by Mari Carr
“Dylan?” Monet called again.
He bit back a curse. After the amazing day they’d shared, he didn’t want to fuck up her exhibition opening by going as the Down Under Wonder.
Dropping his hat back onto the chair, he opened the door and stepped out.
Monet’s swift intake of breath made his stomach clench, as did the slow inspection she ran over him.
He held out his arms, giving her a grin. “What do you think? Do I pass muster? Scrub up okay?”
She didn’t answer for a second, just looked at him, her eyebrows pulling into a frown.
He fought the urge to fidget. Maybe she hadn’t understood him. Or perhaps his scruffy hair and unshaven stubble ruined the way the suit looked. God knows a razor hadn’t touched his jaw since he’d flown out of Farpoint over three days ago and the only comb he owned was his fingers.
He looked down at himself, his bare feet somehow incongruous at the end of the black tapered dress pants. “No good?”
“There’s something missing,” Monet answered, a second before sliding past him into the changing room, her delicate scent teasing his senses.
Bloody hell, he wanted to follow her in there and do wicked things to her body.
She stepped back out, reached up and placed his hat on his head, her lips stretching into a wide smile. “Now that,” she murmured, “is good. Better than good.”
She dropped a kiss on his mouth, a quick brush of lips to lips, before stepping back.
The urge to grab her hips and haul her close rushed through Dylan, and it was only the sudden appearance of a sales assistant that stopped him.
So much for being safer out of the apartment, Sullivan.
The man gave the shoulder seams of the jacket a little tug. “This is a very nice cut, no? But the hat—”
“Is perfect,” Monet cut him off, her eyes doing that twinkling-gleam-of-mischief thing Dylan couldn’t get enough of.
Twenty minutes later, Dylan paid for his new suit, a pale blue shirt, socks, boxers and a pair of black boots that wouldn’t last a day of work on Farpoint with his credit card.
His Farpoint Creek Cattle Station credit card.
He snickered, imaging Hunter’s face when his brother was doing the books later that month.
Serves him bloody right for not calling me back.
“You know,” Monet’s hand slipped around his biceps as they left the store, “you didn’t need to wear a suit tonight.”
He cast her a sideways glance, the chilly air tugging at the brim of his hat. “Would I be the only bloke there not in a suit?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ll be the only Australian cowboy there.”
Dylan’s stomach tightened. “Stockman.” They walked a few steps, the wave of pedestrians washing past them giving Dylan the sense he was the only Australian cowboy in New York. Period.
“Is there something wrong?”
He turned, needing to see Monet’s face. “Am I a novelty to you?”
She blinked, her feet stumbling beneath her. Dylan coiled his biceps and tugged his arm closer to his side, stopping her fall. He hadn’t meant his question to sound so blunt, but he needed to know.
Monet frowned. “Why would you say that?”
He shrugged. Everything about the situation was throwing him for a loop. “I just…” He stopped, drew a breath and let it out with a shake of his head. “It shouldn’t matter to me. I shouldn’t really care, but you’re a bloody gorgeous woman, Monet. You’re intelligent, witty, talented and God knows every bloke we’ve walked past since we left your apartment has checked you out. You could obviously have your pick of them, so I’ve gotta ask. Am I just…something to check off your list before you kick the bucket? Fool around with a dumb Australian hick for shits and giggles?”
Monet stared at him. She didn’t blink. She didn’t even move. For a moment, Dylan dreaded what she was going to say. What the hell did he do if she said yes? His bloody heart was already halfway hers. What did he do if she told him he’d guessed her game?
And then she went up on tiptoe, leaned toward him and placed her lips on his, a longer kiss than the one she’d given him back in the Hugo Boss store. “Dylan, you are so far from a novelty to me it’s scaring me witless. And if you call yourself a dumb hick again, I will beat you senseless with your hat. Do you understand?”
His breath gushed from him in a laugh. Relief flooded through him, hot and wonderful. Before he could stop himself, he dropped the bags, wrapped his arms around her waist and did what he’d wanted to do since she’d stepped out of her shower eight hours ago.
He kissed her. He didn’t give a flying fuck that they were standing in the middle of a crowded New York sidewalk. He didn’t care he was the only bloke dressed like an extra in Brokeback Mountain. He kissed her. The way he wanted to, with his tongue, his lips, his teeth.
He kissed her and she kissed him back. And he’d never felt happier in his life.
* * * * *
The opening was the most successful Monet had ever had. The exhibition itself—Lust Is Love Is Lust—had already stirred up some controversy before the doors had even opened, a local religious group taking offense to its sexual themes, exploration of hetro- and homosexual love and, to quote the spokesman for the protestors, “pornographic material”. Monet wondered now, as the last of the invited guests left the gallery, if the anti-sex ranting had amounted to anything more than free publicity. Though she didn’t need it. She’d been making a very nice income on her artwork for close to five years now and her name was enough to draw a strong crowd.
Still, there was something special about this opening.
Something? Or someone?
She chewed on her bottom lip, unable to stop her gaze from sliding to where Dylan stood talking to Kerrie, his hat on his head, his body filling out the Hugo Boss suit with such divine perfection she could almost believe he was a god sent from sexual heaven.
He was why tonight had been so special. It had nothing to do with the little green dots stuck to ninety percent of the works on display in the gallery, the dots that indicated the works had been sold. It had nothing to do with the rousing words of approval from the New York Times’ harshest critic.
It was the simple fact that Dylan Sullivan was there to share her success with her. To smile at her when she caught his eye; to gladly say “g’day, mate” whenever a patron asked, fascinated by his Australian accent; to stand silently beside her, his presence more real than anything else she could imagine, while she watched the crowd take in her work.
How was it possible to be so…so…content? So happy? Especially when she should be feeling guilty about what happened last night. And her continued failure to reach Annie.
“I see you’re now playing dress up with the Down Under Wonder?”
She gazed to her left and frowned at Phillip, biting back a sigh. That he’d even attended the opening surprised the hell out of her. That he had the balls to approach her, to continue to insult Dylan, flabbergasted her. Still, he’d stayed away from her all night, so she guessed she had to put up with him now. If only to tell him to shut up and grow up.
Before she could open her mouth, Kerrie was at her side, the curator’s gloriously wicked smile flashing at Phillip. “Phi-Phi.”
Phillip sneered at Kerrie, and for the first time, Monet noticed just how metrosexual Philip was. And how narrow-shouldered. And how much foundation he wore.
“Like the cowboy’s suit.” He turned back to Monet, his lip curling. “How many cows did he have to rope to afford it, do you think?”
“Phillip,” Monet began. She’d had enough. The guy wasn’t just a jerk, he was a moron as well. “You need to—”
“Let me handle this, Monet,” Kerrie said, eyes glinting behind his shocking-pink glasses. “Phi-Phi,” he said, turning to Phillip. “Do you have any idea how large the biggest cattle ranch in America is?”
Phillip snorted. “Why the hell would I know something like that?”
Kerr
ie’s smile stretched wide. “I do. It was on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, of all things, last month. It’s almost three-hundred-thousand acres. Now guess how big our Australian cowboy’s ranch is. No? Don’t want to try? Well, I was pumping Dylan for info and I found out his ranch is over four times bigger than that. Four times. And you know what they say about a man’s ranch in relation to his—”
Phillip cut Kerrie short. “I’ve had enough.” With a glare at Monet, he turned and walked away.
She didn’t care. She was walking away herself. Through the gallery. Looking for Dylan. Her heart thumping hard in her throat, her mouth dry.
She found him sitting on the steps of the main floor staircase, his elbows resting on his knees, his hat on his head and a bottle of beer in his hand. Where he’d found a bottle of beer in the gallery, she had no idea. Perhaps Kerrie had procured one. The curator was quite taken with him.
He looked up as she approached, his lips doing that crooked-smile thing she loved so much, his dimples creasing his stubble-dusted cheeks. “Considering this is my first exhibition opening,” he raised the beer, “I think it went off really well.”
Monet stared at him. “I thought you were just a cowboy.”
The bottle paused an inch from his lips. “A what?”
She crossed her arms. She wasn’t sure why she was flustered, but she was. “You know what I mean. I didn’t know you were a multi-millionaire.”
Dylan lowered the bottle—a Miller Lite, Monet noticed—and studied her. “Not sure where you got that idea, love. I told you my family owns a cattle station.”
“Kerrie just informed me your ranch is enormous.”
He burst out laughing, the sound echoing around the now near-empty gallery. “Monet, Farpoint Creek is Australia’s second biggest cattle station and one of its most successful. Yes, our stock is worth a fortune, a bloody fortune, and in a good year, when the drought doesn’t kick our arse, when we don’t have to go out and shoot starving cattle to keep others alive, when the banks don’t vulture us with high interest slugs, Farpoint makes enough to cover all running costs.
“But me personally? Nope. I draw a wage from the station’s profits. A pretty small one, in fact. I don’t need money, love. I’ve got my dog, Farpoint and the endless skies of the Outback.”
He smiled, took a mouthful of beer and immediately winced, holding out the bottle to read the label. “This is pretty bloody terrible. What are the odds of me getting a Tooheys Dry around this place?”
“Mon cher?” Kerrie’s call shot through Monet like a bullet and she jumped. “It’s done and dusted, my darling. Everyone’s gone.” He appeared beside her, slipping an arm around her waist to bestow a kiss on her cheek. “As usual, you have wowed the art world with your amazing talent and made us both disgusting amounts of money. I thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Kerrie,” she answered back. And still she couldn’t take her stare from Dylan. She’d never met a man like him. She didn’t know if she had it in her to stay in his company. He was too…
Australian?
“Now,” the curator pulled away, pinched her on the cheek and winked, “I leave you in the more than capable hands of your stockman.” He turned and fanned his face with his hand, grinning at Dylan. “And I do mean man.”
Dylan laughed. “Kerri, my mate. I thank you for the beer.”
Kerrie smirked. “No you don’t. But I thank you for being dreamy and making my girl here positively glow.”
Monet’s heart, only having just thought about returning to her chest, leapt into her throat again. Glow? Oh God, was it that obvious?
Dylan’s gaze roamed over Monet. “She’s a bit all right, isn’t she?”
“That she is,” Kerrie was saying, but Monet barely heard him. Not when Dylan was looking at her with such smoldering hunger. Such undeniable want. She swallowed.
It took a long stretch of silence before she realized the curator had left them. Where he was, she didn’t know. She licked her lips and looked around the gallery, seeing two years of her art life on display. The exhibition had been meant as a statement on desire’s place in society, its control on people’s lives. Who knew she’d be a victim to that very control herself?
“Can I ask a question, love?”
She swung back to Dylan, her pulse quickening when she found him standing before her. His hat was low on his head, his eyes shaded by the brim. She drew in a swift breath, the subtle scent of clean soap and a hint of eucalyptus doing nothing to settle her turbulent state.
“Does how much money I have make a difference?”
“To who?”
“To us.”
“There’s an us?”
His nostrils flared. “Bloody oath, there’s an us.”
She shook her head. “No. It doesn’t make a difference. When we first met I thought you were just a cowboy, that’s all. I didn’t realize you were some über-successful ranch owner. It just…threw me a little is all.”
“The same way you’ve thrown me, Monet? Like I have no idea which way is up and if it’s night or day?”
“Should I say sorry?”
“No.” He moved closer. “You shouldn’t. You should let me kiss you.”
His lips crushed hers, fierce, demanding. Dominating. It was nothing like any kiss he’d given her before. It wasn’t playful. It was primitive. Powerful. It made Monet’s pussy constrict, aching to be stretched, filled. She whimpered into his mouth, her hands sliding up his chest, her hips pressing to his.
His tongue delved into her mouth, taking and giving pleasure. She groaned, the ache in the pit of her belly, between her thighs, growing hotter. Tighter. If he touched her there now, she would come. Just like that. She wanted him that much.
Then take him back home and fuck him. Tonight. Now.
With more effort than it should have taken, she broke away from the kiss, holding him at arm’s length, her palms pressed flat to his hard chest. “Dylan, if we don’t stop kissing…” She paused, her pulse so fast, so loud in her ears she could barely hear the words forming. “I want you. I want to make love to you. But…”
A frown pulled at his forehead. His Adam’s apple jumped up and down his throat. He drew a slow breath, his chest swelling under her palms. “Annie.”
The single word passed his lips. Low, deep and cut with that accent. That Australian accent.
Monet’s pussy throbbed. Her clit ached with engorged need. She let her hands slip down his chest to his belt, over his hip. “Annie,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his broad chest.
Damn it, she’d never been so dismayed to hear her best friend’s name.
“How ’bout we go back to your apartment and make a phone call?” He tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her head, giving her a small smile. “Whether they answer or not, I need to get something off my chest.”
Her breath grew shallow. “And what’s that?”
“How fucking much I want to make love to you.”
She stared up into his eyes, nodded once and then, her fingers threaded through his, began to walk to the gallery’s exit.
She’d never been so nervous about going home. Or so damn excited.
The taxi ride took forever. Or at least it felt that way. Neither she nor Dylan said a word. They sat side-by-side, his palm resting high on her inner thigh, his fingers ever so slightly brushing the damp lips of her pussy through the silk of her trousers. She didn’t cup his crotch or caress his hard-on, no matter how much she wanted to. It would only take one feel of his bulge—trapped beneath the expensive fabric of his suit—and she would unzip his fly and straddle his hips, impaling herself on his rigid cock. Right there in the cab.
So instead, she drove her nails into her palms and counted the city blocks until they pulled up in front of her apartment.
Tommy opened her door before she could, his gaze flicking to Dylan, back to Monet and then to Dylan again.
She paid the cab driver. At least, she assumed she did. She couldn’t r
emember getting from the sidewalk to her front door. She had a vague memory of old Mr. Lichtenstein from 41B traveling up in the elevator with them, but it was just that; vague.
All she could think about, all she could concentrate on was Dylan. His presence beside her, his fingers threaded through hers, his palm pressed to hers.
Dylan. The man who was meant to be with someone else, someone special to her.
Dylan. The man she couldn’t exist another moment without.
By the time they made it to her apartment, she couldn’t control herself any longer.
They fell through her door. If anyone had asked her if that was possible, tumbling across a threshold, hands fighting with clothing, tongues mating, the kind of thing Hollywood constantly showed couples doing, caught up in the throes of ravenous sexual need, she would have laughed at the cliché.
She wasn’t laughing now. She was burning up with her need to be naked, to have Dylan naked, to be sliding up and down his cock as he sucked on her breasts.
Oh God, she wanted this so badly.
Her heel caught on the living room rug and she stumbled, Dylan catching her before she could hit the floor. She laughed into his mouth, loving his strength, his reflexes, his utter masculinity.
Loving him.
The thought slammed into her. Hard. Hard enough to make her gasp. She pulled away from him, her stupid heart once again forgetting it was meant to be in her chest, not smashing into her throat. They stared at each other, both fighting for breath.
And that’s when Monet heard it. The soft little beep that indicated she had a message on her answering machine.
She hurried across the room, knowing Dylan followed her. By the time she’d hit the play button on the device, he was pressed against her back, his lips traveling the side of her neck as his hands wandered her hips, her belly, her breasts.
“Hi, Monnie,” Annie’s voice said from the machine’s speaker, the distance between New York and Australia obvious in the faint scratchiness of each word.
Behind her, Dylan froze. Monet’s heart stopped. Her mouth went dry.
Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.
“I just…I just wanted to say hi,” Annie continued. “Australia is amazing. Hunter is…has been showing me the station. I hope Dylan is okay. I really need to talk to him. There’s something I need to… I really need to talk to him. Please tell him I said hello. I hope you’re looking after him. Love you.”