Back in the Texan's Bed
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Naima Simone
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17.2K
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17
Prologue
Love.
Russell “Ross” Edmond Jr. sipped his scotch, relishing the smoky flavor with hints of caramel, fruit and a bite of salt, while staring out the window of the Texas Cattleman’s Club meeting room at the beautiful couple currently wrapped around each other in a passionate embrace.
Ezekiel Holloway and Reagan Sinclair—Reagan Holloway now—had caused quite a scandal in Royal, Texas, some months ago when they’d eloped to Vegas against her family’s wishes. Especially since Zeke’s own family had been embroiled in a dirty criminal investigation that involved embezzlement and drug smuggling. But that had all been cleared up, their reputation restored, and now the newlyweds were living out their happily-ever-after.
Ross barely contained a derisive snort. Sure, the two appeared enamored and, yes, happy. The married couple kissed as if Ezekiel was heading off to sea for a months-long absence. Ross would say they were in love. Or, at least, they believed they were.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, in his opinion—he wasn’t a devout disciple at the altar of the emotion that seemed like a convenient excuse for people to lose control, validate idiotic behavior or justify satisfying any impulsive desire.
What did he believe in?
Raising his glass to his mouth again, he turned from the view of the couple and surveyed the elegantly appointed room. Due to recent renovations at the Club, the design was less dark wood and stone, and now boasted brighter colors, larger windows and higher ceilings. Yes, the hunting trophies and historical artifacts still adorned the walls, and the stables remained, as did the pool and tennis courts. Yet, now the Club had a day care and sported painted murals, as well. The whole effect exuded a warmth that had been missing before.
But it all still conveyed wealth. Influence. Exclusivity.
And those ideals he trusted.
Money and power. They could be counted, measured, handled, manipulated, if need be, and were unfailingly consistent.
They’d never let him down.
Unlike people. Unlike love.
Hell, he couldn’t even keep the sneer out of his inner voice.
“Ross, get over here,” Russell Edmond Sr. boomed as if Ross stood farther out in the club’s entryway instead of just several feet away from him. “Do that brooding shit on your own time. We have business to attend to.”
Rusty. Oil mogul. Texas Cattleman’s Club member. Tycoon. All things people called Russell Edmond Sr. Whereas Ross considered him brilliant, ruthless, domineering. And, on occasion, manipulative bastard.
They all fit.
With his tall, wide-shouldered and athletic build that had only gone a little soft around the middle, dark hair dusted with silver at the temples and intelligent, scalpel-sharp gray eyes, Rusty still possessed a powerful physique and commanded respect. Ross strode over to the long, cedar conference table, his gaze fixed not on his father but on the thin stack of documents in the middle of the table. His heart thumped against his sternum in anticipation. To others, those ordinary sheets of paper might seem innocuous. But to him?
Independence. Autonomy.
Identity.
Yes, this deal included the financial and marketing backing of The Edmond Organization, but this project—the luxury food, art and wine festival called Soiree on the Bay, which was to be held on a small, private island—was his baby. Well, more aptly, it was a baby that belonged to him, his siblings, Gina and Asher, and his best friend, Billy Holmes. But for the first time, he wasn’t a figurehead wearing the Edmond name and the ineffectual title of executive. Wasn’t a puppet tasked with carrying out Rusty-given orders. Wasn’t just the useless playboy son riding the coattails of his daddy’s success and reputation.
With this project, this event, he would finally step out from under his father’s shadow and show everyone he hadn’t just inherited the Edmond name—he’d earned it. Ross would play an integral role in raising the bar, in solidifying and expanding their legacy as he elevated The Edmond Organization from the national stage to the international one. Something even Rusty hadn’t managed to do in the company’s history.
But Ross would.
And in the process, maybe earn that thing that had eluded him the entire twenty-eight years he’d been Rusty’s son—approval.
Again, not love. Men like his father believed in that emotion even less than Ross did. Just ask Rusty’s four ex-wives.
Just ask his children.
“So this is it? The final contract?” Ross set his tumbler down on the table, trying not to stare down at the documents as if they were the Holy Grail and he a Texas version of Indiana Jones.
“This is it,” Billy Holmes, his college friend and future business partner, said, grinning. “The last step before Soiree on the Bay moves from dreams to reality.”
“Dreams,” Rusty scoffed. “Dreams are for men who don’t have the balls to get out there and pursue what they want.”
Ross glanced at his sister, Gina, across the table, arching an eyebrow in her direction. She rolled her eyes, but he noted the ever-present frustration there. Even this throwaway comment reflected Rusty’s dismissal of women, especially in regard to business and autonomy. All because they’d had the misfortune of being born with a uterus instead of a penis. Though Gina had become as adept as Ross at masking her emotions, he caught the aggravation in her eyes. The hurt.
“Fortunately, everyone in this room is well equipped with their balls,” Billy drawled, slanting a grin at Ross’s baby sister. “Except for you, Gina. And thank God for it.” His gentle teasing garnered the desired effect, and the shadows in her eyes dimmed, lightening with humor and gratitude. “And once we all sign, no one will ever question the influence and reach of The Edmond Organization.”
Rusty grunted and slid the contract over the table toward him. As he scanned through, Billy glanced at Ross and winked. Ross smothered a snort, shaking his head. His pal had been a charmer in college, and since he arrived in Royal two years ago, he hadn’t changed a bit. With his impeccable appearance and manners, generosity with his time, acumen and money, Billy had everyone from business associates to the often clique-ish members of Royal society wrapped around his finger.
Including Rusty, which was a feat unto itself.
The older man had even vouched for Billy with the Texas Cattleman’s Club, and Ross’s friend had scored a much-coveted membership. Billy shared a camaraderie and closeness with Rusty Edmond that even his kids couldn’t claim.
But that was Billy. The Billionaire Whisperer, they jokingly called him.
All right, maybe not so jokingly.
“This looks good,” Rusty announced, reaching inside his suit coat to remove a thick gold pen. With flourish, he signed his name on the designated line. “You did good, son,” he praised Billy.
Picking up his drink, Ross sipped, waiting for the dark slick of jealousy to slide down his throat to his chest along with the liquor. After all, his father had just called another man son, and Ross was human. So yes, pinpricks of jealousy did sting him. But relief reigned as the most prevalent emotion.
And if that wasn’t a fucked-up indictment on the Edmond family dynamic, he didn’t know what was.
But one quick glance at Gina and at Asher, his stepbrother whom Rusty had adopted after marrying Asher’s mother—wife number two—verified he wasn’t alone in this sentiment. That same relief shone his siblings’ gazes, as well. Anytime Rusty leashed in that infamous mercurial temper was a reason to breathe deep and bask in the peaceful, and probably brief, moment.
A knock on the door reverberated in the room, and Billy waved toward the contract. “That’s my surprise. I’ll get that while you finish up here.”
Ross moved forward first, adding his signature to the contract, followed swiftly by Gina and Asher. By the time they all finished, Billy returned, bearing a silver tray laden with a bottle of champagne and five glass flutes. In moments, Billy had the sparkling wine poured and they’d all lifted their glasses to meet high over the table.
“A toast.” Billy paused, blue eyes gleaming. “To The Edmond Organization stamping its indelible brand on not just the US, but the world. I think we’ve all waited for this day to arrive. So, to achieving long-awaited goals. And finally, to all of you, the Edmond family. May you all get what you so richly deserve.” He smiled. “Emphasis on the rich.”
They clinked glasses and sipped the champagne, celebrating this deal that they’d all put so much time into bringing to fruition.
“Vendors have already been contacting me about the festival, just from rumors alone. They want in. I predict tickets will sell out within hours of going on sale,” Asher said. “Soiree on the Bay is going to be wildly successful. For all of us.”
“It needs to be,” Ross added gruffly. “This is the inaugural launch. The potential to make this a coveted, exclusive and profitable annual event is huge. So the first one needs to go off without a hitch. Besides, vendors and investors are pouring money in with ours, and the charities that will benefit from this are counting on it. On us.”
“We’ll do it,” Gina swore, her tone firm. “I have zero doubts about that.”
“With the Edmond reputation and money on the line, hell yes, you’ll make this a success. You have no choice. I want people talking about this festival for months before and after.”
“Oh, they will. Rest assured, Rusty, they will,” Billy murmured, a corner of his mouth lifting in a half smile. “I promise you. This will be an event that no one will ever forget.”
Once more, excitement stirred in Ross’s gut. In just months, vendors, investors, the press and ticketholders would flock to their festival. He sipped from the bubbly wine, savoring the light flavor with a smile. It would be business for him, but not all business. People from all over the world would be visiting the private island where the event would be held. Which meant hordes of beautiful women. Most specifically, women who wouldn’t expect more from him than the temporary, mutually agreed upon use of each other’s bodies for the hottest, dirtiest pleasure.
He knew the reputation he’d earned—they called him a playboy. And admittedly, it was a moniker he deserved. Flings, one-night stands—the filthy hot fun without the messy emotional attachments that could wrap around a man, trap him, strangle him until he couldn’t think, couldn’t function, couldn’t fucking breathe.
His chest tightened, a vise slowly turning until he could practically hear his ribs creak in protest. A face, faded and nebulous, wavered across his mind’s eye like a mirage a dying man glimpsed seconds before his heart and body surrendered. Ross’s grip tautened around the glass, his jaw clenching. He wasn’t a dying man, but he’d beat the shit out of himself if he ever allowed himself to be that humiliatingly weak again. To allow himself to believe fucking was more than that—two people satisfying an itch before going their separate ways. It didn’t have anything to do with emotion...with love.
God, why in the hell did that word keep rebounding in his head today?
He mentally shook his head, dislodging the wayward thoughts—and that damn face—from his head. Focus. He needed to focus.
He and his siblings hovered on the precipice of obtaining their individual and collective purposes. Of achieving those goals that Billy had toasted about mere moments ago.
And nothing would stand in their way.
