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.

“Nat!” she said as she got out. “Hey, I’ve got those—”

“Can’t talk,” Nat said, rushing into the elevator. “Gotta go make sure my dad doesn’t kill Rhett.”

The last thing she saw before the elevator doors was Renee’s shocked face, her eyes and mouth open in surprise.

Nat was on the highway, speeding as responsibly as she could, when she thought, Mom.

Oh, hell, her mother. Her dad was going to be angry, but she was the apple of his eye and then some. He’d forgive her.

But Vivian Banks was a hell of a woman and stubborn as a mule. She’d also been looking forward to Nat’s wedding day for what seemed like forever.

Shit.

“Call Mom,” she directed her car’s Bluetooth.

The phone rang for a long time. So long that she was starting to think her mother wouldn’t answer, and then finally, she picked up.

“Hello, Natalie.”

Crap. Her full name off the bat. She was in so much trouble. Why was it that even at thirty, her mother’s disapproval could reduce her to feeling like a five-year-old again?

“Hi Momma,” she said. “So. Umm… I guess you heard.”

“That you’ve married a man your father and I don’t even know, seemingly on a whim?”

“It was not a whim,” she said. “And you know of him. I’ve mentioned him to you before.”

“You’ve mentioned a friend named Rhett,” Vivian said. “And now apparently he’s my son-in-law.”

“It’s not like that, Momma,” she said. “Did… did Dad explain the situation? That this is me doing a favor for Rhett because of a legal issue?”

She could practically hear her mother roll her eyes. “You and your desire to fix everything is going to hurt you one of these days, sweetheart.”

Too late. She was already hurt. When it came to Rhett, she was already doomed. Everything was going to change, and it was her fault, because she’d suggested it, she had his ring on her finger, and she didn’t want to take it off, ever.

She didn’t want to leave him, ever.

But she would, and soon she would have to. Her life was in the city she was leaving in her dust right now.

“I gotta go,” she said, her voice clogged with tears she couldn’t shed. Not when she’d be facing her father soon. “I love you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disappoint you. I just…”

I love him.

“I had to help him,” she said, because the other truth was too much. “Bye, Momma,” she said, quickly, before pressing End call.

Then she pressed down hard on the gas and prayed she’d get back to River Run before Big Stan did something dire.