Page 55 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

“Ms. Carmichael?” a female voice shouted behind them. “The caterer’s here.”

Monet all but jumped away from Dylan, as if he’d suddenly started shooting live electricity from his body. She blinked, her teeth catching her bottom lip before, with a glance at Phillip, she hurried across the gallery.

Dylan watched her go, his heart not just thumping in his throat but bloody well slamming around in there. Like a sledgehammer swung by a maniac on steroids.

“Well, that was fun.”

He turned back to the man beside him, Phillip’s smirk once again pissing him off. “Fun?”

Phillip slid his gaze to where Monet stood talking to the caterer. “You know, the whole I’m-a-sexy-Aussie-cowboy seduction thing you got going. Pity it’s wasted on Monet.”

“Stockman,” Dylan said. “And tell me, why’s it wasted?”

It was idiocy of course. There was no point to the conversation. He wasn’t trying to seduce Monet. But for some bloody reason, his brain—perhaps jet-lagged, perhaps still trying to deal with the fact Annie was on the other side of the planet—decided the best course of action right now was to poke at Phillip’s disdainful conceit the way he used to poke at red-belly black snakes when he was a kid, just to see what they would do.

Phillip adjusted his cuffs. “Because Monet is a woman of style, taste and class who needs a man of the same caliber to satisfy her.” He smiled, apparently satisfied with his argument. “And you…are a cowboy.”

“Stockman,” Monet said as she slid between them, saving Dylan from doing something he was bound to regret. Something stupid, like knocking Phillip to the ground with a swift punch. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Phillip, I think we all know this conversation is over.”

Phillip’s eyebrows shot up again. He stared at Monet and then let out a snort. “Now I see why you wouldn’t let me get past first base. You’re not frigid or a lesbo like I thought. You’re just into?—”

Dylan smashed his fist into the bloke’s jaw.

He couldn’t help himself. One second he was standing there, listening to the moron carry on and wondering if it was politically correct to tell him he was a dick. The next, shocked hurt crossed Monet’s beautiful face and Dylan was balling his hand into a fist and slamming it hard into Phillip’s clean-shaven jaw.

There was a dull bone-hitting thud, a collective gasp from the people setting up Monet’s exhibition and then Phillip dropped to the floor.

Holy shit, Sullivan. You’re in trouble now.

Chapter3

Monet gaped at him. She’d never gaped at anyone before in her life, but here she was, gaping at Dylan, eyes wide, hands frozen halfway to her face, as if they didn’t know whether to clap together or cover her open mouth.

Oh God, he’d punched the crap out of Phillip.

“Dylan,” she managed, shaking herself out of her stupor. “You can’t just…” She shot a look at Phillip sprawled on the floor. Blood oozed from a cut on his lip, his face a mix of stunned confusion and indignant disbelief.

“I’m going to fucking sue!” he blustered, trying to scramble to his feet. It seemed an exercise in futility, however, when his heels slipped, his ass slapping back to the polished marble floor.

Monet ignored him, swinging her attention to Dylan. “You can’t just…hitsomeone because you don’t like what they say about you. Not in New York.”

The shadow cast over Dylan’s face from his hat couldn’t hide his incredulous expression. “Hell, love.” He took a step back, shaking his head. “I didn’t hit the bastard ’cause of what he said aboutme. I hit him because of what he said toyou.”

Monet shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. Why would you hit him because ofme?”

Dylan’s frown turned him into the poster boy for all things rugged and manly. “I don’t care if this is New York, when a bloke insults a woman like Phillip insulted you, a man steps in and shuts him up.”

Monet’s mouth fell open. Again.

He’d defended her honor. The Aussie cowboy just defended her honor.

Is he for?—

The thought didn’t even finish forming in her head. It couldn’t. Not when her body took over and propelled her forward.

Straight into his arms. Her lips claiming his.

The kiss took her completely by surprise. As it did Dylan. Monet could tell by the way every muscle in his body—his hard, firm, muscular body—locked up. For a brief second, she thought he was going to push her away. He should. He was here for Annie. Hell,sheshould pull away. But she couldn’t. And he didn’t.