Page 57 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

“Oh well.” Dylan returned his hat to his head, once again a misplaced cowboy in New York. “I’m used to trouble.”

The grin he gave Monet said just that. The trouble for Monet wasn’t that Phillip Montinari could try to destroy her successful art career; rather, everything about Dylan Sullivan pushed every sexual button she had. And then some. What the hell was she supposed to do about that?

Run. Run away. Call a cab, shove Dylan in it, pay the driver a massive tip to take him to the airport and get away from him. Now!

“Kerrie?” The gallery curator’s name burst from Monet’s lips before she even realized she was thinking it.

A whip-thin man with snow-white hair and candy-apple-red horned rims hurried over to her from the whispering onlookers, his lips twitching as he shot Dylan sideward glances. “Yes,mon cher?”

Monet shot her own glance at the unconscious Phillip and then let out a short sigh. “I think I’d better get Dylan out of here. Can you call the paramedics for Mr. Montinari and finish setting up for the opening?”

Kerrie nodded, his twitching lips not quite pulling into a Cheshire Cat grin. “Of course I can, oh talented one. You run along now. And don’t you worry about Mr. That’s-Not-A-Cock.” He leaned toward Monet, hiding his twitching mouth from the rest of the gallery with a melodramatically placed hand. “I know one or two things snugged away in Phi-Phi’s closet he surely won’t want…coming out.” He dropped her a wink and then turned to Dylan. “And as for Mr. Down-Under-Wonder…honey, you can come backanytime.”

The dimples on either side of Dylan’s lips flashed. “Good on ya, mate.”

Kerrie’s immaculately waxed eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I have no idea what you just said but it gave me chills. Chills!” He turned back to Monet. “Mon cher, if you don’t take this man home right now and ride him silly, I will.”

Monet opened her mouth to tell Kerrie—one of her favorite gallery curators, and one of New York’s most flamboyant—that she wasn’t riding Dylan anywhere, but was stopped by the Australian’s deep, completely relaxed laugh.

“I like that idea. Got any spurs? They wouldn’t let me bring mine through Customs.”

Struggling to hide the unsettling affect Dylan and Kerrie’stête-à-têtewas having on her libido, Monet wrapped her fingers around Dylan’s biceps and gave a little tug. “Come on, cowboy. Time to leave.”

Swinging his gaze to her face, he tapped his fingers to the brim of his hat and, in a flawless American drawl, said, “Yes ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think I prefer the ‘g’day love’.”

He laughed and, with a wink at Kerrie, willingly let her lead him from the gallery.

* * *

He should have flown straight back home. The second he made eye-contact with Monet Carmichael—no, change that, the second hesawMonet Carmichael—in her snug black leather pants, with her wild tumble of dark hair and her tiny waist, kissable lips, cheeky smile and full, round breasts, he should have climbed into a taxi and got his arse back to Australia. Instead, he’d let his dick do the thinking.

Stupid dick.

It had taken all of about five seconds of sitting in the taxi beside Monet, the silence stretching between them as they headed for her apartment, to know his trouble wasn’t Phillip “I’m a Wanker” Montinari. It was his own libido.

Twenty minutes of chatting later, during which he answered her casual questions about Australia and Farpoint and God knows what else—truth be known his brain wasn’t really paying attention to anything except the memory of their kiss back in the gallery—they finally pulled to a halt outside Monet’s building.

Two minutes after that, with Tommy Taberknackle’s curious stare following him through the door like a bush fly that wouldn’t leave him alone, Dylan found himself riding the lift with Monet to her apartment.

Her apartment. The one right next to Annie’s. The apartment he wasmeantto be sleeping in tonight.

Dylan fought the urge to shuffle his feet. Neither he nor Monet had raised the issue of that kiss, as if by ignoring their shameful behavior, it hadn’t happened. That was stupid, of course. Ithadhappened. He still had the semi hard-on to prove it. His balls throbbed with unmet need.

And yet here they were, pretending otherwise.

Pretending they were just acquaintances with a mutual friend.

A tense silence stretched between them as the lift slowly rose, tugging on Dylan’s churning stomach.

Bloody hell, he felt nervous. Like the time he and Hunter got caught by their dad when they were ten, sneaking a peek at aPlayboyowned by one of Farpoint Creek’s hired hands. Their father’s reaction had been simple. He hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, studying them with those piercing blue eyes of his before walking away. The next morning, Dylan and Hunter found themselves with the task of rounding up all the breeding heifers due to be serviced. On foot. Without the aid of any of Farpoint’s working dogs or jackaroos.

It was a lesson both Dylan and Hunter got straight away. Sex is a fact of life and comes with a whole lot of hard work. Both had remembered that lesson and, while he and Hunter had certainly had their fair share of sexual partners by the time they were in their thirties, they’d each taken something different from the childhood lesson.

For Dylan, it was don’t get caught with your pants down unless you’re prepared for sweat, shit and a whole lot of pain.

For Hunter, it was don’t get caught. Period.

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