Page 156 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

“And,” Hazel turned her direct green gaze back to Marc, “you’ll be next on that list, Mr. Thompson, instead of Ronnie, if you keep pleasing my sons. Of course, beating Dylan at poker the night before his wedding probably wasn’t wise. Nor was causing havoc in town when Hunter sent you to Cobar last week for a supply run. I know you two lads have a very close relationship and get up to some rather…dubiouscarrying-on at times, but you both forget I know everything that has anything to do with Farpoint. Do I make myself clear?”

Marc nodded.

“Now,” the steely edge in Hazel’s voice made Keith want to fidget once again, “as for the American, or lack thereof, I’m assuming Ronnie collected her himself, is that correct?”

Marc nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How long ago?”

“’Bout four and a half hours,” Keith supplied.

“And they’re not back yet?”

Keith shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Hazel pursed her lips. “Hmmm, this is not good. I’m going to try to track them down on the satellite phone. If I’m not successful, or they’re not here in fifteen minutes, I’ll need you two boys to go out and find them.”

“In the chopper?” Keith’s heart thumped fast. As much as he was bellyaching about Big Mac, he didn’t really want anything to happen to the man, and a lotcouldhappen to a person in the Outback when things went askew. Death by snakebite, death by spider bite, death by dehydration. Hell, even death by sun exposure. Added to the fact Ronnie was driving back with the teacher from America, a woman who, according to Amy Wesson, rarely set foot outside of Chicago, and Keith began to worry. Big-time.

“In the chopper,” Hazel echoed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to let Hunter know what’s going on.” A scowl pulled at her softly seamed face. “He’s not going to be happy.”

She turned on her heel and strode from the stables, heading in the direction of the main homestead. Keith watched her go for a second, his hand resting on Whippet’s shoulder, before turning back to Marc. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Marc walked out from behind his horse, removed his hat, dragged his fingers through his shaggy hair and stuck it back on his head. If it weren’t for the sudden foreboding turn of the afternoon, Keith would have given him a hard time about getting a haircut. “Could be anything,” the jackaroo said. “Ronnie’s a shit driver though. Knowing him, he’s hit a ’roo and flipped the bloody ute.”

“Christ. What are we going to tell Amy if something happened to her best friend? She’s already had a gutful of living out whoop whoop. She’ll never come back to Australia if the American gets?—”

The sound of a door slamming outside the stable brought Keith to a halt. He exchanged a look with Marc then spun on his heel and strode outside.

Only to stop two steps out in the scorching midday sun, his stare locked on the woman alighting from the station’s communal work ute. A woman who looked so damn out of place in the Outback, Keith’s mind couldn’t comprehend it.

A woman dressed in black leather knee-high stiletto boots, leg-hugging black jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt so snug it could almost be a second skin, black sunglasses, and a black scarf that wrapped her creamy neck, its feathered ends brushing the tops of her thighs.

A woman with full lips glossed a deep plum-red, long waves of thick honey-blonde hair and a body most men would give their left nut just to gaze at.

A woman, Keith suspected—by the way she was dressed, the way she scanned the immediate area around her, the way her lips parted when her hidden gaze fell on him and Marc—who was just dying to be kissed by a sexy Aussie cowboy.

“Oh man.” Marc chuckled from Keith’s right, reaching up to adjust the hat on his head. “I look forward to kissing this one, Blue.”

Keith studied his best mate’s profile for a long second before turning back to the American standing beside the dented ute. “You know the rules, Thomo,” he said, watching Ronnie fuss over the vision in black. “First kiss claims the prize.”

Marc’s laugh was low. Dirty. Suggestive. “Game on, mate. Game on.”

Chapter2

The leaner of the two cowboys sauntered over to her. There was no other way to describe the way he walked. Like sinful temptation, mischievous charm and cocky indolence.

Low-slung, faded jeans that had no hope of concealing the sizable bulge of his crotch hugged long, muscular legs. An equally faded chambray shirt wrapped a torso so perfectly proportioned—wide shoulders, flat stomach and narrow hips—that for a moment, Harper forgot how to breathe.

Her pulse kicked into overdrive and her mouth went dry. Her pussy, on the other hand, grew damp. Damp and tight.

Nowthat’sa cowboy.

“Thomo,” Ronnie muttered at her shoulder, turning his back on the approaching sex god in denim and a hat. “Watch out, he’s the smooth-talker of the two.”

Thomo—surely that had to mean Marc Thompson—stopped but a foot away from her, his sapphire-blue gaze roaming over her from head to toe. He touched the tip of his index finger to the brim of his hat, his lips curling in a smile. “G’day, love. You must be the American.”

Harper oozed poised calm and aloof indifference. Well…tried to. It was goddamn hard when her heart was thumping fast in her throat and her nipples were pinching in her bra. Holy crap, she’d never seen such a sexy example of maleness. Everything about the cowboy radiated testosterone, pleasure and carnal delight. And his accent? Oh God, after listening to Ronnie talk for the last four hours, she’d figured she was over the Australian accent already, but it seemed not.