MisplacedCowboy (7 page)

He laved his tongue over her clit again and again and then,
just as she couldn’t hold on to her orgasm any longer, as the words “
going
to oh god going to oh oh oh
” tumbled out of her mouth in gasping pants, as
the pleasure swelling through her turned to a tsunami, he thrust his tongue
back into her sex.

She came. Her release gushed from her. She bucked her hips
upward, her nails scraping at the sofa, her toes curling.

She came and Dylan continued to fuck her with his tongue.

Until she came again.

And again.

Chapter Six

His luggage was still AWOL. That, of course, made flying
back to Australia a bit tricky. Add to that fact Thanksgiving was in two days
and Hunter hadn’t bothered to call him back, and Dylan was a tiny bit
frustrated. If nothing else, he would have expected Annie to call.

Dylan pulled at the collar of the shirt he was wearing,
staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror before him. He should be
angry. The troubling thing was, he wasn’t.

Not at all.

After their night of…discovery, they’d curled on the sofa
together and watched the sun rise over the New York skyline.

The silence had drawn out between them, each lost to their
thoughts. Dylan could tell Monet wanted him to make love to her. She didn’t
have to ask; he could see it in her eyes, feel it in her body, in the way she
touched him, moved beneath him. He wanted that too, so bloody much, but both
held back, an unspoken name between them.

Annie.

Until he spoke to Annie, he couldn’t make love to Monet. Not
the way he wanted to. Couldn’t completely take possession of her body. When the
sun finally flooded Monet’s apartment, he’d known they had to leave, get out in
public. If they hadn’t, whether he’d spoken to Annie or not, he wouldn’t have
been able to maintain control any longer.

He wasn’t a man used to denying himself what he wanted, and
he wanted Monet. But nor was he a cheating wanker. He and Annie had never told
each other they were committed, they weren’t a couple, but he still couldn’t
shake the fact he was being a bastard.

The second Monet had emerged from her morning shower, he’d
told her he needed to buy some clothes. She’d cocked an eyebrow and said, “I
was thinking the same thing. Otherwise you’ll have to wear my robe while we
wash your jeans, and as appealing as that is, I don’t think red silk is your
thing.”

Eight hours later, they’d explored the Museum of Modern Art
and the Guggenheim, eaten street vendor hotdogs and laughed so much their faces
ached. Now, however, Dylan wondered how a bloke from the Outback could end up
where he currently stood—a changing room inside a Hugo Boss store being fitted
for a dinner suit.

He bit back a sigh, shaking his head at his reflection in
the mirror.

The last time he’d worn a suit was at his father’s funeral.
He and Hunter had been fourteen. That suit had been bought at the local Target
store, nine hundred kilometers from Farpoint Creek. It had looked nothing like the
designer get-up he wore now.

He looked…different.

“Dylan?” Monet’s voice floated to him through the door. “Is
everything okay?”

He plucked his hat from the changing room chair, started to
put it on his head, stopped and looked at his reflection again.

He was wearing a suit that cost more than his work truck.
Did his hat really go with it?

“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?”

Kerrie’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.”