarf that wrapped her creamy neck, its feathered ends brushing the tops of her thighs.
A woman with full lips glossed a deep plum-red, long waves of thick honey-blonde hair and a body most men would give their left nut just to gaze at.
A woman, Keith suspected—by the way she was dressed, the way she scanned the immediate area around her, the way her lips parted when her hidden gaze fell on him and Marc—who was just dying to be kissed by a sexy Aussie cowboy.
“Oh man.” Marc chuckled from Keith’s right, reaching up to adjust the hat on his head. “I look forward to kissing this one, Blue.”
Keith studied his best mate’s profile for a long second before turning back to the American standing beside the dented ute. “You know the rules, Thomo,” he said, watching Ronnie fuss over the vision in black. “First kiss claims the prize.”
Marc’s laugh was low. Dirty. Suggestive. “Game on, mate. Game on.”
Chapter Two
The leaner of the two cowboys sauntered over to her. There was no other way to describe the way he walked. Like sinful temptation, mischievous charm and cocky indolence.
Low-slung, faded jeans that had no hope of concealing the sizable bulge of his crotch hugged long, muscular legs. An equally faded chambray shirt wrapped a torso so perfectly proportioned—wide shoulders, flat stomach and narrow hips—that for a moment, Harper forgot how to breathe.
Her pulse kicked into overdrive and her mouth went dry. Her pussy, on the other hand, grew damp. Damp and tight.
Now that’s a cowboy.
“Thomo,” Ronnie muttered at her shoulder, turning his back on the approaching sex god in denim and a hat. “Watch out, he’s the smooth-talker of the two.”
Thomo—surely that had to mean Marc Thompson—stopped but a foot away from her, his sapphire-blue gaze roaming over her from head to toe. He touched the tip of his index finger to the brim of his hat, his lips curling in a smile. “G’day, love. You must be the American.”
Harper oozed poised calm and aloof indifference. Well…tried to. It was goddamn hard when her heart was thumping fast in her throat and her nipples were pinching in her bra. Holy crap, she’d never seen such a sexy example of maleness. Everything about the cowboy radiated testosterone, pleasure and carnal delight. And his accent? Oh God, after listening to Ronnie talk for the last four hours, she’d figured she was over the Australian accent already, but it seemed not.
“Hello,” she croaked back, her mouth dry. Damn, was she flushing? “I am.”
The cowboy’s lips curled a little more, turning the smile into a very seductive grin. “Welcome to Farpoint. I hope Big Mac here has been treating you right so far?”
Harper nodded. It was the only thing she could do. That and stare with helpless lust at the man in the hat before her, reminding herself he was gay. That seemed so unfair. Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor, putting a man like this on the planet and then making him off-limits for…
The wild mental tantrum faded out of Harper’s mind, her stare falling on the other cowboy she’d noticed earlier as he joined Marc.
She let out a soft gasp.
Christ, he was—
“G’day.” The cowboy stuck out his hand. Blue eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his hat. “I’m Keith Munroe, one of the hired hands here at Farpoint. Welcome to Australia, Ms. Shaw.”
If Harper didn’t love her brother so much, she’d curse him black and blue. She’d never been more aware of the fact she’d lived a very sheltered life until now. She wasn’t prepared for exposure to such raw manliness. If Marc Thompson was sinful temptation, mischievous charm and cocky flirtation wrapped in tight denim, Keith Munroe was potent strength, concentrated sexuality and rugged masculinity.
She stared at the cowboy, never more grateful for wearing sunglasses, even ones that cost her damn near a week’s pay.
He was broader in the chest than his companion and wider in the shoulders, but just as exquisite in his physique. His biceps strained against the cotton of his shirtsleeves, highlighting the sculptured form of his strength. The same potent power was barely concealed by tight jeans, the corded muscles of his thighs evident despite the material covering them.
Unable to stop herself, Harper slid her gaze to the cowboy’s groin. And jerked it up to his face again at the sight of a bulge as large as Marc’s trapped beneath his jeans.
Oh…
Realizing Keith still stood waiting for her to shake his hand, she snagged it in both of hers, giving it a somewhat frantic shake. “H-hello.” Damn it, her voice was still croaky. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Keith laughed. “Nice to be met.”
Warm heat filled Harper’s cheeks at the greeting. She smiled at him, unable to tear her stare away. A lock of blond hair—tinged with faint copper-red—tumbled over his forehead from beneath his hat, brushing long, thick lashes a shade darker. His face was more tanned than Marc’s, a little more creased, but none the lacking for it, and he had a hawkish nose, adding to the air of absolute control and power the man exuded. A fine strawberry-blond stubble dusted a square jaw and chin, drawing her eye to the open collar of his shirt where a hint of a tattoo peeked out at her.
Men like this didn’t exist in Chicago. At least, if they did, she’d never met them.
Of course you haven’t. Why would you? With the way you live? The way you cower in shadows? The way Andrew guards over you whenever he’s in town?
She slid her stare to Marc, fighting the urge to moan. The dark-haired cowboy with the cocky grin and devilish eyes was studying her, the faint hint of a dimple creasing his cheeks.
Damn it, unprepared or not, overprotected or not, inexperienced or not, if it wasn’t for the fact they were gay, she’d throw herself at both of them and offer her body for their pleasure. That was the complete opposite of her normal reaction to a gorgeous guy, and these two guys were more than gorgeous.
Of course, they were gay, which, Harper guessed, made them the perfect company, especially for one as unprepared, overprotected and inexperienced as she. She could visually caress them all she wanted without fear of being—
“Found that stuck cow, Big Mac,” Keith suddenly said, his focus moving to Ronnie.
For a jarring moment, Harper found herself at a loss, wishing his gaze was still holding hers.
Behind her, Ronnie let out a choked cough. “You did?”
Marc laughed, and Harper had to bite her lip at the longing that rained through her at the sound. “Bloody wanker.”
Keith’s gaze returned to Harper’s face. “Would you like to take a shower, Ms. Shaw? Freshen up after your long flights?”
She nodded, caught off guard by the question. And the disarming, unexpected notion of sharing a shower with Keith Munroe…and Marc Thompson.
Holy crap, even her imagination was taking this whole opposite thing to surreal levels.
“Excellent.” Keith smiled at Ronnie, an unreadable expression crossing his features, before swinging to face Marc. “Thomo, can you take Ms. Shaw to the homestead to meet Mrs. Sullivan? Big Mac and I need to have a talk about the cow.”
Marc tapped the brim of his hat. “Surely can, Blue.”
“I can do that,” Ronnie said, and for the first time it dawned on her the verbose cowboy who’d collected her from the airport had hardly said a word since alighting from the pickup. “I thought I saw Hazel’s truck here when we drove through the gates, otherwise I would have taken Ms. Shaw there straightaway.”
“You just missed her.” Marc slid his hands into his hip pockets, and it was damn near impossible for Harper not to notice the front of his jeans pulled tighter over his groin. “She was wondering why we were here.” His dimples flashed again. “And not at the airport.”
To Harper’s surprise, Ronnie let out a muttered “shit”.
Marc laughed. “Wanker,” he said again.
Harper frowned. She’d need to find out what that word meant. It seemed important.
Keith’s focus returned to Harper and once again her body responded. “The homestead is just a quick drive up the road. Hazel will no doubt show you around the place when you get there. She’s a top sort and loves having the chance to show off Farpoint.”
Determined to restore some decorum to her demeanor, Harper gave Keith a wide smile. “I can understand that. What I’ve seen so far is lovely.”
Marc Thompson eyed the truck. “By the state of the ute’s bonnet, you’ve already seen a ’roo. Is that right, Big Mac?”
Ronnie shuffled his feet. “We hit one just past Wallaroo Crossin’. Nothin’ too bad. It was long gone by the time we got out and looked for—”
“You’re here!”
The shout came from behind Harper. She started, as did Ronnie.
“Oh thank God,” the female voice called again, this time closer. “I was beginning to worry.”
Before Harper could even finish turning around, two warm palms pressed to either side of her face and
, without warning, a soft pair of lips pressed to hers.
“Welcome to Farpoint!” said a woman Harper recognized as the owner of the cattle station—and her new boss for the next two weeks. She held Harper out at arm’s length. “I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like we’ve known each other forever.”
On Harper’s right, Marc laughed. “Looks like the boss got the first kiss, Blue.”
Harper didn’t get the chance to comment on the statement. Hazel Sullivan wrapped her arms around her, enveloping her in a hug. “Of course I get the first kiss,” the older woman said. “You think I’m going to let you two have your fun?”
The station owner smiled at Harper. “Amy tells me you’ve never left America before, Harper. I so hope you enjoy your time here.”
“I was just goin’ to bring her up to you, Mrs. Sullivan,” Ronnie offered.
Hazel gave the cowboy a quick look. “Yes, of course you were, Mr. McNamara. Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, I’m going to take our guest—and new teacher—for a little tour of Farpoint. I’d suggest you all get back to work.”
And before anything else could be said, Hazel turned on the spot, her arm still snug around Harper’s shoulders, and walked away from the three men.
“Oh, and Mr. McNamara?” the matriarch called over her shoulder as she led Harper to a cherry-red Toyota pickup parked a few yards from the stables. “There’s a cow stuck out in the eastern billabong. See to it, will you? So I don’t have to tell Hunter?”
Behind them, Marc started laughing. As before, Harper felt her body respond in an entirely sexual way to the devilish sound.
“Is the cow going to be okay?” she asked the woman still hugging her close, needing the distraction.
Hazel gave her a wide smile. “The cow will be fine, dear. Don’t worry about it at all. Now tell me, how do you feel about snakes?”
Marc watched his boss walk away with the American woman who was about to spend a fortnight at Farpoint. “Okay,” he turned to Keith, “she’s either really shy or we just scared the shit out of her.”
Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs) Page 2
