by Mari Carr
Monet shook her head, unable to take her gaze from Dylan’s still troubled face. “Everything’s fine, Tommy,” she assured him, even as she compared the beautiful hat-wearing male before her, his stubble as sexy as his accent, his accent as mesmerizing as his eyes, to the clean-cut man in the photo on Annie’s laptop.
“Are you sure?”
She flicked Dylan a quick look, her pulse beating far too fast for her peace of mind. “I’m sure.”
“’Cause he was asking about Ms. Prince—”
“It’s okay.” She cut him off with a smile. “I know Dylan. We were just going to catch a cab to the gallery.”
Dylan blinked.
“Oh.” Tommy nodded. “In that case…” He stepped one foot off the curb and let out a sharp whistle.
Before anyone could say a thing, a taxi pulled to a quick halt on the road beside them.
Monet gave the doorman another smile. “Thanks, Tommy.” She opened the back passenger door of the cab and extended an arm toward the grimy interior. “After you, Mr. Sullivan.”
The brim of his hat cast his eyes in shadow, and for a brief moment Monet thought he was going to refuse. And then he gave her a loose, lopsided grin that made her want to grin back. “I take it the lovers sit between us?”
She nodded. “The lovers do.”
“It’s probably better you climb in first then, love.”
Her pulse fluttered, and for the first time ever, Monet found herself totally flustered by a man. Love. Who would have thought she’d get excited over an almost antiquated term. She despised pet names—no babes or hons or sweethearts allowed, thank you very much. But the term “love” coming from Dylan’s lips…
Her reaction to it was unnerving. The whole situation was unnerving. Annie on the other side of the world. Dylan here in New York. Her unexpected response to the man.
She dove into the cab before Dylan Sullivan, her best friend’s would-be Aussie cowboy, could see the flush painting her cheeks pink.
Oh boy, this was…inconvenient.
Chapter Two
Annie wasn’t answering her cell, damn it. Monet gnawed on her bottom lip, shooting the man sitting on the other side of the sculpture a quick look. He watched the New York sights stream past, a relaxed casualness radiating from him, that crooked smile she was already halfway addicted to playing on his lips. His hat still sat on his head, almost the traditional cowboy hat she was used to seeing in movies but somehow not. It emphasized how different Dylan was, as if he’d stepped from another world and somehow found himself here in New York. Which was pretty much the case.
For the fourth time, Annie’s cell cut to her message service, her cheery voice telling Monet to leave a name and message unless she was a member of the paparazzi, and if that was the case, go to hell. Monet bit back a sigh. “I assume you know what’s going on by now, Annie,” she said into her phone, flicking another quick glance at Dylan. “So I really need you to call me back ASAP and tell me what you want me to do with the cowboy currently sitting on my right.”
What to do with? How ’bout strip him naked and—
“He’s staying with me until we hear from you, okay?” She was about to disconnect and then changed her mind. “Oh, and your father called this morning, sounding very pissed. As promised, I did not tell him where you were.”
She killed the call, swinging her gaze to a chuckling Dylan. “What’s funny?”
The Australian shook his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Trust Annie not to tell her old man.”
Monet shoved her cell back into her bag and snorted. ”Mr. Prince isn’t going to think it’s funny.”
“No, I can’t imagine he would.” A quizzical frown pulled at his eyebrows. “So tell me, what do I call you? I’ve just realized I have no idea what your name is. Or how you know Annie.”
She reached around the sculpture and extended her hand to Dylan. “Monet. Monet Carmichael. I live in the apartment next to Annie’s.”
“Ah, her best friend, right?”
“That’s right.” She squirmed on her seat, the skin-to-skin contact with the Australian unsettling. His grip was so firm and warm and…well, nice.
Nice? Wow. That’s an understatement.
Tugging her hand from his, she sat back in her seat. It was better that way. Not looking at him.
Oh, don’t go being attracted to him, Monet. That would be just plain stupid.
It would. As good looking as he was—don’t you mean sexy?— she wasn’t stupid. Creatively flakey at times, yes. Incredibly imaginative, yes. But stupid? No. He was here for Annie. Which meant he could be as sexy as all get out and he was still off-limits.
“The artist called Monet.”
If she wasn’t so unsettled by the man’s unexpected affect on her she would have laughed at his obviously humored clarification. Ever since the day she’d enrolled at Columbia to study fine art, she’d been subjected to mocking derision about her name.
She gave Dylan a pointed look, deciding to shut down any attraction she felt toward him now. “I take it you think my name and profession are funny?”
He shook his head. “Not at all, love. Fitting.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What’s an Australian cowboy know about art?”
It was a low blow. One Monet regretted immediately.
“Stockman,” Dylan corrected, that lopsided grin playing with his lips again. “And quite a bit in fact, given that my mum was an art history major at uni before she met my dad and moved out whoop whoop to be with him on Farpoint Creek.”
Monet blinked. Her head was spinning. Firstly, because she didn’t understand half of what Dylan had just said, and secondly, because what she did understand sounded as if he knew about art.
Okay, shutting down any attraction was going to be harder now. How many unpretentious Australian cowboys who knew about art and looked like a sexy-assed, hotter-than-sin Adonis were there in the world?
Very few, she guessed. And this one belonged to Annie.
“So I take it the couple making out between us is your handiwork?”
It was all Monet could do not to groan. Making out. Couple. All words that made her think of sex. She didn’t want to think about sex at this moment. She was bound to blush. Or find herself looking at the Aussie cowboy’s crotch.
Nodding, she pressed her thighs together and searched his face for any kind of flaw. There had to be one.
There wasn’t. Damn it.
“It’s very good,” he said. “Makes me think of Auguste Rodin’s The Kiss. Just…” Dylan’s gaze moved over the sculpture. “Dirtier.”
Monet ground her teeth. The universe was conspiring against her. Was it his accent? His grin? The unexpected art knowledge? The way he said “dirtier”, as if he knew exactly what had been going through Monet’s mind when she’d created it?
His gaze returned to her face, his green eyes shadowed by the brim of his well-worn black hat. “What’s it called?”
“FWB.”
“Friends with Benefits?”
She shook her head, her mouth dry, her cheeks hot. “Fucking with Beauty.”
Dylan’s nostrils flared. “Is it an autobiographical piece?”
Monet swallowed. Was he flirting with her? Her nipples pinched tight at the ridiculous thought, straining at the lace of her bra and material of her shirt. If Dylan were just some guy she’d met in a bar, she’d be flirting her ass off right back. He was too damn hot not to. But he wasn’t just some guy.
So time to stop thinking about it, Monet Carmichael. Got it?
Tearing her gaze from his face, she pressed back farther into her seat, her heart beating hard. It didn’t help her resolve, however, that every time she pulled in a breath, his subtle scent teased her senses. When Annie got home, Monet was going to kill her. “All art is autobiographical,” she answered, trying to sound enigmatic and aloof. “Especially—”
The cab suddenly stopped, propelling both Monet and Dylan against their seatbelts. Her
sculpture slid forward and it was only Dylan’s fast reflexes that stopped it from sliding to the floor.
“That’ll be eighteen dollars,” the driver muttered, looking at Monet in the rearview mirror.
She fumbled for her wallet in her bag, all too aware of Dylan watching her.
“Here you go, mate. Keep the change.” His voice rumbled through the cab as he passed a handful of notes to the driver, friendly and relaxed and—for one brief, completely disorientating moment—Monet couldn’t stop herself imagining him naked. Naked and standing before her, waiting for her to discover all his proportions as he told her about stockmen and whoop whoop and Rodin’s The Kiss in his friendly, relaxed sexy voice.
God! What’s wrong with me? It’s the accent. Gotta be the accent.
She flicked him a look, wishing she could find her snarky I’m-a-successful-artist poise, or even her hey-I’m-a-New-Yorker arrogance. All she could find was the new and highly traitorous I-want-to-fuck-my-best-friend’s-cowboy lust, and that wasn’t any help to her at all.
She released her seatbelt and all but fell from the cab in her hurry to get away from Dylan and the unnerving temptation he presented.
Cool autumn air wrapped around her, icy against the burning heat in her cheeks. She slammed the door, flipped off the driver of a Camaro blasting his horn at her for tumbling into his road, and leaned against the taxi.
She had to get herself under control. The cowboy was off-limits. Off. Limits.
Straightening her spine, she pulled another breath—this one not so shaky—and walked around the trunk of the cab.
To find Dylan standing on the sidewalk, FWB in his arms, hat on his head, his green gaze trained on her. “Ready?”
Bam! Just like that, the traitorous I-want-to-fuck-my-best-friend’s-cowboy lust slammed into her again. Hard, fast and undeniable.
God help her.
* * * * *
Dylan watched the bevy of men and women arranging paintings and sculptures under various spotlights in the small art gallery, fussing about as if the artworks were a herd of prize stud cattle about to go to auction.
He stood to one side of the gallery’s main room, between a large painting depicting what he thought was a woman being made love to by a gust of wind, and a sculpture of the same couple from FWB. At least, he assumed it was the same couple. This time they weren’t so much making out as coming out—the male unzipping his torso to expose female breasts and the woman peeling off her legs as if they were jeans to reveal a fat, flaccid cock and a very impressive scrotum.
It was, suffice to say, the most surreal moment of Dylan’s life.
Had he thought he was out of place gazing up at the Empire State Building only an hour ago? Ha. Here he was out of place.
“You okay?”
He turned at the sound of Monet’s voice, finding her standing to his left. She smiled when his gaze fell upon her, the action doing disturbing things to the pit of his stomach. And his groin. “Yeah, I’m good.” He pushed his hat back a bit on his head and showed her his I’m-good grin. “Feeling a little like a shag on a rock, but apart from that, no worries.”
Monet blinked, her cheeks filling with the delightful blush Dylan truly enjoyed. “Feeling like what?”
“A shag on a rock.” Then realization smacked into him. “I mean, out of place. Sorry. Bloody hell, I didn’t mean I wanted a…on a…fuck, I mean… Oh Jesus.”
He ground his teeth, drew a breath, counted to five and started again, far too aware of the sudden stares he was getting from around the gallery. “A shag is a type of water bird that always perches alone on rocks with its wings spread. It usually stands out like dog’s balls—” Heat flooded Dylan’s face. He pressed a hand to his eyes, cursing his stupidity.
You really don’t belong here, mate.
Monet burst out laughing, the relaxed sound echoing around the gallery. “Dylan, talking to you is by far the most educational, visual experience of my life.”
Dylan peered at her through his fingers before dropping his hand. “Ta muchly, love. But I think it’s probably better I just keep my gob shut for a while. At least until I’ve found my dignity. I get the feeling I left it back at Farpoint Creek.”
Monet’s blue eyes twinkled. “Given your situation, I think you’re doing marvelously.”
“My situation? Stood up on the other side of the world, luggage-less and completely incapable of contacting anyone who wants to talk to me? That situation?”
Once again, Monet laughed. “Well, when you put it that way…”
Dylan laughed with her. That he’d unsuccessfully tried to call Hunter three times during the cab ride to the gallery should have bugged the shit out of him. It didn’t. For two reasons—one, had been roughly nine a.m. back home and the Farpoint Creek homestead pretty much emptied out once the sun broke the horizon, every man and his dog getting on with the job of running Australia’s second largest cattle station.
And two, he was enjoying himself. Too much.
Every second with Monet was enjoyable. Not for the fact she made him hornier than sin—although that was pretty bloody enjoyable—but that she made him laugh. It was wrong, of course. He’d flown all this way to meet Annie, a woman he’d described to his brother as “his soul mate”. Hunter had laughed his arse off at that. Had called Dylan a fucking idiot. What would his twin make of the situation Dylan currently found himself in?
He wouldn’t just say, “I told you so”, he’d add “dickhead” just to nail the point home.
“Monnie.” A deep male voice snaked into Dylan’s ears. He turned, watching a man roughly his height dressed in an immaculate steel-gray suit swan toward Monet and place a kiss on her still smiling lips. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Something dark and cold knotted low in Dylan’s gut. Something that had no right being there. Jealousy. He straightened, taking in the way the man’s manicured fingers wrapped loosely around Monet’s upper arms. Watching the way he leaned close to her, how his lips lingered. How clean-shaven his jaw was and how there wasn’t a hair out of place on his head. How he smelled of cologne.
Cologne. Not horse sweat or plain soap, but cologne. No doubt as expensive as his well-tailored suit.
“Phillip.” Monet disengaged herself from the kiss, her cheeks high with color. She flicked Dylan a quick look, an expression he could only describe as uncomfortable pulling at her gaze. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Phillip, whoever the hell he was, obviously didn’t stand for Monet slipping from his grasp. He ran his hands down her arms, caught her fingers and tugged her back toward him. “Why ever not? A Monet Carmichael exhibition is the perfect place for an art collector to be. Even more so when said art collector is the inspiration for her latest work.”
Monet slid another look toward Dylan, her eyes unreadable, her shoulders stiff, before she once again slipped from Phillip’s grip and moved back. “I’m not sure ‘inspiration’ is the right word, Phillip.”
“Oh shush.” Phillip stepped toward her, apparently deciding Dylan didn’t exist.
Dylan decided it was time to fix that problem. Not because he was jealous, but because Monet appeared…ill at ease.
“G’day, mate.” He shoved his extended hand at the man’s chest before Phillip could draw closer. “Dylan Sullivan. How ya goin’?”
Phillip’s eyebrows shot up his incredibly smooth forehead, his stare swinging to Dylan. A plethora of emotions flashed over his suavely handsome face, most making Dylan want to laugh—irritation, shock, curiosity, indignation. The last made him want to ball his fists. Contempt.
“I’m sorry.” Phillip’s top lip curled. “But if you’re speaking to me, I’m not going anywhere.”
Dylan gave the bloke his widest, goofiest grin. For good measure, he even tipped his hat back on his head. “Ah, you’re a funny bugger, are you?” He kept his hand out, letting it speak volumes. He may not be from this neck of the woods, but he knew a handshake left hanging was a sign of utter disdain
. As far as Dylan was concerned, he was happy to push Phillip to complete the social tradition whether the man wanted to or not.
Phillip’s top lip continued to curl, the kind of expression Dylan expected to see on a city slicker who’d stepped in a pile of sheep shit.
“Phillip.” Monet moved to Dylan’s side and it was all he could do to keep his doofus grin in place when she ran her hand up his arm. His heart, however, leapt straight into his bloody throat. “This is Dylan Sullivan. From Farpoint Creek in Australia.”
Phillip ran a slow inspection over Dylan, from the tip of his kangaroo-leather boots to the battered peak of his wide-brimmed hat. “A cowboy from Australia?” He flashed Dylan a toothy smirk, took Dylan’s hand and gave it a crushing shake. Or tried to. Dylan spent his days dealing with unruly Angus cattle, unruly jackaroos and—when Hunter was in a competitive mood—an even unrulier twin brother hell-bent on beating him at arm wrestling. “Here to throw a shrimp on the bar-bee, eh?”
The man’s voice dripped with mocking derision and the urge to ball his fist rolled through Dylan again. He let his I’m-a-clueless-country-hick grin turn into the same smile he gave drunken hired hands who thought they’d take him on. The kind of smile that said, “go on, give it your best shot, mate”.
“I’m a stockman, not a cowboy. Haven’t been a boy since my balls dropped and I started shaving. And I’m just here to seduce the beautiful women on your side of the pond. Show them what a real man is like.”
The shocked blanch that twisted Phillip’s face filled Dylan with perverse satisfaction, just as Monet’s choking laugh sent tight ripples of happiness through him.
“I think you had that one coming, Phillip,” she said, her hand still resting on Dylan’s biceps. He liked the feel of it there. A lot. Too much, given why he was here in New York to begin with. It wasn’t to fall head over heels for a woman he’d only just met, that was for bloody sure. “And as for the seducing,” she turned and gave him a wide smile, twinkling mirth in her eyes, “the accent alone is enough to make a New York girl go all wobbly inside.”
The statement was said in jest. Dylan didn’t doubt that at all, but it had a bloody inconvenient effect on him. His balls throbbed, his cock twitched and his throat grew tight.