MisplacedCowboy (2 page)

She opened her mouth—to say
what
to the man, she
didn’t know. Damn, what was his name? Annie had said it enough times over the
last few months, but Monet shut her mouth again when the doorman of their
building suddenly appeared at the cowboy’s side.

“Everything okay, Ms. Carmichael?” Tommy’s gaze flicked back
and forth between the Australian and Monet. “Mr. Sullivan’s not giving you—”

Dylan Sullivan!

The cowboy’s name popped into Monet’s head, along with an
image of a clean-shaven man without a hat smiling somewhat nervously into a
camera.

Monet shook her head, unable to take her gaze from Dylan’s
still troubled face. “Everything’s fine, Tommy,” she assured him, even as she
compared the beautiful hat-wearing male before her, his stubble as sexy as his
accent, his accent as mesmerizing as his eyes, to the clean-cut man in the
photo on Annie’s laptop.

“Are you sure?”

She flicked Dylan a quick look, her pulse beating far too
fast for her peace of mind. “I’m sure.”

“’Cause he was asking about Ms. Prince—”

“It’s okay.” She cut him off with a smile. “I know Dylan. We
were just going to catch a cab to the gallery.”

Dylan blinked.

“Oh.” Tommy nodded. “In that case…” He stepped one foot off
the curb and let out a sharp whistle.

Before anyone could say a thing, a taxi pulled to a quick
halt on the road beside them.

Monet gave the doorman another smile. “Thanks, Tommy.” She
opened the back passenger door of the cab and extended an arm toward the grimy
interior. “After you, Mr. Sullivan.”

The brim of his hat cast his eyes in shadow, and for a brief
moment Monet thought he was going to refuse. And then he gave her a loose,
lopsided grin that made her want to grin back. “I take it the lovers sit
between us?”

She nodded. “The lovers do.”

“It’s probably better you climb in first then, love.”

Her pulse fluttered, and for the first time ever, Monet
found herself totally flustered by a man.
Love.
Who would have thought
she’d get excited over an almost antiquated term. She despised pet names—no
babes or hons or sweethearts allowed, thank you very much. But the term “love”
coming from Dylan’s lips…

Her reaction to it was unnerving. The whole situation was
unnerving. Annie on the other side of the world. Dylan here in New York. Her
unexpected response to the man.

She dove into the cab before Dylan Sullivan, her best
friend’s would-be Aussie cowboy, could see the flush painting her cheeks pink.

Oh boy, this was…inconvenient.

Chapter Two

Annie wasn’t answering her cell, damn it. Monet gnawed on
her bottom lip, shooting the man sitting on the other side of the sculpture a
quick look. He watched the New York sights stream past, a relaxed casualness
radiating from him, that crooked smile she was already halfway addicted to
playing on his lips. His hat still sat on his head, almost the traditional
cowboy hat she was used to seeing in movies but somehow not. It emphasized how
different Dylan was, as if he’d stepped from another world and somehow found
himself here in New York. Which was pretty much the case.

For the fourth time, Annie’s cell cut to her message
service, her cheery voice telling Monet to leave a name and message unless she
was a member of the paparazzi, and if that was the case, go to hell. Monet bit
back a sigh. “I assume you know what’s going on by now, Annie,” she said into
her phone, flicking another quick glance at Dylan. “So I
really
need you
to call me back ASAP and tell me what you want me to do with the cowboy
currently sitting on my right.”

What to do with? How ’bout strip him naked and—

“He’s staying with me until we hear from you, okay?” She was
about to disconnect and then changed her mind. “Oh, and your father called this
morning, sounding very pissed. As promised, I did
not
tell him where you
were.”

She killed the call, swinging her gaze to a chuckling Dylan.
“What’s funny?”

The Australian shook his head, the corners of his eyes
crinkling. “Trust Annie not to tell her old man.”

Monet shoved her cell back into her bag and snorted. ”Mr.
Prince isn’t going to think it’s funny.”

“No, I can’t imagine he would.” A quizzical frown pulled at
his eyebrows. “So tell me, what do I call you? I’ve just realized I have no
idea what your name is. Or how you know Annie.”

She reached around the sculpture and extended her hand to
Dylan. “Monet. Monet Carmichael. I live in the apartment next to Annie’s.”

“Ah, her best friend, right?”

“That’s right.” She squirmed on her seat, the skin-to-skin
contact with the Australian unsettling. His grip was so firm and warm and…well,
nice.

Nice? Wow. That’s an understatement.

Tugging her hand from his, she sat back in her seat. It was
better that way. Not looking at him.

Oh, don’t go being attracted to him, Monet. That would be
just plain stupid.

It would. As good looking as he was—
don’t you mean sexy?
—
she wasn’t stupid. Creatively flakey at times, yes. Incredibly imaginative,
yes. But stupid? No. He was here for Annie. Which meant he could be as sexy as
all get out and he was still off-limits.

“The artist called Monet.”

If she wasn’t so unsettled by the man’s unexpected affect on
her she would have laughed at his obviously humored clarification. Ever since
the day she’d enrolled at Columbia to study fine art, she’d been subjected to
mocking derision about her name.

She gave Dylan a pointed look, deciding to shut down any
attraction she felt toward him now. “I take it you think my name and profession
are funny?”

He shook his head. “Not at all, love. Fitting.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What’s an Australian cowboy
know about art?”

It was a low blow. One Monet regretted immediately.

“Stockman,” Dylan corrected, that lopsided grin playing with
his lips again. “And quite a bit in fact, given that my mum was an art history
major at uni before she met my dad and moved out whoop whoop to be with him on
Farpoint Creek.”

Monet blinked. Her head was spinning. Firstly, because she
didn’t understand half of what Dylan had just said, and secondly, because what
she
did
understand sounded as if he knew about art.

Okay, shutting down any attraction was going to be harder
now. How many unpretentious Australian cowboys who knew about art and looked
like a sexy-assed, hotter-than-sin Adonis were there in the world?

Very few, she guessed. And this one belonged to Annie.

“So I take it the couple making out between us is your
handiwork?”

It was all Monet could do not to groan. Making out. Couple.
All words that made her think of sex. She didn’t want to think about sex at
this moment. She was bound to blush. Or find herself looking at the Aussie
cowboy’s crotch.

Nodding, she pressed her thighs together and searched his
face for any kind of flaw. There had to be one.

There wasn’t. Damn it.

“It’s very good,” he said. “Makes me think of Auguste
Rodin’s
The Kiss
. Just…” Dylan’s gaze moved over the sculpture.
“Dirtier.”

Monet ground her teeth. The universe was conspiring against
her. Was it his accent? His grin? The unexpected art knowledge? The way he said
“dirtier”, as if he knew exactly what had been going through Monet’s mind when
she’d created it?

His gaze returned to her face, his green eyes shadowed by
the brim of his well-worn black hat. “What’s it called?”

“
FWB
.”

“Friends with Benefits?”

She shook her head, her mouth dry, her cheeks hot. “
Fucking
with Beauty
.”

Dylan’s nostrils flared. “Is it an autobiographical piece?”

Monet swallowed. Was he flirting with her? Her nipples
pinched tight at the ridiculous thought, straining at the lace of her bra and
material of her shirt. If Dylan were just some guy she’d met in a bar, she’d be
flirting her ass off right back. He was too damn hot not to. But he wasn’t just
some guy
.

So time to stop thinking about it, Monet Carmichael. Got
it?

Tearing her gaze from his face, she pressed back farther
into her seat, her heart beating hard. It didn’t help her resolve, however,
that every time she pulled in a breath, his subtle scent teased her senses.
When Annie got home, Monet was going to kill her. “All art is
autobiographical,” she answered, trying to sound enigmatic and aloof. “Especially—”

The cab suddenly stopped, propelling both Monet and Dylan
against their seatbelts. Her sculpture slid forward and it was only Dylan’s
fast reflexes that stopped it from sliding to the floor.

“That’ll be eighteen dollars,” the driver muttered, looking
at Monet in the rearview mirror.

She fumbled for her wallet in her bag, all too aware of
Dylan watching her.

“Here you go, mate. Keep the change.” His voice rumbled
through the cab as he passed a handful of notes to the driver, friendly and
relaxed and—for one brief, completely disorientating moment—Monet couldn’t stop
herself imagining him naked. Naked and standing before her, waiting for her to
discover all his proportions as he told her about stockmen and whoop whoop and
Rodin’s
The Kiss
in his friendly, relaxed sexy voice.

God! What’s wrong with me? It’s the accent. Gotta be the
accent.

She flicked him a look, wishing she could find her snarky
I’m-a-successful-artist poise, or even her hey-I’m-a-New-Yorker arrogance. All
she could find was the new and highly traitorous
I-want-to-fuck-my-best-friend’s-cowboy lust, and that wasn’t any help to her at
all.

She released her seatbelt and all but fell from the cab in
her hurry to get away from Dylan and the unnerving temptation he presented.

Cool autumn air wrapped around her, icy against the burning
heat in her cheeks. She slammed the door, flipped off the driver of a Camaro
blasting his horn at her for tumbling into his road, and leaned against the
taxi.

She had to get herself under control. The cowboy was
off-limits. Off. Limits.

Straightening her spine, she pulled another breath—this one
not so shaky—and walked around the trunk of the cab.

To find Dylan standing on the sidewalk,
FWB
in his
arms, hat on his head, his green gaze trained on her. “Ready?”

Bam!
Just like that, the traitorous
I-want-to-fuck-my-best-friend’s-cowboy lust slammed into her again. Hard, fast
and undeniable.

God help her.

* * * * *

Dylan watched the bevy of men and women arranging paintings
and sculptures under various spotlights in the small art gallery, fussing about
as if the artworks were a herd of prize stud cattle about to go to auction.

He stood to one side of the gallery’s main room, between a
large painting depicting what he
thought
was a woman being made love to
by a gust of wind, and a sculpture of the same couple from
FWB
. At
least, he assumed it was the same couple. This time they weren’t so much making
out as coming out—the male unzipping his torso to expose female breasts and the
woman peeling off her legs as if they were jeans to reveal a fat, flaccid cock
and a very impressive scrotum.

It was, suffice to say, the most surreal moment of Dylan’s
life.

Had he thought he was out of place gazing up at the Empire
State Building only an hour ago? Ha.
Here
he was out of place.

“You okay?”

He turned at the sound of Monet’s voice, finding her
standing to his left. She smiled when his gaze fell upon her, the action doing
disturbing things to the pit of his stomach. And his groin. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He pushed his hat back a bit on his head and showed her his I’m-good grin.
“Feeling a little like a shag on a rock, but apart from that, no worries.”

Monet blinked, her cheeks filling with the delightful blush
Dylan truly enjoyed. “Feeling like what?”

“A shag on a rock.” Then realization smacked into him. “I
mean, out of place. Sorry. Bloody hell, I didn’t mean I wanted a…on a…fuck, I
mean… Oh Jesus.”

He ground his teeth, drew a breath, counted to five and
started again, far too aware of the sudden stares he was getting from around
the gallery. “A shag is a type of water bird that always perches alone on rocks
with its wings spread. It usually stands out like dog’s balls—” Heat flooded
Dylan’s face. He pressed a hand to his eyes, cursing his stupidity.

You really don’t belong here, mate.

Monet burst out laughing, the relaxed sound echoing around
the gallery. “Dylan, talking to you is by far the most educational, visual
experience of my life.”

Dylan peered at her through his fingers before dropping his
hand. “Ta muchly, love. But I think it’s probably better I just keep my gob
shut for a while. At least until I’ve found my dignity. I get the feeling I
left it back at Farpoint Creek.”

Monet’s blue eyes twinkled. “Given your situation, I think
you’re doing marvelously.”

“My situation? Stood up on the other side of the world,
luggage-less and completely incapable of contacting anyone who wants to talk to
me? That situation?”

Once again, Monet laughed. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Dylan laughed with her. That he’d unsuccessfully tried to
call Hunter three times during the cab ride to the gallery should have bugged
the shit out of him. It didn’t. For two reasons—one, had been roughly nine a.m.
back home and the Farpoint Creek homestead pretty much emptied out once the sun
broke the horizon, every man and his dog getting on with the job of running
Australia’s second largest cattle station.

And two, he was enjoying himself. Too much.

Every second with Monet was enjoyable. Not for the fact she
made him hornier than sin—although that was pretty bloody enjoyable—but that
she made him laugh. It was wrong, of course. He’d flown all this way to meet
Annie, a woman he’d described to his brother as “his soul mate”. Hunter had
laughed his arse off at that. Had called Dylan a fucking idiot. What would his
twin make of the situation Dylan currently found himself in?

He wouldn’t just say, “I told you so”, he’d add “dickhead”
just to nail the point home.

“Monnie.” A deep male voice snaked into Dylan’s ears. He
turned, watching a man roughly his height dressed in an immaculate steel-gray
suit swan toward Monet and place a kiss on her still smiling lips. “I’ve been
looking for you.”

Something dark and cold knotted low in Dylan’s gut.
Something that had no right being there. Jealousy. He straightened, taking in
the way the man’s manicured fingers wrapped loosely around Monet’s upper arms.
Watching the way he leaned close to her, how his lips lingered. How
clean-shaven his jaw was and how there wasn’t a hair out of place on his head.
How he smelled of cologne.

Cologne. Not horse sweat or plain soap, but cologne. No
doubt as expensive as his well-tailored suit.

“Phillip.” Monet disengaged herself from the kiss, her
cheeks high with color. She flicked Dylan a quick look, an expression he could
only describe as uncomfortable pulling at her gaze. “I didn’t expect to see you
here.”

Phillip, whoever the hell he was, obviously didn’t stand for
Monet slipping from his grasp. He ran his hands down her arms, caught her
fingers and tugged her back toward him. “Why ever not? A Monet Carmichael
exhibition is the perfect place for an art collector to be. Even more so when
said art collector is the inspiration for her latest work.”

Monet slid another look toward Dylan, her eyes unreadable,
her shoulders stiff, before she once again slipped from Phillip’s grip and
moved back. “I’m not sure ‘inspiration’ is the right word, Phillip.”

“Oh shush.” Phillip stepped toward her, apparently deciding
Dylan didn’t exist.

Dylan decided it was time to fix that problem. Not because
he was jealous, but because Monet appeared…ill at ease.

“G’day, mate.” He shoved his extended hand at the man’s
chest before Phillip could draw closer. “Dylan Sullivan. How ya goin’?”

Phillip’s eyebrows shot up his incredibly smooth forehead,
his stare swinging to Dylan. A plethora of emotions flashed over his suavely
handsome face, most making Dylan want to laugh—irritation, shock, curiosity,
indignation. The last made him want to ball his fists. Contempt.