Page 92 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

The rest of what she was going to say faded away, lost to sinking guilt at the sight of the man on the other side of her threshold.

“Hello, Ms. Carmichael,” Joseph Prince said, looking every bit the all-powerful, all-crushing billionaire businessman he was. “Would you mind telling me where my missing daughter is?”

* * *

Dylan took one look at his brother standing amongst the International Arrivals crowd at Sydney airport and shook his head. “Don’t say a bloody word.”

Hunter held up his hands. “Okay.”

Nearly thirty hours of travel time hadn’t lightened Dylan’s mood. Every damn second of that time had been spent cursing himself. Cursing the fact he was a bloody Australian stockman, not an American city slicker.

The Down Under Wonder. That was him.

And now here he was, back in Australia, looking at his brother—a man he loved more than anyone would ever truly understand—and what did he feel?

Miserable.

He’d expected to feel relieved stepping foot on Australian soil again, even if that “soil” was the lino-covered floor of Sydney International Airport. Instead he felt bloody miserable. And angry.

Climbing into the Farpoint Creek helicopter, he tossed his duffel bag in the back and threw his hat on top of it. He let out a low grunt, glad to have the damn hat off his head. Every time he touched it or looked at it he thought of Monet.

Hell, everything made him think of Monet. He’d spent six bloody hours in the Denver airport reading an art magazine, comparing the works in it to hers. Convinced she was more talented than any of the artists featured in its pages.

Six bloody hours reading an art magazine as he wondered if it was too late to fly back to New York.

He’d forced himself onto the plane from Denver to Hawaii. He’d forced himself onto the plane from Hawaii to Sydney.

And, if he was being truthful with himself, he was forcing himself to buckle into the Farpoint Creek chopper.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Hunter asked an hour into the trip.

Dylan pulled his stare from the carpet of eucalyptus trees twelve thousand feet below. Sydney was long behind them, the helicopter now flying over the expanse of country between the coast and the Outback. Miles of populated regional cities giving way to rural farmland. Farmland surrounded by bush and scrub. Dylan watched it all whisk by and still he waited for that sense of serenity he’d thrown away his heart for.

“Well?” Hunter’s voice rose over the constant thrum of the chopper, his frown part worried, part irritation. If Dylan had been in a better state of mind he would have laughed. “Are you?”

Dylan shook his head. “Nope.”

His brother studied him for a long moment, speculation pulling at his expression.

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Just watch the bloody air, dickhead, or you’ll get us both killed.”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Hunter raised his eyebrows. “Fly into the side of a low-flying 747?”

Dylan snorted. “If anyone was going to, it’d be you. Just wait until I’m not in the chopper with you, okay?”

Hunter rolled his eyes this time. “Baby.”

Dylan grinned. “Moron.”

Hunter returned his attention to the chopper’s flight path, a smile pulling at his lips. “Missed you, brother. Although I’ll punch the shit out of you if you tell anyone I said that.”

Dylan laughed. For the first time since walking away from Monet, he actually felt…okay. Not good. He didn’t think he’d feel good ever again. Not deep down in his soul. But okay. If nothing else, it was good to be back with his brother. Perhaps it wouldn’t take long at all to get over Monet. To get back into the swing of things at home.

To forget all about the American artist.

Yeah. Right. Now who’s the moron?

Shoving the sarcastic thought aside, he raised his left leg, plunked his foot on the chopper’s dash and threaded his hands behind his head. “So tell me. Did you get the new herd down into the south paddock?”