MisplacedCowboy (13 page)

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 up 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 urge 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.

He rubbed his face again and let out a shaky breath. “I get
it now,” he said, returning his gaze to Monet’s face. “I get it. Why I feel so
fucking bad when I should feel so alive.”

Monet stood motionless. “Why?”

“Because ever since I walked away from you, I’ve been
pretending that somehow we’d actually work. That someday I’d magically wake up
and not be a stockman anymore. I’d fly back to you in New York and we’d spend
the rest of our lives together, laughing about the time I was the Down Under
Wonder as I earn millions playing the stock market, or investing in who the
fuck knows what. And now I know, standing here in front of you, unshaven, my
clothes covered in dust, sweat already making me stink after spending two hours
dealing with an aggressive bull who didn’t want to be loaded into a truck…I
know I can’t pretend anymore. You’re New York, and I’m the Outback. That’s the
way it is.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. He
could feel her stare on him through the darkness of her lenses, but as before,
her glasses hid so much of her face he had no idea what she was thinking. And
then, just when he thought he couldn’t take the silence anymore, she raised her
hand and removed her sunglasses, and his heart smashed into his throat.

Fuck. He was never meant to love someone so gorgeous. There
was no way he’d ever survive it.

“Hey, Dylan!” Hunter’s shout jerked his stare to his
brother. “You two want a ride back to the house?”

Dylan looked at the three people standing next to his ute.
Annie was holding her father’s arm, the smile on her face telling Dylan
whatever had passed between her and Joseph Prince had ended well. He was happy
for her. He truly was. If only he could find his own happiness.

He shook his head. “No. We’ll walk back.”

There were things that needed to be said.

Hunter gave him a nod, his expression uncertain.

Dylan wanted to laugh. It seemed both Sullivan boys had lost
their hearts to an American woman. Who would have thought it?

Giving Mutt a sharp whistle, he watched his dog jump from
the ute’s tray and streak across the airstrip, tongue-lolling doggy grin in
place. He reached down, scratching the dog around his ears, Mutt’s liquid-brown
eyes gazing up at him with absolute love. Dylan let out a soft snort. The
unconditional love of a dog. If only that kind of love existed in the human
world.

“Dylan?”

He straightened, his dimple flashing in his cheek. “You got
a hat in that fancy jet?”

She shook her head.

“Here you go.” He removed his and placed it on her head.
“You’ll fry like an egg if you don’t cover up.”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Not yet, please? Let’s just pretend for a minute we’re old
mates, catching up. Besides, I wanna show you Farpoint first. Well, a small
part of it at least. Let you see where I come from before you fly back.”

She parted her lips as if to argue but shut them again,
reaching up and adjusting his hat on her head.

“Sorry it’s a bit sweaty.”

She smiled, an unreadable expression in her gaze. “It’s
perfect.”

They began walking silently. Dylan knew why. He was a
gutless wonder who didn’t want to finally admit that what he longed for with
all his soul couldn’t be, regardless of Monet flying halfway around the world
to see him. It didn’t matter how much they ached for each other, their lives
were too damn different. They’d shared something amazing in New York, but the
reality of life was insurmountable. Now the best he could do was show Monet
where he belonged.

It wasn’t until Mutt raced ahead a while later, barking in
that special way that told Dylan he was ready for some fun, that Dylan realized
where they’d walked to.

He stopped, looking at the small billabong almost hidden by
an outcrop of eucalyptus trees some eight hundred meters from the homestead.
Not the main billabong he and Hunter swam in all the time, but the one he
sometimes came to when he wanted to get away from the madness of working a
cattle station. It was a small body of clear water no bigger than a suburban
backyard pool. Very few people came to enjoy its inviting depths, except for
the kangaroos that used it as a drinking hole.

“Wow.” Monet stopped beside him, her gaze moving over the
ancient gum trees shading the water, the lush green grass surrounding it, the
craggy old rocks that jutted out of the ground on one side, making the most
perfect ledge to take a plunge.

A plunge, Dylan noticed, Mutt had already taken, given that
his dog was happily paddling around in the water.

“This is beautiful.”

He turned to face Monet. “It is. But not as beautiful as
you.”

“Dylan,” she said, “I know you think you know what’s best
for—”

He didn’t let her finish. He couldn’t. Try as hard as he
might, he couldn’t fight the need to kiss her anymore.

Her mouth opened to his straight away, their tongues mating
with a fierce hunger he understood all too well. He feasted on her lips,
devoured them. He’d never been so starved for anything like he was Monet’s
mouth. He buried his hands in her hair, his hat tumbling from her head as he
did so. He didn’t care. Neither, it seemed, did she. They stood beside the
billabong, the scorching Australian sun beating down on them, and mocked its
heat with the blazing ferocity of their kiss.