Read Bare for You: Outback Skies, Book 3 for Free Online Page B

had spent the flight to the national park wanting the man. More than he wanted to draw breath.
    At one point, he’d opened his iPad and played a most woeful game of Angry Birds, just to stop himself from reaching over the centre console and smoothing his palm up the length of Ryan’s snug-denim-clad thigh.
    Now, gazing blankly at the paintings, stencils and etching older than recorded colonial history on the rocky outcrop before him, he wondered how much longer he’d be able to hold on to the ridiculous façade.
    There was only one thing here he was interested in. Only one thing he wanted to explore with thorough, leisurely attention. Ryan Taylor’s naked body.
    God, he was screwed.
    Huh. I wish.
    “Don’t you think, Minister?”
    It took a long second of silence before it dawned on Jeremy that everyone was looking at him.
    A prickling heat razed up the back of his neck into his scalp. “I’m sorry,” he said, offering a sheepish smile, “I think I got lost in the beauty of the art and history here. Can you repeat that, please?”
    The mayor frowned. A part of Jeremy’s mind noted the rotund man, currently dressed in a suit similar in colour to the one Jeremy wore yesterday, was sweating and panting profusely. The top of his scalp not covered by his ludicrous comb-over glowed an angry, sunburnt red. Jeremy suspected if he didn’t get some kind of ointment or lotion on it soon, it was going to blister.
    “I said—” Barnaby tugged at the buttoned-up collar of his shirt, “—it never ceases to amaze me how far some people will travel to look at simple handprints on a wall.”
    Jeremy opened his mouth. And closed it again when Ryan uttered, “Perhaps it amazes you because you’ve no grasp of the spiritual significance of those hands, Barnaby? Or the history they tell?”
    Jeremy didn’t miss the way the mayor’s lips compressed to a thin white line. Nor the way the news cameras swung in his direction. Or the way the Aboriginal elder nodded a small smile at Ryan.
    “I hardly think a cowboy has the right to inform me of what I grasp and don’t grasp, Taylor. Especially a g—”
    “Don’t.”
    The single word left Ryan with flat menace.
    Barnaby Doyle flicked a harried glance at the cameras and reporters.
    Jeremy stood motionless. For a heartbeat. “I’ve been known,” he said more loudly than the close proximity of those around him required, “to drive clear from one side of Sydney to the other to check out some new graffiti.” He slid his hands into his back pockets and pulled a self-mocking grimace, one that said he was a complete imbecile. “In peak-hour traffic no less.”
    The cameras swung back to focus on him, the men operating them chuckling. The two reporters laughed. So did the Aboriginal elder.
    Barnaby let out his own wobbly guffaw, pasting down his comb-over with his palm. “Life in the Big Smoke, eh, Minister?”
    A few feet away, Ryan’s gaze found Jeremy’s.
    Held it for a moment.
    His nostrils flared. His chest rose and fell.
    And then he touched the brim of his hat before turning away.
    Jeremy didn’t call after him. Nor did he go after him.
    He wanted to.
    Every fibre in his body wanted to.
    But he couldn’t.
    To do so would draw unwanted attention to the reason for his pursuit. Besides, how could he offer words of support to a man whose sexuality was slighted when he himself was firmly and permanently locked in the closet?
    It would be hypocritical.
    It would be dangerous.
    Career suicide.
    That’s not the reason for it being dangerous, is it?
    Letting out a steadying breath, refusing to acknowledge the intoxicating thought of calming Ryan’s anger with a lingering kiss, Jeremy turned back to the rock wall.
    Focused his attention—and in doing so, the media’s attention—on the ancient art there.
    A lifetime later that was really only thirty more minutes, his scheduled visit to Thaaklatjika was over.
    The media crew shook his hand. The reporter for Chanel Eight News, a