Page 54 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

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.

“I’m sorry.” Phillip’s top lip curled. “But if you’re speaking to me, I’m notgoinganywhere.”

Dylan gave the bloke his widest, goofiest grin. For good measure, he even tipped his hat back on his head. “Ah, you’re a funny bugger, are you?” He kept his hand out, letting it speak volumes. He may not be from this neck of the woods, but he knew a handshake left hanging was a sign of utter disdain. As far as Dylan was concerned, he was happy to push Phillip to complete the social tradition whether the man wanted to or not.

Phillip’s top lip continued to curl, the kind of expression Dylan expected to see on a city slicker who’d stepped in a pile of sheep shit.

“Phillip.” Monet moved to Dylan’s side and it was all he could do to keep his doofus grin in place when she ran her hand up his arm. His heart, however, leapt straight into his bloody throat. “This is Dylan Sullivan. From Farpoint Creek in Australia.”

Phillip ran a slow inspection over Dylan, from the tip of his kangaroo-leather boots to the battered peak of his wide-brimmed hat. “A cowboy from Australia?” He flashed Dylan a toothy smirk, took Dylan’s hand and gave it a crushing shake. Or tried to. Dylan spent his days dealing with unruly Angus cattle, unruly jackaroos and—when Hunter was in a competitive mood—an even unrulier twin brother hell-bent on beating him at arm wrestling. “Here to throw a shrimp on the bar-bee, eh?”

The man’s voice dripped with mocking derision and the urge to ball his fist rolled through Dylan again. He let his I’m-a-clueless-country-hick grin turn into the same smile he gave drunken hired hands who thought they’d take him on. The kind of smile that said, “go on, give it your best shot, mate”.

“I’m a stockman, not a cowboy. Haven’t been a boy since my balls dropped and I started shaving. And I’m just here to seduce the beautiful women on your side of the pond. Show them what arealman is like.”

The shocked blanch that twisted Phillip’s face filled Dylan with perverse satisfaction, just as Monet’s choking laugh sent tight ripples of happiness through him.

“I think you had that one coming, Phillip,” she said, her hand still resting on Dylan’s biceps. He liked the feel of it there. A lot. Too much, given why he was here in New York to begin with. It wasn’t to fall head over heels for a woman he’d only just met, that was for bloody sure. “And as for the seducing,” she turned and gave him a wide smile, twinkling mirth in her eyes, “the accent alone is enough to make a New York girl go all wobbly inside.”

The statement was said in jest. Dylan didn’t doubt that at all, but it had a bloody inconvenient effect on him. His balls throbbed, his cock twitched and his throat grew tight.

“Is that all it takes nowadays?” The charming smirk was back on Phillip’s lips, but Dylan couldn’t help notice his spine was straighter, his shoulders squarer. “An accent and a hat? I should have gone to Urban Outfitters months ago.” He turned back to Dylan. “Maybe you can teach me a few choice Australian phrases? The kind to woo Monet into going all wobbly inside, eh?”

Wanker. How’s that for a choice Australian phrase?The thought shot through Dylan’s head, dark and more than a tad aggressive.

Fighting to control the unexpected reaction to Phillip’s obvious pissing contest, he drew a deep breath. “All right. How’s this sound?” He turned to Monet, giving her a crooked smile. “G’day, love. Fancy getting dolled up and joining me on a shindig to the local pub?”

The exaggerated Australianisms, so far removed from how Dylan normally spoke, made Monet laugh, and as it had before, his body reacted to the husky, warm sound. “Oh Dylan. You had me at ‘g’day’.”

He chuckled, his hand instinctually coming up to steady her as she nudged him with her shoulder. The second his palm smoothed over the dip of her slim waist, the second his fingers brushed the subtle curve of the top of her backside, his breath caught in his throat and—completely indifferent to the fact shewasn’tthe woman he was here to meet—his cock grew thick in his jeans.

Fuck a bloody duck, Sullivan. Get your hands off her, now.

But he couldn’t. He stared down into Monet’s face, into eyes the color of the Outback sky, and wanted more than life to kiss her.

To slide his arms around her waist, pull her to his body and capture her lips with his. To delve into her mouth with his tongue. To taste her sweetness…

She gazed up at him, her laughing smile slowly fading. Fading until she stared at him, her lips parted, her breath ragged, her hands smoothing over his chest, up to his shoulders?—