by Mari Carr
Fuck a bloody duck. Had he done the right thing? Was any place worth this?
“Mum’s got dinner cooking already.”
Hunter’s voice jerked Dylan back from his unsettling thoughts.
“She said you’d need a good and proper feed after almost a week eating American tucker.”
Dylan shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad. Except the hotdogs you get at those street vendors. I don’t know how the Yanks can eat those things. Especially with yellow mustard.”
Hunter laughed as he adjusted the chopper’s flight path, and it was only when Dylan’s stomach began to feel a shift in equilibrium that he realized where they were.
He looked out the side window, watching the Farpoint Creek airstrip rise up below them, the never-ending expanse of the Outback surrounding the red-dirt covered tarmac like a loving embrace.
The chopper touched down with a gentle thud, Hunter’s piloting skill infinitely better than his skill at picking a prize stud bull. Dylan let his gaze roam over the wide brown land beyond the air-conditioned cabin, feeling the stirring in his soul he’d expected to feel much earlier.
His chest squeezed tight, his heart thumped hard and he closed his eyes, the sense of being home, where he was meant to be, a bittersweet sensation.
“Before we get out, Dylan,” Hunter began, “I need to say something.”
Dylan opened his eyes and turned to his brother, unable to miss the apprehension in each word. “What’s that?”
“I missed the hell out of you. Farpoint hasn’t been the same without you. But I’m glad you took off for the States. I’m glad you thought you’d find your soul mate on an internet dating site. And I’m glad the airline lost your luggage.”
Movement behind Hunter, outside the chopper, drew Dylan’s attention. The dust from the helicopter’s landing swirled around the ground in great gusts but it didn’t obscure the sight of someone standing beside his old beat-up ute, a hand scratching Mutt’s head as the dog quivered in the truck bed.
Someone? Don’t you mean—
“But if you think you’ve come back for Annie…”
He slid his focus back to his brother. Hunter’s jaw was bunched. That was it. The only threat visible.
Dylan reached behind the seat, snagged his hat and placed it on his head. “C’mon, brother. I wanna put my feet on Farpoint soil.”
Hunter narrowed his eyes and looked as if he was about to say something else, but thought better of it and opened his door. Hot, dry heat rushed into the cabin, blasting Dylan like a baking oven. He sat still, closed his eyes and drew in a long, deep breath, taking the Australian air into his being. Filling his lungs with it.
It was the most wonderful breath he’d ever taken. And it made him miss Monet more than ever.
You are so bloody fucked, Sullivan.
“Right,” he muttered, snatching his bag from the back before tugging the brim of his hat farther down over his face. “Let’s do this.”
He climbed from the chopper, rounded its nose and found Hunter standing there, looking at the person waiting with Mutt. “What are you going to do if I fall head over heels with her, brother?”
Before Hunter could respond to his teasing jest, Mutt jumped from the bed and raced over to Dylan, bounding around his feet, a big doggy grin on his face. Dylan gave him a pat and a scruff around the ears, the dog’s solid body a reaffirmation he was home. Where he was meant to be.
Just not with who he was meant to be with.
“Anyone would think he’s been neglected by the way he’s carrying on,” Hunter said, nodding at Mutt, who was doing his damndest to get Dylan to scratch his ears again.
Dylan straightened with a laugh. “At least he’s not embarrassed to admit he missed me.”
Hunter snorted and without another word, they began to walk across the airfield toward the pickup together, Mutt trailing Dylan like a dusty shadow.
Stopping beside his brother a few feet from his truck, Dylan looked at the woman standing there, faded grubby jeans covering long legs, her face hidden by the shadow of an equally grubby hat.
“Hello, Dylan.”
The American accent played with his senses, and even though he knew it wasn’t her, for a surreal second the name Monet almost formed on his lips. Almost.
“Annie?”
The woman nodded, flicking Hunter a quick look as he moved closer to her. “You look like your brother.”
Dylan couldn’t miss the way she swallowed and shifted her feet. She was nervous. He grinned, hiding his own nerves. “Nah, I’m the good-looking one.”
Annie laughed. Hunter rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”
Dylan grinned. There was no mistaking the way Hunter felt for the woman Dylan had thought would be his just six days ago. It was as clear as bloody day in his brother’s body language.
Dylan gave Annie a wide smile. “So, you and Hunter, eh?”
She nodded. But slowly. As if she wasn’t sure what answer he was hoping to hear.
Of course she wouldn’t. She doesn’t know what happened between you and Monet. Nor why you’re home so soon. She could be thinking you’re back to pick up where the two of you left off.
“Well,” he said, pretty certain his brother was going to punch the shit out of him for what he was about to do. “I suppose we better go ahead and make sure fate was right.”
A frown crossed Annie’s face a second before Dylan closed the distance between them, cupped her smooth, warm cheeks and pulled her toward him, capturing her lips with his.
For a split second she didn’t move. Didn’t respond. And then she did, returning what he was giving her.
But it was…nothing.
Nothing.
Pulling away, he let out a soft chuckle.
It seemed fate was right. Cruel, but right.
“Had your fun?” Hunter asked.
For a moment, Dylan was tempted to make his brother suffer—it was what he did after all, bug the hell out of his older twin. He was tempted to say something like, “I knew you were my soul mate, Annie,” but at the clear apprehension on Hunter’s face, at the tension in his stance, Dylan couldn’t do it. “Bit like I imagine kissing Linda would be.”
Ignoring yet another eye roll from Hunter, he smiled at Annie. “A cousin from Perth we rarely see.”
She laughed, and just like that, Dylan knew he and Annie were what they were always meant to be—friends. He grabbed her in a big hug, spinning her around. He’d known her online for three months, but now, standing with her in the flesh, it felt as though he’d known her so much longer.
“Damn, it’s good to finally meet you, Annie,” he said, returning her to her feet. “Has my brother been taking good care of you?”
The bright red blush that flooded her cheeks made Dylan burst out laughing. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Hunter snared Annie’s hand and pulled her from Dylan’s hug, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in a gesture Dylan knew was designed to say “my woman”. Dylan felt no jealousy, only happiness for Hunter. Happiness that two people who meant so much to him had found something special together.
Like you had? Before you walked away from it?
“We weren’t expecting you home so soon.” His brother gave him a pinning look, the same one he’d tried when Dylan had emerged from Customs back in Sydney. “Sort of got the feeling you were taking a fancy to New York.”
“New York was all right.”
“And you met Monet?” Annie asked.
Dylan’s gut knotted, sharp pain stabbing through him. He drew a quick breath, fighting to keep his smile wide and relaxed. By the frown suddenly appearing on Annie’s face, he suspected he’d failed. An image of Monet filled his head but he shoved it away. He’d made his decision. He had to live with that now. “I did.”
He didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t. Annie and Hunter exchanged a look and Dylan braced himself for an onslaught of questions. Questions, thankfully, that didn’t come. Instead Hunter reached down, picked u
p his duffel and tossed it at him. “I guess we better get you back to the house before Mum stomps out here to see you.”
Dylan gave them both a grin, his grip on his bag far too tight. As if he were holding on to something lost to him. “Much as it pains me to say,” he joked, forcing his voice to sound relaxed, “I actually missed the old duck.”
Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he crossed to the ute and climbed into the truck bed. Mutt leapt up beside him, bestowing him with a stream of happy dog kisses. He noticed his brother and Annie once again trade glances but didn’t let on. The trip back to Farpoint Creek homestead in the open air, with the wind in his face and Mutt’s weight pressed to his side, was what he needed now. Not an ear-bashing from his brother.
That would come later, no doubt. When Hunter got sick of not knowing what was under Dylan’s skin. Until then, it was just the Outback sky, the hot Australian sun and his dog.
What else did the Down Under Wonder really need, after all?
Chapter Twelve
Luxury had never been a big part of Monet’s life. She’d done the whole “starving artist” thing for so long before finding critical and financial success in New York that existing on the basic needs—simple healthy food, warm clothes, shelter and art supplies—was now ingrained in her psyche.
Having said that, she had to admit, traveling by private jet was goddamn amazing. And indulgent.
Very indulgent. But then, that’s what life was like when you were a Prince. Especially when you were Joseph Prince, family patriarch and one of Forbes’ Top Five Gazillionaires.
Of course, when you were Joseph Prince, you also didn’t accept the answer, “I don’t know where Annie is.” You refused to leave your daughter’s best friend’s apartment until you got the answer you wanted. And then, when you were Joseph Prince, you ground your teeth, balled your fists and called your personal assistant, telling her to fire up the jet and prepare for the long-haul flight to Australia.
Monet shifted in her seat, the glass of wine one of the flight attendants had placed on the table beside her an hour ago forgotten. The table, not the tray. There were no trays in Joe Prince’s Leer jet, just exquisitely expensive side tables, leather armchairs that swiveled, plush carpet and the ultimate entertainment system. The jet truly was amazing in its sheer opulence, but Monet wasn’t interested in money. Or being indulgent. The only thing that interested her now was the sight outside her window.
A stretch of flat brown land that seemed to go on forever, marred only by an air strip that looked too short for any plane larger than a toy one to land on, and a stream of dust billowing out from behind the pickup truck speeding toward it.
By Monet’s reckoning, the truck would beat the jet to the airstrip by roughly a heartbeat.
She stared at the vehicle, wondering who was in it. The jet was still too high to make out anything but that didn’t stop Monet’s pulse pounding in her ears like canon fire.
Oh God, what was she doing here?
When Annie’s father had ordered his jet be readied for an immediate flight to Australia, Monet’s heart had slammed into her throat. She’d stared at Joseph Prince, listening to him bark out a list of instructions, and then, before she even knew she was doing it, asked if she could go with him.
He’d narrowed his eyes. “To protect my daughter from my wrath?”
“No. There’s someone at Farpoint I need to talk to.”
If her answer had surprised Joseph, he hadn’t let on. Instead, he’d turned on his heel and strode to her door, pulling it open before giving her a serious look. “My driver will collect you in an hour. Don’t make him wait.”
And now she was here.
Twenty-five hours of absolute luxury air travel and she was about to land at Farpoint Creek Cattle Station.
Never let it be said she didn’t go after what she wanted.
Unfortunately, she still didn’t really know what she wanted. One more night of pleasure with Dylan? To beg him to return to New York with her? Or something else? Something so much more.
Monet’s belly flip-flopped. She didn’t know.
Liar.
A sudden jolt, followed by a thrumming roar, told her the jet had landed.
She twisted in her seat, desperate to locate the pick-up.
The foreign world outside was little more than a blur of browns, red and olive green, the blue sky a swatch of intense color above it. By the time the jet slowed—quick enough to make Monet’s far-too-knotted stomach feel as if it were being mashed back into her spine—the pickup was nowhere to be seen.
“Let’s go see what my daughter has to say for herself.”
Joseph’s voice tore Monet’s stare from the window. He was already on his feet, his expression that of a seriously pissed-off silverback gorilla about to do some significant damage. A seriously pissed silverback gorilla in a Karl Lagerfeld suit.
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 ur
ge 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.