by Skylar Hill
As he watched Fred and George tussle with each other, some of the tension eased from his body. They were improving already—though he knew it helped that he had been careful not to separate the cubs. They clearly had a strong bond, and he’d seen it time and time again, when an animal, especially a wild one, was robbed of a faithful companion, how their health—physical and mental—would often suffer.
Just like with humans, he thought. Just like it’ll be when Nat leaves.
He shouldn’t have taken her to bed again. He shouldn’t have succumbed the first time. But he had. And he’d keep doing it for as long as she let him because… God.
Being with Nat was like touching inspiration itself, like science and art and beauty and his future all in the palm of his hand at once, the power of her entrusted to him, given to him, like she knew he’d care for it and nurture it and worship her and her power and her strength and her self, her beautiful, true self.
You are so fucking screwed. There is not even a word for how screwed you are. Your heart is gonna shatter into a million pieces and you’ll never recover. You’re going to be an old, sad man who becomes a hermit in the woods.
He was so wrapped up in his panic that he didn’t even hear the footsteps coming up the path before it was too late.
“Still playing with your pets, I see,” said a deep voice behind him.
Rhett froze, and it took him a moment to turn around in the bear enclosure.
A tall man with a thick shock of salt and-pepper hair falling across his forehead, wearing an impeccable Armani suit, was standing outside the cub’s enclosure. He was looking like he was trying hard not to breathe through his nose.
“Hi, Dad,” Rhett said.
“Rhett,” his father said. “I hear you’ve gotten married.”
How the hell? Jace. Of course. Fucking Jace. He had always been the family gossip.
Rhett closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to calm the frustration rising in his chest. He stood up, brushing his dirty hands on his jeans before opening the enclosure and stepping out of it.
“Come up to my place behind the lodge,” he said. “We can talk.”
“Oh, we’re going to talk,” Hank Oakes strode ahead of him, where one of the four-wheelers from the sheds was already parked. His father’s frowned deepened when Rhett was the one who swung into the driver’s seat, but he hopped in the back.
Rhett drove the four-wheeler down the dirt road, grateful the whir of the engine was too loud for them to talk. It was a short reprieve, but it was appreciated. When he pulled up to his place set in the circle of oaks near the pear orchard, it was way too soon.
He loved his father, but he had never been anything like him, and that had seemed to pain and frustrate him. While he would’ve loved to be able to relate to their dad like Heath or Jace did, he never could. He wasn’t ambitious or driven like them or the rest of their family… not in the same way. What he worked for, what he strived for, was all in service of this place and the animals. It fed his happiness in a way no other kind of success ever had.
His father had always struggled to understand that. And as they walked inside his house and stood in his living room, the distance seemed to yawn immeasurably between them.
“Do you want a beer?” Rhett asked.
“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” Hank said.
“Okay, Dad,” he sighed, going over and sitting on the couch, gesturing for him to take a seat. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
Hank’s face tightened. “I didn’t exactly relish the way I got the news,” he said, sounding a little helpless. He slumped down in the leather chair across from Rhett. “Why didn’t you call me when this guy Durbin started pulling a power play on you?”
“I called Jace,” Rhett said.
“I’m your father, Rhett,” Hank said.
“And you would’ve called Jace,” Rhett pointed out. “I was just saving you a step. I didn’t want to bother you. I know you’re busy.”
Hank sighed. “I want to know about your life.”
Sure. Now that he was a success. When he was just a small-town vet specializing in wild animals, his father had struggled mightily to relate to him, mystified by Rhett’s enthusiasm and dedication to preserving wildlife, to being as hands-on as possible.
Hank Oakes was a hands-off sort of man. He gave people money. He bought companies and ran them. But he didn’t build much of anything from scratch anymore. That had been more of his grandfather’s deal. He’d been the founder of the Oakes Sporting Goods empire and the reason that River Run belonged to Rhett.
Rhett tried hard not to resent his father for refusing to help bring River Run back to its former glory and then some. He always thought his father had been a little pissed that his grandfather had left such valuable land to him, rather than to the family trust or one of his more ambitious cousins. But it had been left to Rhett because Gramps knew that he loved the land and would do right by it… that he’d do something more with it.
And so he had. With no help from his family. He loved his brothers, but it had taken adulthood to put them on equal footing. The curse of being the baby, he supposed.
“It’s okay, Dad,” he said. “I took care of it.”
“You got married,” his father said bluntly, staring at him.
“It’s not a big deal,” Rhett said, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. Of course it was a big deal. Nat… she was a big deal. Her presence in his life, the effect she had on it, on him, on everything.
He was so fucking screwed and he knew it, but he couldn’t admit it out loud. And certainly not to his father.
“Rhett, you do understand who this woman is, don’t you?” Hank asked.
“She’s a friend, Dad,” Rhett said firmly, wondering if his father knew what dangerous ground he was on. He was not about to let Hank malign Nat or cast her as some sort of gold digger. Christ.
“She’s a really good friend. We’ve known each other for years. She’s helping me so I can get this issue ironed out with Durbin once and for all. The marriage is just a failsafe until I figure out why the guy’s trying to move in on the water rights. Keeps the water source available to me and the refuge and the bathhouse, which is a big part of the business now.”
“Are you serious right now?” his father demanded. “Natalie Banks’ father is one of the biggest landowners in state. He has cattle ranches and vineyards, and he owns half the cranberry bogs on the Oregon coast.”
Rhett blinked, a little surprised. Nat had described her father as big-time rancher, but he guessed he hadn’t realized how big. “Okay, so why is this important?”
“Because he’s a colleague, Rhett,” his father gritted out. “And he flew out with me. He’s sitting in the lodge’s private lounge right now, waiting to speak to you.”
“Wait, what?” Rhett leapt to his feet, raking his hand through his hair, terror lancing through him. “Nat’s father is here? Oh shit. I’ve gotta…” He looked around hopelessly, frantic. “I need to shave or something,” he blurted out. “Fuck.” All he could think was You’ve got to make a good impression and Fuck, we got married without telling anyone and Did he bring a shotgun? He must have brought a shotgun. Everything she’s told me about him tells me he brought a shotgun. I’m gonna get shot by a guy called Big Stan.
Hank started laughing.
“Dad!” he protested, feeling like he was twelve years old again.
“You two getting married isn’t a “big deal” huh?” Hank asked, silver brow arched. “That’s why the thought of meeting her father is sending you into a sheer panic?”
“It’s an awkward situation,” he protested, and it made Hank laugh even harder. He could feel himself turning red, but he didn’t feel angry, because his father was looking at him with the kind of fond affection he wasn’t really used to.
“So you found the woman you want to spend your life with,” Hank said.
“I told you, it isn’t like that,” Rhett said firmly, even though everything
in his body and heart said Yes in resounding agreement. “She’s doing me a favor so Durbin backs off long enough for me to figure out his next move. She’s a friend. Nothing more.”
“Your friend left her camisole on the couch,” Hank said, pointing behind his shoulder.
Rhett turned bright red to the tips of his ears, snatching the silk-and-lace confection that Nat must’ve tossed there last night and shoving it deeper in the couch cushions.
“Go calm down,” his father directed. “Maybe take a shower and put on a clean shirt. Then come and meet your new father-in-law.”
“He isn’t—” Rhett started, but then he just gave up. There was no use arguing with his dad. Years of it had taught him that they did have one thing in common: stubbornness. Which is why he probably kept trying. But in this instance, Dad was right—he needed a shower.
“I’ll meet you over there,” he said.
“Good,” Hank said, getting up and heading to the door. “And Rhett?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“The place looks amazing,” he said, his eyes, so much like Rhett’s own, were actually shining with respect. “I’m very proud of you. And I’m very happy you’ve found someone to share the fruits of all your hard work with.”
Rhett didn’t know what to say. He swallowed, his throat clicking painfully around the lump in his throat. “I’ll see you over there,” he said finally.
Hank nodded.
Twenty-Four
Nat
Nat was at Purely Pleasure’s offices at eight on the dot the next morning, in her lethally sharp Louboutins and the black linen pants that made her look like Katharine Hepburn—who had long been a style idol for her. She’d even added the bakelite bangles Maddy had gifted her for Christmas last year, their buttery yellow color and art-deco carvings standing out in sharp relief against the deep black of her skirt. She almost felt like the bangles were armor, their mere presence on her wrists making her feel powerful as she waited to deal with André Henri.
Of course, he was late. It was probably in a bid to make her feel uneasy, but mostly, it put her on guard. She had always admired this man’s work. and was delighted when he agreed to shoot the campaign, but his sudden power move of showing up weeks early didn’t sit right with her. And she couldn’t help but wonder—would he have pulled this kind of stunt with a male CEO?
Probably not, she thought, breathing through the bitterness. If she wallowed in anger, she’d never get anything done. So instead, she stored it away, using it as slow-burning fuel to push her. Every man who’d ever demeaned or doubted her was stored in that part of her, just like every person who had shown her respect and equality was cherished in her heart. That’s what she always reminded herself. There were really good people in the world, and maybe they outweighed the bad—and if they didn’t, they could at least work toward it.
Finally, nearly twenty minutes after their appointment was supposed to start, André Henri strolled into her office. He was a man of medium build, with those glasses John Lennon had made famous in the sixties and a goatee threaded with silver.
He smiled when he saw her, and it wasn’t a very nice smile, with a hard edge that made her guard rise even more. “You showed up this time,” he said, slipping into his chair with almost a slither.
“It’s very nice to meet you face to face,” she said, not taking the bait. “Did my assistant offer you coffee? Tea? Water?”
“Whiskey, if you have it,” he said, pulling off his glasses, his eyes glittering with a challenge.
Nat raised an eyebrow but smiled slightly, rose and walked over to the small cabinet set in the corner of her office. She opened it, drawing out a cut-crystal decanter and a glass.
“Straight?” she asked.
He nodded, and she poured him a glass, walking back to hand it to him.
“Are you joining me?” he asked.
She went back to sit behind her desk, squaring her shoulders.
“I’d like to discuss your plans for the campaign and the shoots,” she said, ignoring his question. “I believe my assistant has faxed your agent all the details about budget considerations.”
“Oh, I never look at those,” Andre waved her comment off. “Budgets are always flexible. Great art, great ads, they cost money.”
“And what kind of great ads do you have in mind here?” Nat asked. “The mood of the new ads should be sultry, but because we’re marketing the new pearl glove, we have the opportunity to play with it a little. Get into mainstream publications that some of our other products wouldn’t be able to.”
“My approach will be in your face,” Andre said. “Raw, ripe sexuality. Focused on the source of sexual power.” He pulled out a portfolio and handed it to her. She opened it and had to clench her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping.
That was… a very close up picture of… well….
It was very artistic and the production values were amazing, but whoa! Raw, ripe sexuality? More like a really expensive, well-lit porno. Steeling herself, she began to flip through the half-dozen photos provided, her dread building. They were… all like that. Just (literally)balls-to-the-wall lady and dude parts everywhere, models looking at the camera with exaggerated O mouths.
Empowering ad this was not. This guy was so not going to work.
She closed the portfolio, pasting on a bland smile. “Thank you so much for coming in, Mr. Henri. And for showing me your work. You’re right, it is very raw. But we’re going to be moving in a new direction, with a different photographer.” She handed him back the portfolio. “Thank you again. Have a great day.”
The man gaped at her. “Are you joking?” he asked. “I am an artist! You would be lucky if I debased myself to do this job.”
She shook her head. “Your photos are not about the source of all sexual power,” she said crisply. “They’re about the male gaze. About the masculine perspective. They’re entirely focused on the parts of a person’s body that a man deems important and that a man thinks is sexy—not the woman herself. What we do at Purely Pleasure is provide women and men with new avenues of sexuality, ways and toys to explore beyond conventional ideas of what constitutes sex and sexiness and sensuality. It’s not all wham-bam, thank you, ma’am, two thrusts and he’s done anymore. And it’s not all about the cock or the pussy. It’s about intimacy. Sharing. Bonding. Feeling. Emotion. Sensation. There is none of that in your photos. So thank you for coming in, but I’ll be taking the campaign in a different direction.”
He snatched the portfolio out of her hands roughly, looking enraged. “I can’t believe I made time for this,” he snarled.
“You can see yourself out,” Nat said.
He stalked out, slamming the door behind her, and she sighed with relief at the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall. Opening her laptop, she added Find a new photographer to her to-do list.
This means Vogue is probably out, she thought glumly. Maybe if she found someone fantastic who could execute the vision correctly, she could convince the ad buyers over there to still stick to their promise. We’ll see.
She glanced down at her phone, which she had shut off for their meeting, and realized that she had a bunch of missed calls from Rhett. Felicity knocked on her door.
“I have Rhett for you?” she asked, holding her phone out.
Nat took it. “Hi, Rhett,” she said.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but something’s come up.”
“What?”
“Well, it turns out that my dad knows your dad. And I guess my brother, my idiot fucking brother, told him about what we did, with the whole marriage thing, and my dad told your dad, and now they’re both in the lodge’s lounge.”
“What?” She practically shrieked it. She stood up from her desk, knocking over her (thankfully empty) coffee mug. She was going to kill Jace Oakes! He was a dead man! Oh my God, her father was going to explode. He was going to be furious. Guilt churned inside her.
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “My dad’s
fine. I’m going to jump in the shower and clean up and I’ll go talk to your dad. It’ll be okay. I’ll be charming. I’ll explain everything.”
“Um, no, you will not!” she said.
“Nat, really, I’m good with parents,” he insisted.
“You don’t understand,” she said, grabbing her coat off the back of her chair and snatching her keys off her desk, moving out of her office as fast as her heels allowed. She needed to get to River Run. Like, now. “My father… he’s… protective.”
Ha. Protective. That was the understatement of the century. Her prom date had sweated bullets all through the dance after a quick talk with Big Stan when he came to pick her up. Her college boyfriend had gone hunting with him one Thanksgiving break and came back white as a sheet after witnessing Big Stan’s marksman skills—something he took great joy in showing her boyfriends. Almost as much joy as reminding them that his daughter was an even better shot.
You never want to hurt a woman like my Natalie, he’d tell them with a sharp grin. The Banks women get damn creative with their revenge.
And that wasn’t even counting the boyfriend he actually shot. It had been an accident, but still!
“I can deal with Big Stan,” Rhett assured her.
“Rhett Oakes, you listen to me!” she snapped. “If you value your life, you will stay put! If you go into a meeting with Big Stan unprepared, he will eviscerate you.”
“Now you’re just exaggerating,” Rhett said.
“Rhett, my Daddy’s a cattle rancher,” she said. “You know what cattle ranchers do to bulls.”
He winced. Shit. That was not a pleasant image.
Still. This was her father. And he wasn’t going to be a coward.
“Sorry, Nat,” he said. “But I can’t wait for you to hold my hand. I’m used to wild encounters, so I’m gonna go face the wolves. I’ll see you when you get here. Have a safe drive.”
Before she could protest, he quickly hung up.
She let out a little squeal of rage as she got to the elevator, slamming her palm on the buttons. Finally, it dinged, the doors opening. Renee was inside.
