Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs) Page 3

  “She’s lovely,” Ronnie piped up, “and not shy at all. But she is gay, so maybe your particular type of charm isn’t working.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Ronnie laughed at Keith’s blunt response. “I spent the last few hours with her. She told me. Leavin’ her girlfriend behind in the U.S. was hard.”

  Marc tossed Keith a quick look. Amy hadn’t told them Harper Shaw was gay. All she’d specifically said about the American—in the days of raving about the woman leading up to this teacher exchange—was that Harper was “lovely”, “an amazing, dedicated teacher” and “so excited about coming to Australia”. She’d never mentioned a girlfriend.

  But then, she’d never mentioned the entirely sexy way Harper looked either.

  Maybe Amy didn’t know?

  That’s also bullshit. The way Amy talked, the two of them are damn near sisters. If Harper Shaw’s a lesbian, Amy would know.

  “So you’re telling me,” Marc narrowed his eyes at Ronnie, “the kiss from the boss was more to Harper Shaw’s tastes than a kiss from either of us?”

  The other man smirked. “I stand more of a chance of kissing her than you do, Thomo.”

  Marc raised his eyebrows, folding his arms. “Is that right?”

  “It is. And despite the fact I’m in the shit with the boss now, I’m glad I sent you two on a bum steer. At least Harper didn’t have to put up with you playing your game like you do.”

  “Our game?” Marc affected a wounded expression. “Ah, Big Mac, you hurt me, mate. You really do. Blue and I don’t play any games. We are who we are and that’s just the way it is.”

  Ronald McNamara snorted. “Who you are? Yeah, I know who you two—”

  “Aren’t you meant to be dealing with a cow in the old eastern billabong right about now, Ronald?”

  Keith’s calm voice cut over Ronnie’s sneer. The man stopped, sliding his stare from Marc to Keith. “You telling me what to do, Blue?”

  Keith nodded. A single dip of his head.

  “Since when are you—”

  “Since about fifteen minutes ago,” Marc answered, uncrossing his arms to drape an elbow on the roof of the beat-up ute. “The boss told us. Apparently there’s a memo.”

  Ronnie’s jaw bunched.

  Marc was enjoying himself. He shouldn’t be. Not really. He got why Big Mac was pissed at him—the YouTube clip had been pretty bloody hilarious after all—but Ronald brought it all on himself. For starters, he’d covered Marc’s saddle in superglue the morning of the last south-herd roundup. For seconds, he’d used Marc’s toothbrush to clean his work boots after mopping up the mess of a calf being born.

  Marc considered himself a pretty easygoing bloke, but when it came to Ronald…well, as his dead dad had always said, not everyone was meant to get along in this world. Farpoint Creek was no different, even if it was heaven on earth.

  “Probably best you bugger off, Ronnie.” Keith’s voice was still calm, but Marc didn’t miss the edge to it. His friend had reached that point most of the hired hands recognized straightaway. The point where they shut up their yapping, quit their whining, put their heads down and got their arses out of there.

  Marc couldn’t help but smile, a sense of pride rolling through him for the other man. There was a reason Hazel Sullivan had called Keith a born leader; it was just a matter of time before he decided to actually be one.

  A cold finger of foreboding slipped up Marc’s spine at the thought. Fuck, what happened when Keith did head off to run his own station? Did Marc follow him? They never discussed any plans beyond the next day. Life was, in Marc’s opinion, too short to get serious about shit like that, but what would he do if faced with the choice of Keith on a station somewhere else and Farpoint, the place he’d spent his entire life? His only real home?

  “You two think you’re so bloody funny, doncha?” Ronnie’s sneer yanked Marc away from the disquieting thought.

  “Nothing funny about me, mate,” Keith was saying, his eyes lost in the shadows of his hat. “But Thomo’s a bloody riot.”

  For a still moment, Ronnie didn’t move. Marc tensed, his body flooding with adrenaline at the distinct possibility the other man was going to try to slam one into Keith. It wouldn’t be the first time he and Keith had been in a fistfight. Just the first one with Big Mac.

  And then, with a grunt, Ronnie stormed around to the driver’s side of the ute and yanked open the door.

  “Don’t think you’re going to fit the cow in the back.”

  Ronnie glared at Keith over the roof. “You know there’s no cow, right?”

  Keith’s lips pulled into a slow smile. “Of course I do. But I’m still sending you out to look for one at the billabong.” He paused a beat. Long enough for Marc to see his knuckles whiten. “On foot.”

  With a muttered curse, Ronnie slammed the door shut, shot one last glare at Keith—threw one Marc’s way for good measure—and then stormed away, fists clenched.

  “Fuck a duck, Blue.” Marc let out a ragged breath. “That was tense.”

  Keith let out his own breath, a long, slow exhalation that saw his broad shoulders loosen. “Remind me to punch the crap out of Dylan when he gets back from his honeymoon, will you? None of this would have happened if the bastard hadn’t taken off now.”

  “Oh yeah, you really think I’m going to encourage you to hit the man who pays my wage?”

  Keith snorted, removing his hat to drag a hand through his hair. “Hunter pays your wage, Thomo. He’s the brother in charge of the money.”

  “Hey, you hit Dylan, you may as well be hitting Hunter. And I’m not letting you do either, ’specially now you’re third in charge. I plan on milking that position of power as much as I can.”

  Keith cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is that right? And how exactly are you planning on doing that? Seeing as I’m the one in that ‘position of power’?”

  Marc grinned. “I’m not telling you, mate. You’ll spoil all my bloody fun if I do.”

  Keith rolled his eyes, tugging his hat back on. “Why do I put up with you?”

  “Because I’m hung like a horse. You said so yourself.”

  Keith walked around the ute’s bonnet and opened the driver’s side door. “Mention your dick one more time, Thomo, and it’ll be you I punch the crap out of.”

  “What? You know you want it.”

  Keith gave him steady look. “Shut the fuck up and get in, Marc. We’ve got to drop off Harper Shaw’s luggage to Amy’s place before Mrs. Sullivan finishes giving her the tour.”

  Marc smirked. “Is that all we’ve got to do?”

  Keith’s answering smile was close to a grin. “No. We’ve got to call Amy while we’re there. There’re a couple of questions I want to ask that girl.”

  Marc opened the passenger door and dropping into the seat.

  Ten minutes later, his cock painfully hard thanks to a filthy line of thought he’d kept to himself, they pulled up outside the small cottage Amy called home.

  A traditional settler’s cottage dating back to the early 1800s, it had been the residence of the Farpoint Creek teacher since the Sullivan family established the cattle station. Over the years, each teacher living there had placed her mark on the quaint cottage, as the various paint colors adorning its exterior surfaces attested—sky-blue window frames, deep-green door, a red porch rail. It stood amongst a grove of willow gums, the shade of the ancient trees painting it in dappled shadows.

  To Marc, it was as close to a home base as he could imagine. His mother had been the resident teacher until she’d passed away ten years ago. He’d grown up within its walls. Had spent night after night listening to the dingoes call during mating season. Had danced in the rain in the small yard outside during the wet season, his mum swinging him about as they both laughed, his dad off doing what stockmen do, regardless of the weather.

  When Amy—the daughter of a Farpoint mechanic—became the teacher after four years studying in the big smoke, he’d gravitated to the cottage once a
gain, returning to his childhood home as a guest of his friend. The nights the three of them had spent dancing to Lee Kernaghan under the stars were some of Marc’s favorites.

  And now Amy was in Chicago, attempting to appease her need for adventure, and Harper Shaw was going to be living in the small cottage.

  All in all, it was kinda weird.

  “You reckon an American is going to handle the ankle biters we breed here?” he asked, climbing out of the ute to throw a curious look at Keith.

  His best mate leaned over the side of the tray and retrieved a small suitcase from the back. “Dunno. Though I don’t think Amy would have set up the swap if she didn’t think Harper could handle it. Amy may have a bloody hard case of wanderlust, but she’s more dedicated to those kids than most of the blokes working here are to their job.”

  Marc snorted. That was true. Amy may be a bit flakey every now and again, but he’d pit her work ethic against that of most the hired hands employed on Farpoint. And that was saying something, given that the Sullivan brothers only employed the best. Well, maybe with the exception of Big Mac.

  Another snort left Marc, this one turning into a chuckle as they reached the front door of the cottage.

  “Like the flowers.” Keith nodded at a wattle spray painted with exquisite detail on the bottle-green door next to the slightly rusted, slightly dented knob. “Amy’s latest effort?”

  Marc let his gaze roam over the yellow puffballs depicted on the wood. “Guess so. She said she was making sure Harper knew she was in Australia no matter where she looked.”

  Keith laughed. “Sounds like Amy. You reckon the Yank’s got a hope of forgetting where she is? Can’t imagine a plain green door’s gonna make her think she’s back in the U.S.”

  Marc shook his head as he reached for the beat-up old doorknob. “Nope. But y’know Amy. Any chance to teach something new. Any surface too, apparently.”

  He turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  The interior was bathed in cool shadows, the wide verandah and overhanging trees outside keeping the high Outback sun and heat at bay. The gentle scent of acacia filled Marc’s breath.

  “Looks like she was determined to keep that Australian botanical lesson going inside as well.” Keith slipped past Marc to enter the cottage. “How many bloody bunches of wattle can one woman need?”

  Marc skipped his gaze around the small living area and eat-in kitchen. Keith was correct. There were at least four vases of acacia scattered around the place, although, he noted, each vase contained a variant of the flower. At the base of each one was a little white card, on which he could see Amy’s neat handwriting. He’d bet his left nut if he picked one up and read it, it would be both the common name and scientific name for the particular flowers in the vase.

  Ah, Amy, he thought. God, I love ya.

  “I’m just going to dump this suitcase in the bedroom,” Keith’s voice dragged his focus from the closest vase, “and we can get going. The mob marked for the Cobar sale yards needs to be counted and as far as I know, they’re still in the south paddock.”

  “Great.” Marc followed him toward the cottage’s only bedroom. “Think we can round ’em up by bike? My arse is still aching from the saddle.”

  Keith threw him a smirk. “Is that what it’s aching from?”

  Without slowing down, Marc snared a cushion from the small sofa he was passing and flung it at his friend’s head. “Shut the fuck up, Blue.”

  Keith ducked the cushion, which then promptly slapped against the closed bedroom door with a soft thud. “Told you not to try to beat Hunter last week. He may be more a desk jockey nowadays than a cattleman, but he’s still a bloody good bull-rider.”

  “You didn’t tell me not to do it.” Marc shoved his hands into his back pockets as Keith deposited the American’s suitcase on the foot of Amy’s double bed. “You just told me I’d be…”

  His words faded away, his pulse slamming in his neck, his heart in his throat, as a door in the bedroom swung open. The door leading to the small adjoining bathroom.

  The door in which Harper Shaw now stood frozen, as naked as they come, her hair wrapped in a towel, her lips parted in a stunned O, her stare jerking from Marc to Keith and back to Marc again.

  “Shit!” Keith burst out, his strained voice shattering the silence. “Shit, we’re sorry. Sorry. We thought—” He spun away from her, his face redder than the dirt outside. “We thought you were still with the boss.”

  Marc couldn’t move. He knew he should. He knew he should do exactly what Keith was doing—looking away. It was only polite. But he couldn’t. Harper Shaw’s body held him prisoner.

  Her legs were long and toned, her pubic area trimmed to a narrow rectangle, her stomach flat with that subtle, shallow line running from her navel to just below her ribs that spoke of many sit-ups and ab exercises. Her breasts were full and round, each tipped with a dusky nipple so puckered he imagined they would be hard to the touch.

  Something throbbed deep within him. Something carnal.

  Saliva filled his mouth. His pulse beat faster.

  And then something soft smashed into the side of his head and he blinked, the hypnotic spell of Harper’s nudity destroyed. “For fuck’s sake, Thomo,” Keith muttered, “look away.”

  Marc dropped his stare to his feet, his cheeks on fire. A pillow rested on the toe of his right boot, no doubt the weapon of distraction Keith had hurled at him. “Sorry, miss,” he said, wishing to hell the urge to raise his head and devour Harper with his eyes would just go away.

  “It’s okay,” Harper said, the softest chuckle in her voice.

  The sound of cotton rasping over flesh singed his nerves, and—unable to stop himself, no matter how hard he tried—he peeked up from under the brim of his hat at the naked American standing but a few feet away.

  She was no longer naked, the towel now wrapped about her, clinging to her curves as only a wet towel could. “Really,” she said, her accent making Marc’s head spin.

  Or maybe that was the way she looked.

  Or both.

  “It’s okay.”

  She smiled, and Marc couldn’t help but notice how different she looked without makeup. How lushly pink her lips were, how creamy her skin. Her hair tumbled around her face and bare shoulders in a tangle of damp strands, more than a few brushing at her eyes, which were a shade of blue deeper than either his or Keith’s.

  He lifted his head completely and gave her a wide smile back. If she wasn’t stressed about the whole thing, he wasn’t. Hell if he wasn’t one for going with the flow. It was how he lived his life, after all. “Did you enjoy your tour of the homestead?” he asked, noting how her nipples strained at the pink cotton of the towel.

  Beside him, Keith bit back some kind of mutter. From the corner of Marc’s eye, he saw his mate was still facing the bed.

  Harper dipped her head. “I did.”

  “Did you meet Hunter? Annie?”

  She nodded again, the corners of her mouth curling.

  “She’s from New York,” he went on, wanting her to speak. Her accent was different from Annie’s in some subtle way he couldn’t discern. It was…intriguing. “And you’re from…”

  “Chicago,” Harper supplied.

  Silence stretched for a second, and for some stupid reason Marc’s stomach decided to churn. As though he was…what? Nervous? He flicked a sideward glance at Keith, who seemed to be completely entranced with the handle of Harper’s suitcase.

  “I’ve heard all about you two.” Harper’s voice jerked Marc’s stare away from Keith and he grinned at the American.

  “Really?” He cocked an eyebrow. “From who?”

  “Ronnie.”

  Marc smirked. “Ahh. None of it good, I bet.”

  A faint pink tinged her cheeks. She shifted her feet, her gaze moving between him and Keith. Her teeth caught her bottom lip.

  Marc continued, “Don’t believe everything you hear, Ms. Shaw. We’re not that—”

 
“So who’s going to try to kiss me first?”

  “That’ll be me.” Keith’s voice cut through Marc’s shock at Harper’s unexpected question.

  Before Marc could utter a word, Keith spun on his heel, destroyed the distance between the foot of the bed and the American, wrapped one arm around her waist and hauled her against his body.

  He cupped her jaw in his free hand, traced her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and then, as Harper gazed up at him—an expression close to amazement on her face—lowered his head and claimed her mouth.

  Raw lust detonated in Marc at the sight of his best mate kissing the towel-clad woman. Hot and absolute. He bit back a groan, a surge of liquid steel flooding into his cock. His reaction stunned him. Left him reeling.

  He’d seen Blue kiss more than one woman, but there was something about the sight of him kissing this woman that was so fucking hot to watch.

  What did that mean?

  Harper’s soft whimper sent fresh heat to his dick. Eyes closed, she leaned into Keith’s embrace, and Marc couldn’t miss the roll of her hips. Nestling her sex closer to his best mate’s groin.

  Keith groaned, his hand bunching the towel at the small of her back, his other skimming down the column of her throat, over her bare shoulder, down the curve of her breast trapped beneath pink cotton.

  Marc swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Holy. Fuck.

  Harper whimpered again, snaking her arms up around Keith’s shoulders, her hands burying in his hair at this nape. It sent his hat tumbling off his head to fall at his feet.

  It also broke the concentrated rapture of the moment. Keith burst out laughing against Harper’s mouth, his chuckles echoed by hers as he stumbled back a step.

  “How was that?” he asked, bending at the waist to scoop his hat from the floor.

  “That was,” Harper cleared her throat, flicking Marc a look, “not at all what I was expecting.”

  “That good, ’eh?” Keith placed his hat back on, a crooked grin on his lips. Lips still glistening from the kiss. He slid his stare to Marc for a heartbeat, and if Marc hadn’t known him so well, he would have missed the expression in his eyes.