MisplacedCowboy Page 8

  The recording ended with the dial tone followed by a long beep, indicating there were no more messages.

  Monet closed her eyes, her throat so tight she couldn’t breathe, her body one big lump of agony, the feel of Dylan’s hard body a mocking pressure.

  No more. Just like her and Dylan. No more.

  The thought cut through Monet. Slicing into her heart.

  Just as Dylan’s hands slipped from her body and he stepped away.

  “Ah fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck!”

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan watched the two-hundred-foot Scooby-Doo float past him and thought, Okay, Sullivan, you really aren’t in Kansas anymore.

  He couldn’t stop shaking his head, even as his face ached from smiling. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was singularly the most surreal, amazing, bizarre, joyful thing he’d ever experienced. There wasn’t anything like it in Australia. Not even close. Every time he thought he’d wrapped his brain around what he was seeing, around the corner would float another gigantic cartoon character, dragging twenty-odd struggling people underneath it at the end of ropes thick enough to hog-tie a bull, and his brain would go, nope. This can’t be real.

  He’d never laughed so much.

  Which was pretty bloody amazing, given the fact the last two days had been a tormenting hell. An enjoyable, euphoric, completely fucked-up-wrong tormenting hell.

  After he’d heard Annie’s voice on the answering machine, he’d been hit by guilt. Guilt so hot and cutting he hadn’t slept a minute. Monet’s sofa—which was also a fold-away bed—had turned into a torture device, the place where he tossed and turned as he replayed Annie’s words over and over again in his head.

  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.

  His first response had been to call Farpoint straight away. But when he had, no one answered. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect there was a conspiracy afoot. Of course, he did know better. He was the get-your-hands-dirty, sweat-your-arse-off brother when it came to running Farpoint. Hunter was the don’t-fuck-with-me-bankers, let’s-talk-business brother. With Dylan on the other side of the world, Hunter would be tackling both their jobs.

  That would explain why he never answered the damn phone, but what about their mum? Where was she? Hazel wasn’t just the person who made sure he and Hunter were eating right, she was the matriarch who made sure they were running the cattle station the way it should be run. Why the hell wasn’t she answering the phone?

  He didn’t have an answer for that. Nor did he have an answer for his situation. The call from Annie had tied him in knots and made him feel like shit and it had only gotten worse the next morning.

  He’d looked at Monet as she’d walked from her bedroom, his chest tightening, his morning hard-on jerking with painful want at the sight of her, and said, “We have to talk about—”

  And Monet had shaken her head and replied, “We have to start from scratch.” Then she’d crossed the room to where he was perched on the edge of the sofa, his bloody erection tenting the crotch of his boxers, his heart thumping fast in his chest, and held out her hand and said, “Hello, Dylan. I’m Annie’s friend, Monet. It’s nice to meet you. Want me to show you the city while we wait for your luggage to turn up?”

  It had been an unspoken message—we messed up.

  He’d shaken her hand, said, “G’day. That would be great,” and fifteen minutes later they were out the door, heading for Central Park.

  The next two days had passed just like that. Two acquaintances connected by an absent friend, one showing the other a city she knew and loved, the other enjoying every bloody minute of it, even as his gut churned and his heart ached and his mind told him over and over again he could do this forever, with this woman. Only this woman.

  Only Monet.

  Two days of enjoyable, euphoric, completely fucked-up tormenting hell. Three sleepless nights saddled with guilt, lust, desire and, ultimately, anger. Angry that he’d let himself fall for Monet. Angry that twice when he’d tried to call Farpoint, he’d turned into a chicken-shit gutless wonder and killed the connection before he could hear a voice. Because if he spoke to Annie and she said she was missing him, that she wanted him to come to her in Australia, he wouldn’t be able to say “okay”.

  Not when he wanted to be with Monet.

  And now here he was, watching a collection of inflated cartoon characters the size of Farpoint’s secondary storage shed, laughing and smiling and enjoying himself so much with Monet that every grin she gave him pierced his heart, every whiff of her scent drove him mad and every minute by her side became the most wonderful, exquisite torment of his life.

  “Oh look.” Monet turned to face him, her smile wide, her cheeks flushed from the cold air, her eyes hidden by the same large black sunglasses she’d been wearing when he’d first met her. “It’s SpongeBob.”

  Dylan threw a glance at the bizarre, massive yellow rectangle with crazy eyes, dressed like a nerdy schoolboy. “Who’s SpongeBob?”

  Monet burst out laughing, her hands touching his chest, giving him a little shove. He wished she hadn’t. It made his heart thump bloody hard in his chest and his groin tighten. Two days he’d been denied kisses, touches. Denied holding her, tasting her sweet sex on his tongue. That simple contact of her gloved hands on his shirted chest was like a red-hot branding iron searing his flesh.

  “You don’t have SpongeBob Down Under? Oh my God, you poor things.”

  Dylan shrugged. “We don’t have SpongeBob on Farpoint. Who knows about the rest of Australia.”

  “When we get back home I’m introducing you to SpongeBob. There’s bound to be an episode playing on Nick. You’ll love him. Trust me.”

  Prickling heat razed over the back of Dylan’s neck. Monet’s statement, despite its innocence, unsettled him. Home. Love. Trust. All three things he couldn’t stop thinking about when it came to her.

  The third was beyond doubt for him. He trusted her. It was stupid, given he’d only known her four and a half days, but he did. The first confused the hell out of him. Home. New York wasn’t his home, but he couldn’t imagine leaving Monet.

  As for the second…

  Love.

  The second scared the shit out of him because he knew he was falling in love with her. Knew it as well as he knew when a storm was going to hit back home. Knew it as well as he knew a prize bull. It wasn’t just his heart telling him. It was his gut. His soul. His whole body.

  He knew.

  What he didn’t know was what he was going to do about it.

  “I thought we were cooking dinner when we got home,” he said.

  Fuck a duck, Sullivan. Even you’re using the word home.

  Monet grinned, leaning into him a little, her thighs brushing his, her breasts pressing to his chest. “No, you’re cooking dinner, remember? I’m going to sit back with a glass of wine and watch you work your magic.”

  Dylan laughed. “Ah, yes. My magic. Are you sure it’s not sacrilegious not to eat turkey?”

  Somehow or another, Monet had convinced him to cook. Possibly because she hadn’t lied when she’d told him Vegemite on toast was her specialty, possibly because Dylan was missing good home-cooked tucker. Tonight’s menu included roast lamb, which—based on how tricky it had been to find a leg of lamb in New York—was so far removed from normal Thanksgiving fare, Dylan wondered if he was going to be booted out of the country.

  Monet’s giggle was almost lost in the raucous crowd around them. Another cartoon behemoth was floating past, one Dylan recognized. Kermit the Frog. “It’s not sacrilegious. A long as we share with each other what we’re thankful for, we’ll be fine.”

  A thick lump filled Dylan’s throat. He knew what he was thankful for. Did he dare share it with Monet later that evening?

  The rest of the parade went by in a blur of massive balloons dragging laughing people, marching bands playing toe-tapping musi
c, acrobats doing amazing feats and spectators cheering them all on. By the time the last of the procession passed, Dylan was sharply aware of two things. The air was bitingly cold, blowing about in gusting blasts from dark clouds overhead. And Monet wasn’t just standing beside him, but leaning into him, her arms wrapped around his body, her cheek pressed to his chest.

  No, three things. He was aware of three things.

  His arms were wrapped around her as well.

  He had no idea when it had happened, but sometime between Kermit the Frog and Woody Woodpecker, his arms had slid around Monet’s waist and he was holding her exactly the way he wanted to, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

  All around them New York thrummed with the happiness of Thanksgiving and, before he could stop himself, Dylan lowered his head to Monet’s smiling mouth and kissed her.

  Because it wasn’t as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. It was the most natural. It was what a man did with the woman he loved.

  And he loved her. Fuck a duck, he loved her.

  Monet didn’t want to stop kissing him. What she wanted to do was stand there forever, in Dylan’s strong arms, against his tall, lean body and die in the pleasure of his lips on hers. It wasn’t just that she liked being kissed by him—whoa, did she like being kissed by him—it was that when he was kissing her, nothing else mattered in the world. Not the people gaping at them as they walked past, not the horse-mounted cops who would likely come by and arrest them for public indecency, not the fact he was from Australia and she was from New York and she didn’t have enough frequent flier miles to visit him every damn day.

  Not even the very real fact he was here for her best friend.

  Annie can’t have him. He’s mine.

  The thought shot through her pleasure-fogged head, aggressive and petulant.

  And wrong.

  Dylan wasn’t hers. One day the stars would finally align and he and Annie would actually manage to speak to each other, his luggage would show up and he would be on a plane flying back to Australia. Away from Monet.

  She broke the kiss, her whole body aching at the loss, and stared at his face.

  She had to tell him. She had to tell him how she felt. Now. For fuck’s sake, it was obvious there was something between them.

  A gust of wind blasted at her back, pushing her into his body and blowing his hat clean off his head.

  “Bloody hell,” Dylan muttered.

  He spun out of their embrace, running after it as it tumbled along the road. Monet couldn’t help but laugh. He looked so cute, so determined, his concentration fixed on his tumbling hat…

  Right up until he rammed shoulder-first into one of New York’s finest.

  Monet’s mouth fell open.

  Her breath caught in her throat. And then burst from her in a ragged laugh as, without so much as a second’s delay, Dylan stopped the police officer from staggering backward with one hand and snatched his hat from the ground with the other, returning it to his head in a graceful arc of his arm.

  Pulling herself together, Monet crossed to where they stood facing each other, arriving just in time to hear Dylan say, “not that far from Cobar. Takes about an hour to get there.”

  She slowed to a halt beside Dylan, sliding her fingers through his. For moral support, of course. To show the cop he was friendly to the natives, even if he did speak with an Australian accent.

  Yeah, that’s why. You’re all about global politics, aren’t you, Monnie?

  “Knew a girl from Cobar,” the cop said, a small smile dancing under a rather impressive moustache. “I haven’t seen her in years. We kept promising to keep in contact but…” He stopped, giving Monet a quick look before throwing a nod Dylan’s way. “This here Aussie cowboy yours?”

  “Stockman.” Monet grinned. “And yes’m.”

  “Have you taken him to the Statue of Liberty yet?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Ellis Island?”

  “Right after Lady Liberty, sir.”

  “Eaten at Carmine’s yet?”

  “Day before that.”

  “Guggenheim?”

  “Okay, I’ll answer this one,” Dylan cut in, his grin as wide as the cop’s. “Monday. My second day here.” He disengaged his hand from Monet’s and smoothed it around her hip, tugging her close to his body. “Did you know this very talented woman has artwork on display there?”

  The officer let out a long whistle, giving Monet another nod. “That’s mighty impressive. What’s it called?”

  Monet felt her cheeks fill with warmth. She’d never been one to blush until Dylan came along, now she seemed to be doing it all the time. Even at a simple compliment like “talented woman”.

  Of course you’re blushing. You’re in love, stupid. When the man you love says something wonderful about you, you blush with happiness.

  “Introspective Emptiness.” Dylan supplied the title of her sculpture on permanent exhibition at the Guggenheim Museum. “Go check it out.”

  The cop’s moustache danced some more with his smile. “Think I will.” He touched the brim of his cap. “If you ever meet a Jilly Anne in Cobar, give her my regards. Robert Williamson.” A wistful expression flickered over his face. “She’ll remember me.”

  Dylan smiled. “I’m headed to Cobar once I’m back home. I’ll look her up and tell her you said g’day.”

  “The last I heard she’d bought a salon there.” The officer touched his cap again. “Thanks. Hope you enjoy the rest of your time in New York.”

  Dylan reached up and touched the brim of his own hat. “Cheers. If you’re ever in Australia, look up Farpoint Creek Cattle Station and give me a call.”

  The cop guffawed. “Will you throw a shrimp on the bar-bee?”

  Dylan laughed. “Farpoint’s too bloody far from the ocean for seafood, mate. But I do a mean lemon and lime grilled chicken.”

  With another laugh and a nodded farewell and Happy Thanksgiving wish to Monet, the officer left, directing the dissipating parade crowd off the road with a firm voice and two widespread arms.

  “Small bloody world, eh?” Dylan commented, turning his head to give Monet a grin.

  She narrowed her eyes. “So let’s just get this straight. You shoulder-barge a New York cop and then he’s your best friend? I’m beginning to think you’re a figment of my imagination, Dylan Sullivan. Something my mind cooked up after seeing Hugh Jackman on Leno one too many times. Or Chris Hemsworth. Or Russell Crowe.”

  Dylan tapped her on the nose, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Love, if I’m the best your imagination can do, as an artist, you’re in serious trouble.”

  Monet laughed. “God, I love you.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. However, it wasn’t what she’d said that made her belly twist and her cheeks fill with heat. It was how she’d said it. It was meant to be a silly, flippant throwaway line to express how much she enjoyed his sense of humor. Instead, it was a declaration, spoken with open, truthful affection. She heard it and, by the way his eyes darkened with unreadable tension, so did Dylan.

  “Dylan,” she began, her heart thumping way too fast and way too hard in her throat. “I didn’t mean—”

  “C’mon.” Dylan’s voice was a husky murmur. He gave a gentle nod to the left. “Let’s get back home. That leg of lamb in the fridge isn’t going to roast itself.”

  They walked back to Monet’s apartment in relaxed silence, their fingers threaded, their shoulders brushing together. Monet enjoyed every minute. And yet at the same time, the need not to fill the minutes with senseless, inane chatter only further emphasized what she knew she couldn’t deny anymore.

  She was in love with Dylan. She didn’t just like him. She wasn’t just attracted to him. She was in love with him.

  Five days and she was completely, irrevocably in love.

  Which left her pretty much up the proverbia
l creek without even a toothpick to use as the proverbial paddle.

  Dammit.

  Two blocks from her apartment, their fingers no longer threaded, their arms curled around each other’s backs, her head resting on his shoulder and the leaves of Central Park’s boundary trees falling around them like a gentle golden-red shower, her cell phone rang.

  She bit back a muttered curse, digging the annoying device from her handbag. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Carmichael?” an unfamiliar voice said on the other end. “This is Dimitri Gonano from Qantas Airlines. I’m calling to inform you that Mr. Sullivan’s luggage has been located. For your convenience, we’ve already dispatched delivery to…”

  The man may have said Monet’s address, but she really couldn’t hear him that well. Not when her blood was suddenly roaring in her ears and her pulse was thumping in her neck.

  Dylan’s luggage was found. Which meant he had no further reason to stay in New York after tonight.

  None at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Dylan had never been so unsettled to see a man holding a duffel bag.

  He regarded the poised and polished concierge from beneath the brim of his hat, knowing he was supposed to step forward and retrieve his once-lost luggage from the man but finding it too bloody difficult to do so.

  Once he took the worn, frayed canvas handles it meant he couldn’t pretend anymore.

  Pretend what? That the only reason you weren’t heading back to Australia was a couple of pairs of old jeans, a few shirts and your toothbrush?

  “According to the Qantas representative,” the concierge said, holding out the beat-up old bag, “it went to New Delhi.” Dylan could see him flicking confused glances between him and Monet, as if wondering why no one was leaping to take the bag. “I suspect it’s been on quite an adventure, Mr. Sullivan.”