MisplacedCowboy Read Online Free Page A

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 not going anywhere.”
    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 a real man 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