Page 95 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series
Dylan gave them both a grin, his grip on his bag far too tight. As if he were holding on to something lost to him. “Much as it pains me to say,” he joked, forcing his voice to sound relaxed, “I actually missed the old duck.”
Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he crossed to the ute and climbed into the truck bed. Mutt leapt up beside him, bestowing him with a stream of happy dog kisses. He noticed his brother and Annie once again trade glances but didn’t let on. The trip back to Farpoint Creek homestead in the open air, with the wind in his face and Mutt’s weight pressed to his side, was what he needed now. Not an ear-bashing from his brother.
That would come later, no doubt. When Hunter got sick of not knowing what was under Dylan’s skin. Until then, it was just the Outback sky, the hot Australian sun and his dog.
What else did the Down Under Wonder really need, after all?
Chapter12
Luxury had never been a big part of Monet’s life. She’d done the whole “starving artist” thing for so long before finding critical and financial success in New York that existing on the basic needs—simple healthy food, warm clothes, shelter and art supplies—was now ingrained in her psyche.
Having said that, she had to admit, traveling by private jet was goddamn amazing. And indulgent.
Very indulgent. But then, that’s what life was like when you were a Prince. Especially when you were Joseph Prince, family patriarch and one ofForbes’Top Five Gazillionaires.
Of course, when you were Joseph Prince, you also didn’t accept the answer, “I don’t know where Annie is.” You refused to leave your daughter’s best friend’s apartment until you got the answer you wanted. And then, when you were Joseph Prince, you ground your teeth, balled your fists and called your personal assistant, telling her to fire up the jet and prepare for the long-haul flight to Australia.
Monet shifted in her seat, the glass of wine one of the flight attendants had placed on the table beside her an hour ago forgotten. The table, not the tray. There were no trays in Joe Prince’s Leer jet, just exquisitely expensive side tables, leather armchairs that swiveled, plush carpet and the ultimate entertainment system. The jet truly was amazing in its sheer opulence, but Monet wasn’t interested in money. Or being indulgent. The only thing that interested her now was the sight outside her window.
A stretch of flat brown land that seemed to go on forever, marred only by an air strip that looked too short for any plane larger than a toy one to land on, and a stream of dust billowing out from behind the pickup truck speeding toward it.
By Monet’s reckoning, the truck would beat the jet to the airstrip by roughly a heartbeat.
She stared at the vehicle, wondering who was in it. The jet was still too high to make out anything but that didn’t stop Monet’s pulse pounding in her ears like canon fire.
Oh God, what was she doing here?
When Annie’s father had ordered his jet be readied for an immediate flight to Australia, Monet’s heart had slammed into her throat. She’d stared at Joseph Prince, listening to him bark out a list of instructions, and then, before she even knew she was doing it, asked if she could go with him.
He’d narrowed his eyes. “To protect my daughter from my wrath?”
“No. There’s someone at Farpoint I need to talk to.”
If her answer had surprised Joseph, he hadn’t let on. Instead, he’d turned on his heel and strode to her door, pulling it open before giving her a serious look. “My driver will collect you in an hour. Don’t make him wait.”
And now she was here.
Twenty-five hours of absolute luxury air travel and she was about to land at Farpoint Creek Cattle Station.
Never let it be said she didn’t go after what she wanted.
Unfortunately, she still didn’t reallyknowwhat she wanted. One more night of pleasure with Dylan? To beg him to return to New York with her? Or something else? Something so much more.
Monet’s belly flip-flopped. She didn’t know.
Liar.
A sudden jolt, followed by a thrumming roar, told her the jet had landed.
She twisted in her seat, desperate to locate the pick-up.
The foreign world outside was little more than a blur of browns, red and olive green, the blue sky a swatch of intense color above it. By the time the jet slowed—quick enough to make Monet’s far-too-knotted stomach feel as if it were being mashed back into her spine—the pickup was nowhere to be seen.
“Let’s go see what my daughter has to say for herself.”
Joseph’s voice tore Monet’s stare from the window. He was already on his feet, his expression that of a seriously pissed-off silverback gorilla about to do some significant damage. A seriously pissed silverback gorilla in a Karl Lagerfeld suit.
He strode down the jet’s carpeted aisle, adjusting his cuffs as he went.
