Page 161 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

“I’m just going to dump this suitcase in the bedroom,” Keith’s voice dragged his focus from the closest vase, “and we can get going. The mob marked for the Cobar sale yards needs to be counted and as far as I know, they’re still in the south paddock.”

“Great.” Marc followed him toward the cottage’s only bedroom. “Think we can round ’em up by bike? My arse is still aching from the saddle.”

Keith threw him a smirk. “Is that what it’s aching from?”

Without slowing down, Marc snared a cushion from the small sofa he was passing and flung it at his friend’s head. “Shut the fuck up, Blue.”

Keith ducked the cushion, which then promptly slapped against the closed bedroom door with a soft thud. “Told you not to try to beat Hunter last week. He may be more a desk jockey nowadays than a cattleman, but he’s still a bloody good bull-rider.”

“You didn’t tell me not to do it.” Marc shoved his hands into his back pockets as Keith deposited the American’s suitcase on the foot of Amy’s double bed. “You just told me I’d be…”

His words faded away, his pulse slamming in his neck, his heart in his throat, as a door in the bedroom swung open. The door leading to the small adjoining bathroom.

The door in which Harper Shaw now stood frozen, as naked as they come, her hair wrapped in a towel, her lips parted in a stunned O, her stare jerking from Marc to Keith and back to Marc again.

“Shit!” Keith burst out, his strained voice shattering the silence. “Shit, we’re sorry. Sorry. We thought—” He spun away from her, his face redder than the dirt outside. “We thought you were still with the boss.”

Marc couldn’t move. He knew he should. He knew he should do exactly what Keith was doing—looking away. It was only polite. But he couldn’t. Harper Shaw’s body held him prisoner.

Her legs were long and toned, her pubic area trimmed to a narrow rectangle, her stomach flat with that subtle, shallow line running from her navel to just below her ribs that spoke of many sit-ups and ab exercises. Her breasts were full and round, each tipped with a dusky nipple so puckered he imagined they would be hard to the touch.

Something throbbed deep within him. Something carnal.

Saliva filled his mouth. His pulse beat faster.

And then something soft smashed into the side of his head and he blinked, the hypnotic spell of Harper’s nudity destroyed. “For fuck’s sake, Thomo,” Keith muttered, “look away.”

Marc dropped his stare to his feet, his cheeks on fire. A pillow rested on the toe of his right boot, no doubt the weapon of distraction Keith had hurled at him. “Sorry, miss,” he said, wishing to hell the urge to raise his head and devour Harper with his eyes would just go away.

“It’s okay,” Harper said, the softest chuckle in her voice.

The sound of cotton rasping over flesh singed his nerves, and—unable to stop himself, no matter how hard he tried—he peeked up from under the brim of his hat at the naked American standing but a few feet away.

She was no longer naked, the towel now wrapped about her, clinging to her curves as only a wet towel could. “Really,” she said, her accent making Marc’s head spin.

Or maybe that was the way she looked.

Or both.

“It’s okay.”

She smiled, and Marc couldn’t help but notice how different she looked without makeup. How lushly pink her lips were, how creamy her skin. Her hair tumbled around her face and bare shoulders in a tangle of damp strands, more than a few brushing at her eyes, which were a shade of blue deeper than either hisorKeith’s.

He lifted his head completely and gave her a wide smile back. If she wasn’t stressed about the whole thing, he wasn’t. Hell if he wasn’t one for going with the flow. It was how he lived his life, after all. “Did you enjoy your tour of the homestead?” he asked, noting how her nipples strained at the pink cotton of the towel.

Beside him, Keith bit back some kind of mutter. From the corner of Marc’s eye, he saw his mate was still facing the bed.

Harper dipped her head. “I did.”

“Did you meet Hunter? Annie?”

She nodded again, the corners of her mouth curling.

“She’s from New York,” he went on, wanting her to speak. Her accent was different from Annie’s in some subtle way he couldn’t discern. It was…intriguing. “And you’re from…”

“Chicago,” Harper supplied.

Silence stretched for a second, and for some stupid reason Marc’s stomach decided to churn. As though he was…what? Nervous? He flicked a sideward glance at Keith, who seemed to be completely entranced with the handle of Harper’s suitcase.

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