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His Best Friend's Sister
Sarah M. Anderson
He’s always played by his family’s rules…Rodeo mogul Oliver Lawrence can’t say no to his best friend’s sister, pregnant widow Renee Preston. When she needs refuge, he offers his penthouse – and his bed! Soon Oliver must choose: protect his family from her scandal or stand by the woman he can’t let go…


He’s always played by his family’s rules.
Until he plays house with his best friend’s sister.
Rodeo mogul Oliver Lawrence can’t say no to his best friend’s sister, pregnant widow Renee Preston. When the innocent beauty needs refuge from the tabloids, he offers his penthouse—and his bed. The passion between them is anything but innocent. And soon Oliver must choose: protect his family from her scandal or stand by the woman he can’t let go...
SARAH M. ANDERSON may live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out West on the Great Plains. Sarah’s book A Man of Privilege won an RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award in 2012. The Nanny Plan was a 2016 RITA® Award winner for Contemporary Romance: Short.
Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and billionaires. Find out more about Sarah’s heroes at www.sarahmanderson.com (http://www.sarahmanderson.com)
Also by Sarah M. Anderson (#u15177143-8269-56b5-bbfc-eaad95f170ec)
Not the Boss’s Baby
Tempted by a Cowboy
A Beaumont Christmas
His Son, Her Secret
Falling for Her Fake Fiancé
His Illegitimate Heir
Rich Rancher for Christmas
His Best Friend’s Sister
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
His Best Friend’s Sister
Sarah M. Anderson


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07635-7
HIS BEST FRIEND’S SISTER
© 2018 Sarah M. Anderson
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the ladies of the YMCA water aerobics classes. Twice a week, you all listen to me babble about plot points and encourage me to keep moving, even on days when I hurt. Thanks for all your support and for laughing at my silly stories!
Contents
Cover (#ua8e78b0f-4982-59e5-ab2a-81d20216241a)
Back Cover Text (#ue57250a6-76e4-5e73-ba86-5dcf14bb063d)
About the Author (#u252ecab2-27d9-5b3e-8c84-4482a43fe373)
Booklist (#uad6cc5bc-8152-581f-8c65-450a9c4e7a6f)
Title Page (#ub7ff96a3-2835-5a66-8478-593d108709f4)
Copyright (#u2794aae6-458f-505e-96d4-09448c55158a)
Dedication (#ufce5752b-0fa6-5e56-9596-5cff19109533)
One (#u5de5d79e-0385-5ebc-a8e3-86e95d63750e)
Two (#u155ba5ed-d719-5594-9e45-0f44c3902c5d)
Three (#ufc6f2b23-9197-5922-aa01-a9c8346e8ad5)
Four (#uf451c077-fca4-595e-a209-b85ee22abc8c)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#u15177143-8269-56b5-bbfc-eaad95f170ec)
“I thought you hated the rodeo.”
That voice—Oliver Lawrence knew that sweet voice. Except it was richer, deeper. It sparked memories—memories of smiling, laughing. Of having fun. When was the last time he’d had fun?
He couldn’t remember.
“But here you are, surrounded by pictures of the rodeo,” she went on. He could hear the smile as she spoke. She’d always smiled at him. Even when he hadn’t deserved it.
Oliver jerked his head up from where it had been buried in his hands. It wasn’t possible. She wasn’t possible.
But there Renee Preston stood, just inside the door to his office as she studied the framed pictures of the All-Stars that Bailey had artfully arranged along one wall of the office.
Although her back was to him, he was stunned to realize that he recognized her anyway. The pale gold of her hair fell halfway down her back in artful waves, the curve of her backside outlined by a dark blue dress.
How long had it been? Years? He shouldn’t even recognize her, much less have this visceral reaction to her. Seeing her now was a punch to the gut, one that left him dazed and breathless. And all he could think was, I hope she’s real. Which made no sense. None at all. But given the headaches he’d had running Lawrence Energies—why were Mondays so awful?—he wouldn’t be surprised if his sanity had taken a breather.
He stared but she didn’t move. Bad sign. “Renee?” He blinked and then blinked again when she didn’t turn around.
Okay, he was having a bad morning. Because the truth was he did hate the rodeo—the Lawrence Oil All-Around All-Stars Pro Rodeo. He’d hated it ever since his father had won the circuit in a poker game thirteen years ago. But there weren’t many people who knew it. It was bad for business if the CEO of Lawrence Energies, parent company of Lawrence Oil—and, by default, the All-Stars—publicly announced how much he hated his products.
So how did Renee know?
His assistant, Bailey, came charging into the room, looking flustered. Finally Renee moved, tilting her head to look at him. “Mr. Lawrence—I’m sorry,” Bailey said, breathing hard. He gave Renee an accusing look. “She’s quick.”
Thank God Oliver wasn’t hallucinating the arrival of the last person he’d expected to see today. Renee Preston was actually in his office in Dallas in the middle of a Monday morning.
“It’s all—”
But just then, Renee turned the rest of the way around and Oliver got a look at her in profile. Her little button nose, her sweetheart chin, her gently rounded stomach that curved out from the rest of her body...
Wait.
Was she pregnant?
Slowly, Oliver stood. “Renee, what’s going on?”
Bailey hung his head. “Should I call security?”
Oliver waved away. “No, it’s fine. Ms. Preston and I are old friends.” That was not exactly the truth. Her brother, Clinton, was an old friend. Renee had always been an obnoxious little sister who, when she teamed up with Oliver’s sister, Chloe, had been a real pain in the butt.
The full impact of her appearance hit him. She gave him a soft little smile that barely moved a muscle on her face. He didn’t like that smile. It felt unnatural somehow.
He looked at her dress again. Maybe it wasn’t dark blue. Maybe it was black. She looked like she’d decided to stop by his office—some fifteen hundred miles away from New York City—on her way to a funeral.
“No calls,” Oliver said to Bailey. If Renee Preston was here, wearing a funereal dress while pregnant, something had gone wrong.
Suddenly, he remembered the email from Clint Preston. Had it been two months ago? Or three? Ever since Oliver’s father, Milt, had uprooted the family from their Park Avenue address in New York City and relocated them to Dallas, Oliver and Clint hadn’t exactly kept up a friendship. But he remembered now—that odd email that had been sent at four in the morning. Look after Renee, will you?
Oliver had never replied. He’d meant to, but...honestly, he’d been confused. Why did he have to look after Renee? She had a family. She was a grown woman. It hadn’t seemed urgent, not at this time.
Clearly, it was urgent now.
Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. Served him right for thinking that in the first place.
“Actually,” she said after Bailey had closed the door after him, “it’s Renee Preston-Willoughby now.”
Instead of pulling his hair out, he attempted to smile at Renee. “Congratulations. I hadn’t heard.” Although...hadn’t Chloe said something about Renee getting hitched? It’d been a few years ago and Oliver had been in the middle of what was basically a corporate takeover of the business from his father.
That particular piece of information did nothing to shine a light on why she was in his office. He hadn’t seen her since...
Five years ago at her brother’s wedding? And Renee had still been in college. He remembered being curious because she hadn’t been the same little girl in pigtails.
In fact, she’d been gorgeous, her smile lighting up the room even in the hot-pink bridesmaid’s gown. But she’d had a boyfriend and Oliver wasn’t going to poach another man’s girl, so he’d appreciated the way she had grown into a lovely young woman from the safety of the bar, where he’d been getting sloshed with a bunch of Wall Street financiers who wanted to know if everything really was bigger in Texas.
Oliver dimly recalled his growing frustration that no one had believed him when he’d said he’d give anything to be back in New York City. To those idiots, Texas had sounded like a vacation. Barbecue, babes and bulls—as if that was all anyone did in Texas. All the cowgirls in the world hadn’t made up for being stuck running the family businesses—and the family—then and it didn’t make up for it now.
Besides, cowgirls tended to go for Flash, his younger brother. Not serious Oliver.
He almost hadn’t come back to Dallas after that wedding. He’d woken up with a killer hangover and a new resolve to tell his father where he could shove the All-Around All-Stars Rodeo and his ten-gallon Stetsons and his stupid fake Texan accent. Oliver was going back to New York, where he belonged.
But he hadn’t. He couldn’t go back on his word to his mother. So he’d done the next-best thing—wrestled control of Lawrence Industries away from his father. The old man was still chairman of the board, but Oliver was CEO of the whole thing. Including the damned rodeo.
His attempts to relocate corporate headquarters to New York after the takeover had failed, though. Some days, he thought he’d never get out of this godforsaken state.
Had he and Renee spoken at the reception? Had she asked about his rodeo? Had he been drunk enough to tell the truth? Damn.
Even in that sad sack of a black dress, she was still the most stunning woman he’d ever seen. He wanted to sink his hands into her silky hair and pull her against his body and feel for himself that she was really here. Even her skin seemed to glow.
But as he looked closer, he saw other things, too. Beneath her tastefully understated makeup, he could see dark shadows under her eyes. Was she not sleeping? And even as she stood there, submitting to his inspection, her left hand beat out a steady rhythm on her leg, a tap-tap-tap of anxiety.
He was staring, he realized. He had no idea how long he had been staring at her. Seconds? Minutes? When had Bailey left?
He cleared his throat. “Well. This is unexpected. What brings you to Dallas?”
Her stiff little smile got stiffer. “Actually,” she said, taking a deep breath, “I’m looking for Chloe.” Her voice cracked on Chloe’s name and she turned around quickly, but not quickly enough. Oliver just caught the way her face crumbled.
He took a step forward before he knew what he was doing. He had the oddest urge to put his arms around her shoulders, to take some of the weight from her. But he didn’t. It wasn’t like she’d come for him. And he couldn’t imagine that she’d welcome what was essentially a stranger giving her a hug. So instead he pulled up short and said, “It’s rodeo season.”
She was silent for a moment, but she nodded. “And Chloe is the Princess of the Rodeo,” she said in a wistful way.
Renee had been the tagalong little sister and then the bridesmaid. He knew nothing of her life. But she was clearly in distress and that bothered him.
His job was to solve problems. He’d promised his mother, Trixie, on her deathbed that he would keep the family from falling apart. That’s why he was the CEO of Lawrence Energies instead of taking another job—one that didn’t involve managing his father and his siblings. That was why he was still in Texas instead of going back to New York City. That’s why he sucked it up and managed the damned rodeo.
Renee Preston-Willoughby was a problem and he had no idea how to solve her.
“She’s in Lincoln, Nebraska, right now—and after that, it’s Omaha. And after that...” He shrugged, although Renee couldn’t see it. “It’s rodeo season,” he finished lamely. “I think she’ll be back in Fort Worth in a month.”
Chloe opened and closed every show in the All-Stars circuit. She had for years. She lived out of a suitcase for months on end, all because she liked to dress up in a sequined cowgirl top and ride her horse into the arena, carrying the American flag.
Oliver didn’t know how his sister could stand it. He hated the rodeo. The swagger of the cowboys, the smell of the horses and cattle, the idiocy of people who voluntarily climbed on the back of wild horses and angry bulls—yeah, that included Flash. There was nothing he liked or even tolerated about the All-Stars.
Now more than ever—what with Chloe demanding that she should be given a chance to prove she could run the thing and his father digging in his heels and insisting that only Oliver could do it. Never mind that Oliver absolutely didn’t want to do it or that Chloe would do a better job because she actually liked the damned rodeo.
“I should’ve guessed,” Renee said, her voice a little shaky. He saw her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath and then she turned around, her face curiously blank. “I’m sorry I barged in on you,” she said, her voice placating. He liked that even less than the fake smile. “Thank you for not calling security on me. It’s been good seeing you, Oliver.”
This day just got weirder and weirder. She had her hand on the doorknob before he realized that she was waltzing out of his office just as quickly as she had waltzed in.
He moved, reaching the door just as it swung open. He slammed it shut with his hand, causing Renee to squeak. “Wait,” he said and then winced as his voice came out in a growl.
He was too close to her. He could feel the warmth of her body radiating through her clothes, through his. He should step back, put some distance between them. She was pregnant, for God’s sake. Who knew what else was going on?
Slowly, she turned. Close enough to kiss, he dimly realized as he stared down into her soft blue eyes. She gasped, her eyes darkening as she looked up at him through thick lashes. He was powerless to move away. “Renee,” he said, and his voice came out deeper than normal. “Why are you here?”
He wasn’t sure what he expected her to do. He wasn’t all that surprised when her eyes got a wet look to them—it went with the dress. But then her mouth opened and instead of a sob, a giggle came out. “You don’t know,” she said, her eyes watering even as she laughed harder. “Oh, God—you really don’t know?”
So he was out of the loop on the New York scene. “Know what?” A tear trickled down her cheek and he lifted his other hand to wipe it away. When it was gone, he didn’t pull his hand away. He cupped her cheek and kept stroking her skin. It was almost like a hug, right? “What’s happened?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, an edge of bitterness creeping into her voice. “It’s just...” The giggle ended in a hiccup that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “It was all a lie, wasn’t it? My entire life has been a lie.”
He caught another tear before it could get far. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you? I can’t believe you haven’t heard.” She closed her eyes and he could feel the tension in her body. “They’re calling it the Preston Pyramid. My family’s investment company was nothing but a pyramid scheme and it’s all come crashing down.”
* * *
How could he not know? The collapse of Preston Investment Strategies wasn’t just a New York scandal. Renee’s father—with the help of her brother and her lying, cheating husband—had bilked hundreds of thousands of investors out of millions of dollars all across the country. She’d thought everyone knew about the Preston Pyramid.
But then again, wasn’t that why she was in Dallas instead of New York? She just needed to get away. Away from the reporters camped out in front of her apartment building. Away from the gossip and the threats. She needed to go somewhere where people might not look at her like she was the Antichrist’s daughter. And Clint had told her to trust the Lawrence family. He’d said Oliver would take care of her, but Renee was done with people telling her what to do.
Chloe had been her best friend, once upon a time. Chloe never took crap from anyone. Chloe would help her.
Except Chloe wasn’t here. Oliver was. And Renee was out of options.
This was how far she’d fallen. Slipping past his executive assistant, barging into his office and doing her level best to keep it together.
Which was hard to do when he was touching her so tenderly. Not that those tender, sweet touches would last when he realized the true magnitude of what had happened. She stared at him as he processed the news. She saw her own emotions reflected in his face. Shock, disbelief—a lot of disbelief. “Your father ran a pyramid scheme? How?”
She shrugged. She should move away from him. He basically had her pinned against the door and was staring down into her face with his intense brown eyes. But he kept stroking her cheek and she couldn’t break the contact. It took everything she had not to lean into the touch, not to ask for more.
It had been Clint’s wedding, hadn’t it? The last time she’d seen Oliver Lawrence? She remembered Crissy Hagan, another one of the bridesmaids that Renee had thought was a friend until about six weeks ago. Crissy had gushed about how gorgeous Clint’s old friend was, but...Renee had blown Crissy off. Oliver wasn’t hot—he was irritating. He’d always looked down upon her. He’d been serious and grumpy, even as a kid. He’d never liked her and he’d made it difficult for anyone else to like him. Why he and Clint had got along, she’d never known.
When Renee had found herself next to him at the bar, she’d tried to strike up a conversation by asking about the rodeo. He’d promptly informed her he hated the damned thing in the meanest voice she’d ever heard.
Oliver Lawrence was not someone she could rely on. At least, he hadn’t been.
She still didn’t know if he was or not.
But Crissy had been right. Oliver had been hot then—and he was hotter now. He was one of those men who was just going to get better looking with age. How old was he? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? Clint had turned twenty-nine in jail, so Oliver was around there.
He was not the same boy she remembered. He had four inches on her and he seemed so much...more than she remembered from five years ago. Taller, broader. More intense.
Stupid hormones. She was not here to lust after Oliver Lawrence, of all people. She was here to hide.
“Apparently,” she said, remembering he had asked a question, “very well. No one caught on for years. Decades. He generated just enough returns that people believed the lies he sold them. Reinvestment, they called it. He convinced everyone to reinvest the profits they made, sometimes investing even more than the original amount. Of course there were no real profits,” she said, her emotions rising again. She struggled to keep them in check. “There were never any profits. Not for the investors. It all went to him.” She swallowed, forcing herself to look away from Oliver’s intensity. “To us. I didn’t know anything about it, but there’s no denying that I benefited from his schemes. I can’t believe you haven’t heard,” she repeated.
Anger and shame burned through her. She was so damned mad at her family—and she hurt for all the people who’d been swindled. Her father had ruined lives so he could buy a fourth vacation home. It was evil, what he’d done.
But worse than that—how could she have gone twenty-six years without realizing that her father was nothing but a glorified con artist?
When Oliver didn’t say anything, she glanced back up at him. His jaw was hard and there was something dangerous in his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Your father bilked investors out of a lot of money. I’m going to guess that your brother had something to do with it?”
“Of course.” She sighed. “Clint and my husband were both involved.”
Abruptly, Oliver stepped back. “I’m sorry I missed your wedding. How long have you been married?”
“I’m not anymore.” She took another deep breath and squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t let this fact hurt her. She wouldn’t let Chet hurt her, not ever again. “Chet Willoughby is dead.”
Oliver recoiled another step as if she’d slapped him and then turned and began to pace. “I understand that it is unforgettably rude to ask, but are you...” He waved toward her midsection.
She almost smiled. After the last two months, his apologetic question was the least rude thing she’d heard. “Four and a half months.”
Oh, the press had had a field day with that. Preston Pyramid Princess Pregnant! had blared from every newspaper and website for days. Weeks. The media loved a good alliterative headline.
Oliver burrowed his fingers in his hair, causing his brown hair to stand up almost on end. “Right. Your family’s fortune was stolen, and your husband, who worked for your criminal father, is dead, and he left you pregnant. Am I missing anything?”
The fact that there was no judgment in his voice, no sneering or laughter—that was when Renee realized she’d made the right choice. Even if Chloe wasn’t here, getting out of New York was the best thing she could have done. She could breathe in Texas. That’s all she wanted. Just enough space to breathe again. “Those are the basics. Oh, my mother took what was left of the money and ran away to Paris. That might be an important detail.”
It was an extremely important detail to the authorities.
“Yes, I can see how that might be significant.” He launched a wobbly smile at her, as if he couldn’t tell if he should laugh or not. When she couldn’t so much as manage a chuckle, he leaned against his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.
If she’d had any other options, she wouldn’t be here. He’d looked like he was already having a terrible day and that was before she unloaded her tale of woe upon him. Her life wasn’t his responsibility.
But she had no place else to go. Getting permission to come to Texas had used all of her remaining political capital.
“Did you know about the scheme?”
She shook her head. “I am fully cooperating with the investigation. The authorities know where I am and I may be summoned back to New York at any time. I am not allowed to leave the country under any circumstance.” That had been the deal. She didn’t have much testimony to offer because her parents had maintained that Renee’s entire job was to make the family look good. Her appearance was the only thing of value about her. At the time, it had bothered her deeply. How could her own father look at her and see nothing but a pretty face? How could he ignore her and leave her to her mother?
But now? Now she was glad that her father had kept her separate from his business dealings. It was literally the only thing keeping her out of prison.
Her main value to the authorities at this point was convincing her brother to testify against their father. And Clint was in no hurry to do that. He was holding out for a better deal.
Oliver studied her closely, his arms crossed and his hair wild. He stared for so long that she was afraid he was going to kick her out, tell her to go back to New York and deal with this mess by herself. And she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. If Oliver wouldn’t help her, she’d...
She’d go find Chloe. Not for the first time, she wished that her so-called friends in New York hadn’t turned on her. Because really, what kind of friends were they? The kind who went running to the gossip websites, eager to spill anything that would make the Preston family look worse than they already did. Not a single one had stood by her. She’d been neatly cut out of her social circle, an object of derision and scorn.
So if Oliver called security, it really wouldn’t be that different. She wouldn’t blame him at all. She was nothing to him, except maybe a distant childhood memory.
“You need to hide?” he asked just as she had given up hope.
“Yes,” she said, her heart beginning to pound faster.
He shook his head and muttered something she didn’t catch, something about Clint, maybe? Then he looked at her and said, “I’m sorry about your husband.”
One should not speak ill of the dead. It was one of the last things her mother had said to Renee before she’d disappeared with three million dollars of other people’s money. But Renee couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped her. “I’m not.”
He thought on that for a moment, his gaze lingering on her stomach. Her skin flushed warm under his gaze. Stupid hormones. Oliver Lawrence was not interested in her. No one in their right mind would give her a second glance.
In fact, it was definitely a mistake that she’d come. She was toxic to everyone and everything surrounding her. Here he was, a good man, and she’d all but thrown herself at his feet.
She was desperate. But she hoped the taint of Preston scandals didn’t smear him.
Please don’t lie to me, she found herself praying. Even if the truth were brutal—like he was going to throw her out—all she wanted from him was the truth. She couldn’t handle another person looking her in the eye and telling a bald-faced lie.
“All right,” he said, pushing off the desk and crossing to her. He put his hands on her shoulders, but he didn’t draw her in. He just looked at her and even though it was a risk to him for her to be here, she still knew she’d made the right choice—especially when he said, “Let’s get you hidden.”
Two (#u15177143-8269-56b5-bbfc-eaad95f170ec)
He did not have time for this. He was skipping out on important meetings that were guaranteed to draw his father out from his hunting lodge and stick his nose back into Lawrence Energies’s business—and for what?
To rescue a damsel in distress. There was no other way to describe Renee. She had one piece of luggage: a carry-on suitcase. That was it. If she was going to be here longer than a week, he was going to need to arrange for her to get some more clothes.
“Is it very far away?” she asked, sounding drained.
He was not a gambling man, but he was willing to bet that Renee was going to be here for much more than a week. “We’re going to Red Oak Hill,” he told her as they drove away from the Lawrence Energies corporate headquarters on McKinney Avenue and in the opposite direction of his condo on Turtle Creek. “It’s my private ranch. The traffic’s not too bad this time of day, so we should be there in less than an hour and a half.” By Dallas standards, that was practically right next door.
“Oh,” she said, slumping down in her seat.
“The way I see it,” he said, trying to be pragmatic, “you have two choices. You can either rest on the drive out or you can explain in a little more detail what’s going on.” Because he thought he had a decent grasp on the basics. Corrupt family, financial ruin, dead husband, four and a half months pregnant.
But a lot of details were missing. He’d told Bailey on his way out to pull up what he could find on the Preston fraud case and send him the links. He’d read them when he got to the ranch. He couldn’t help Renee unless he knew what the extenuating circumstances were.
She made an unladylike groaning noise that worried him. “I still can’t believe you haven’t caught at least some of this on the news.”
Worrying about her was pointless. He was doing the best he could, given the situation. Bailey had canceled his meetings for the rest of the day and had been given instructions in case anyone came sniffing around—and that included Milt Lawrence, Oliver’s father. No one was to know about Miss Preston or Mrs. Willoughby or Ms. Preston-Willoughby.
“We’re acquiring a pump manufacturer, the rodeo season just kicked off and my father is out of his ever-loving mind,” Oliver said, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted. “I’ve been busy.”
Besides, none of the Lawrence Energies family fortune was invested in Preston Investment Strategies—or their damned pyramid scheme. And he would know, since he had wrestled financial control of Lawrence Energies away from his father four years ago.
“Is he really?”
Oliver shrugged. “There are days I wonder.” His father was only sixty years old—by no means a doddering old man. But the midlife crisis that had been touched off by the death of Trixie Lawrence had never really resolved itself.
He could’ve explained all about that, but she wasn’t here to listen to him complain about his family. She was here because she was in trouble.
Look after Renee, will you?
He should have replied with questions to Clint’s email then. If he had, he might have answers now.
He waited. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see her rubbing her thumbnail with her index finger, the constant circle of motion. Otherwise, she seemed calm.
Too calm.
Oliver did not consider himself the family expert on women. That honor went to Chloe, who was actually a woman—although Flash, their younger brother, gave Chloe a run for her money.
Nevertheless, he had grown up with Chloe and a healthy interest in women. He was not comfortable with the idea of Renee crying, but he was prepared for the worst.
She surprised him with a chuckle. “A lot of it is in the news.”
Knowing Bailey, Oliver would have several hours of reading material waiting for him, so there was no point in making her relate something he could just as easily read—with a healthy sense of detachment, instead of listening to her shaky voice and fighting this strange urge to protect her.
“Tell me the part that’s not in the news.”
“The part that’s not in the news,” she said softly, still rubbing her thumbnail anxiously. “You know, I don’t think my husband was ever faithful to me.”
O...kay. “Then why did you marry him?”
“My parents said we looked good together. He worked for my father and my mother thought we’d have gorgeous babies, as if that was the only thing that mattered. He was suave and sophisticated and hot. We were featured on the Vanity Fair weddings page online. ‘A Storybook Dream’ was the name of our photo essay.” She laughed, but it definitely wasn’t a happy sound. “I wanted a small ceremony, but no. I had to have ten bridesmaids and the craziest party favors ever.” He lifted an eyebrow at her without taking his eyes off the road. “Oh, yes. Everyone got a custom engraved pair of Waterford crystal champagne glasses, a bottle of Dom Pérignon with a custom label and a Tiffany & Co. silver ice bucket engraved with our names and wedding date, as if people cared.” She sighed heavily.
It wasn’t that the elite in Dallas couldn’t be just as ostentatious in their displays of wealth—they could. Hell, his condo was worth a few million alone and the ranch was easily worth twice that. Dallas was not a two-bit town by any stretch of the imagination.
But it was different here. As cutthroat as Dallas high society could be, there was just more heart in Texas.
He must have been having one hell of an off day if he was mentally defending this state. He hoped his father never found out that there were things Oliver actually liked about the Lone Star State. “It sounds a tad over-the-top.”
“Oh, it was—but it was a beautiful wedding. Just beautiful,” she murmured and he remembered what she’d said.
It was a lie. Her husband had never loved her, never been faithful.
“I am such an idiot,” she said miserably, and that bothered him. Strange how it did. He hadn’t thought of her in so long but now that she was here, he found he needed to do something.
“Hardly. You were always smart enough to get the drop on me and Clint, weren’t you? I’m thinking of a specific incident involving water balloons off a balcony. Remember?”
That got him a shadow of a smile. “That was Chloe’s idea—but I did have pretty good aim.”
That shadow of a smile made him feel good. The world was bleak—but he could still make her feel better.
He drove his Porsche Spyder faster, whipping in and out of traffic. The best—and only—thing he could do for her was get her safely out to Red Oak Hill. There, she could have some peace and quiet and, most important, privacy. Once he had her settled, he could get back to town and try to deal with his schedule and his family.
“I don’t know if this part is in the news yet or not,” she went on, sounding resigned. “I’m sure people have been doing the math ever since I began to show—and I began to show very early, to the disgust of my mother. But do you know?” She paused for a second and Oliver tried to get his head around the fact that her mother was disgusted by her pregnancy. She looked stunning, showing or not.
But that was the sort of thing that he couldn’t just blurt out. This was a rescue, sort of. He wasn’t whisking her away for a weekend of seduction or anything. Definitely not a seduction. So instead, he just said, “What?”
“He woke me up early that morning and we...” She cleared her throat. “And afterward, he told me he loved me. I normally said it to him—he rarely said the words. Usually he just said, ‘Me, too,’ as if he also loved himself. But he was different that morning and he surprised me, and I didn’t say it back.”
This was far more than Oliver wanted to know. He kept his mouth shut like his life depended on it.
“And then he went to work, screwed his secretary, gave her the rest of the day off and blew his brains out, coward that he was. By my count, there were at least three—possibly five—women at the funeral who could have been current or former mistresses.”
“That seems like a lot.” One would’ve been too many, but to think that man had had that many women on the side in a year and a half of marriage?
Chet Willoughby was clearly a bastard of the highest order. Or he had been anyway.
“And the thing was I didn’t even know I was pregnant for another two and a half months. When I missed my period, I thought it was due to the stress. Isn’t that hilarious?”
She turned to him and he glanced over to see a huge, fake smile on her face. “Not really.”
Her smile froze. “Some people think it is. Some people think it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. That I’m getting exactly what I deserve. There’s also a lot of speculation that I was cheating on him and drove him to his death.” Her voice cracked.
His heart damn near broke for her. “Those people are heartless cowards.” It was a good thing that Chet Willoughby and his suave face were already dead because otherwise, Oliver would’ve strangled the man himself. What kind of asshole did this to his wife?
“He knew the pyramid was going to fall and he was going to go with it. My mother tried to paint this as a noble thing. He wouldn’t turn on my father. Wasn’t that thoughtful of him? Not like Clint’s going to, maybe. And the baby?” She shook her head. “She said the baby would be a living reminder of Chet. As if I want to remember him or his betrayal,” she finished bitterly.
She was crying, he realized. Softly, quietly—but tears were trickling down her cheeks.
He didn’t want to know how everyone she’d ever trusted had betrayed her. Even Clint, who Oliver had thought was a good guy. It was physically painful to know that she was hurting and, worse, to not be able to do much of anything about it.
“I don’t think your child would be a reminder of betrayal,” he said, feeling his way as he went. “I’d think that the baby would be a testament to your strength, your courage. Others may have cut and run, but you stood strong, Renee. That’s what’s going to make you an amazing mother.”
She gasped and he could tell she was staring at him with huge eyes. He kept his gaze firmly locked on the road in front of him. “Do you really think so?”
He nodded like he was certain, instead of shooting compliments like arrows and praying to hit the mark. “You’re welcome to stay at Red Oak Hill as long as you want,” he went on. Because, aside from a lucky compliment or two, shelter was the only thing he could offer her. “I’m usually only there on the weekends. I do have a housekeeper, but I can give her some time off if you’d rather be alone.”
She nodded, surreptitiously swiping at the tears on her cheeks. “Will anyone else in your family be there?”
Oliver laughed. “Absolutely not. Red Oak Hill is mine. No one will know you’re there.”
“Thank you,” she whispered and there was so much pain in her voice that, without thinking, he reached over and wrapped his hand around hers. She clung to him fiercely. “You won’t even know I’m there, I promise.”
Somehow, as his fingers tangled with hers, Oliver doubted that.
It would be impossible to be around Renee and not be aware of her every movement.
As soon as he got her settled, he was driving right back to Dallas. He didn’t have time to comfort Renee Preston-Willoughby.
No matter how much he might want to.
Three (#u15177143-8269-56b5-bbfc-eaad95f170ec)
Renee had not expected this. Red Oak Hill wasn’t a long, low-slung ranch house in the middle of dusty cow pastures. In fact, she didn’t see any cows anywhere as Oliver pulled up in front of what was undeniably a grand mansion at the top of a small hill. Towering trees she assumed were red oaks cast long shadows against the sweltering Texas sun.
The house looked like something out of a magazine. And she knew quite a bit about that. Something white caught her attention on the small lake on the other side of the driveway. “Are those...swans?”
“Fred and Wilma? Yes. They came with the house.”
Renee had had a terrible day. Well, given the last five months of her life, that wasn’t saying much. But somehow, the idea that Oliver had inherited a pair of swans made her giggle. “Did you name them after the Flintstones or did they come with those names?”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Don’t know if you can really name swans, per se. They don’t come when called. But...” He shrugged again, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “They seemed like Fred and Wilma to me. They have cygnets this year. Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm.”
She didn’t remember Oliver having a sense of humor. Had he always been this funny? She remembered him being uptight and grumpy. A stick-in-the-mud, she and Chloe had decided once. That was Oliver Lawrence.
But was he, really? She thought back now to the water balloon fight he’d mentioned. She and Chloe had got the drop on them from the balcony—that’d been Chloe’s idea. But Oliver and Clint had retaliated with a garden hose. And Oliver had been aiming the hose.
“Renee? You all right?”
She blinked and realized that he was standing at the passenger door of his sporty red convertible, hand out and waiting for her.
His lips curved into a small smile when she realized she was staring at him. Oh, heavens—she was probably making a fool of herself. Then again, that was nothing new. “I don’t know.” It was the most honest thing she’d said in so long...but somehow, she knew she didn’t have to put on a brave face for him.
“Here.” Taking both of her hands in his, he helped her from the low-slung car. But instead of letting go of her or stepping back, he stayed where he was. Close enough to touch. “I got an email from your brother a couple of months ago,” he said, staring down into her eyes. “All it said was to look after you. Renee, I’m sorry I didn’t follow up. If I had realized...”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Oliver Lawrence was apologizing. To her! She didn’t need his apologies, but all the same, she felt something in her chest loosen. Everyone else had abandoned her. But this man—an old acquaintance, a childhood friend at best—was sorry that he hadn’t got to her sooner.
Or was this one of those things people said to smooth over the unpleasant truths? Was he saying this because he meant it or because it was a cover?
God, she hoped it was real. She blinked hard and wondered at this strange urge to throw her arms around his neck and lean into his touch. Would he hug her back? Would he wrap his arms around her and press her against his chest? Would the heat of his body reach her through her clothes and the ironclad armor she hid behind?
Or would he stand there stiffly for a moment and then disentangle himself as politely as possible to protect her feelings? She didn’t know.
Just then, one of the swans—Wilma, she decided—made a weird whooping noise that broke the moment. “Let me show you around,” he said, releasing her hands and getting her luggage out of the car.
She turned to look back at the mansion. There was no other word for it. Three and a half stories of warm red brick welcomed her to Red Oak Hill. On this side, a huge wraparound porch of pristine white wood faced the lake. Trellises of yellow roses ran up the side of the wraparound porch, their sweet fragrance filling the air with every breeze.
The Preston real estate, like everything of value the family had owned, now belonged to the feds. She supposed, once all the trials were over and the sentences had been handed down, the properties and jewels and art would all be sold at auction and the money returned to the investors her family had scammed. It wouldn’t be enough, but she certainly didn’t have a spare billion or so lying around.
She hadn’t even kept her wedding ring. They’d offered to let her hold on to the three-carat diamond in a princess setting—for now anyway—but Renee had been happy to hand it over. It had never stood for love and honor. All it’d been was another lie. Hopefully, however much they could get for that ring would help make things right.
The entrance hall of the mansion gleamed with warm polished wood—red, of course. The sweeping staircase led up to the second floor. The doorway on the right led to what appeared to be Oliver’s office, with a massive desk in the center of the room and rich brown leather sofas arranged around the Persian rug.
He gave her a brief tour and started up the stairs but then he stopped and waited for her. “Doing all right?”
In that moment, Renee wished she hadn’t come. Yes, Oliver was being a perfect gentleman—and a surprisingly compassionate friend. Yes, this mansion by a pond with a pair of swans was the perfect place to hide.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d put Oliver at risk by coming here. She’d done nothing wrong, but her name was ruined and everything she did—everything she touched—was tainted by the sins of her family and her husband.
She didn’t want to do anything that might hurt Oliver or Chloe. She didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore.
“Renee?” He came back down the stairs and stood before her. When he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, she knew she should pull away. It wasn’t right to let him care for her.
It wasn’t right to care for him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Sorry for all of it.
“It’s been a long day,” he said, misunderstanding. And, fool that she was, she wasn’t strong enough to correct him. “Let me show you to your room. You need to rest.”
And even though she knew she shouldn’t, she leaned into his touch and asked, “Will you be here when I wake up?”
His thumb caressed her cheek so tenderly that she had to close her eyes. When was the last time someone had touched her like they cared? Chet Willoughby had not been capable of tenderness unless it benefited him directly. Nothing about her presence here benefited Oliver, directly or indirectly. She was nothing but a risk. And yet he was still being kind to her.
She almost exhaled in relief when his hand fell away, breaking that connection. But then he set down her suitcase and the next thing she knew, she was cradled in his arms. “I’ve got you,” he said as he carried her up the stairs. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
All she could do was rest her head against his shoulder. It wasn’t all right. It might never be okay ever again.
But right now, he had her.
And that was good enough.
* * *
Somehow, Oliver got Renee’s heels off her feet and her legs swung up onto the bed without thinking about her bare skin against his palms too much. He couldn’t get her under the covers, so he laid her on the bed, where she promptly curled on her side and shut her eyes.
Blankets. He hurried into the next room and grabbed the coverlet off the bed. By the time he made it back, she was breathing deeply and her face had relaxed.
He tucked the blanket around her shoulders, pausing only when she sighed in her sleep. But she didn’t stir.
He could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket—he left the sound off because the chimes interrupted his thinking. Bailey was undoubtedly forwarding him news articles. Oliver should get some work done. He’d need to smooth ruffled feathers from canceling his meetings this afternoon.
Especially the one with Herb Ritter. Ritter had been in business with Lawrence Energies for close to thirty years. He was mean and crotchety and, unfortunately, a damned good oilman. And he’d been Milt Lawrence’s best friend ever since the Lawrence family had relocated to Texas, which only made things worse. It was bad enough he had to manage his father, but also dealing with Ritter felt like a punishment. And the hell of it was Oliver had no idea what he’d done to deserve it.
He’d kept his promise to his mother. He ran the family business and kept his father from going completely off the deep end and Chloe as much in the loop as he could and Flash—well, no one could tell Flash a damned thing. Oliver managed the damned rodeo instead of doing something for himself. Even if he wasn’t sure what that something might be anymore.
He did his job and kept his word. Wasn’t that enough? Would it ever be enough?
But even this urgency wasn’t enough to pull Oliver away from Renee’s bedside.
God, she was beautiful. Tired and worried and pregnant, but beautiful all the same. He wished he could go back to Clint’s wedding all those years ago. If only he’d struck up a conversation. If he had reconnected with her then, maybe he would’ve been able to spare her some of this heartbreak.
He brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead.
His phone vibrated again. Crap. He leaned forward and brushed the lightest of kisses against her cheek before he forced himself to walk away.
He had eighteen emails waiting for him by the time he got rid of his tie, grabbed a beer and sat down at his desk. The cold, heartless truth was that he did not have the time to take care of Renee Preston-Willoughby. He was running a major oil company, overseeing expansions into solar, wind and hydropower—expansions that he had fought his father for and finally won. And the damned All-Stars had just kicked off.
Business that required his full attention.
Will you be here when I wake up?
That heartfelt plea was the only reason why he was sitting in his office at the ranch instead of heading right back to his office in downtown Dallas.
She had asked.
This was only until she was settled in, he reasoned. She hadn’t even seen the kitchen yet. He wasn’t comfortable leaving her, not until he was sure she would be all right. He couldn’t abandon her.
So he would stay.
* * *
Two hours later, Oliver had a much better grasp on the Renee situation.
It was a hell of a mess. Preston Investment Strategies was accused of bilking investors out of over forty-five billion dollars over the course of twenty years. Renee’s father, Darin Preston, had been in jail for the last two months, unable to make bail since his wife had run off with the remaining money. Clinton Preston was also in jail, although it appeared that negotiations for his testimony and a lighter sentence were ongoing. Chet Willoughby, Preston’s son-in-law, had committed suicide four and a half months ago. It didn’t appear that the public had made the connection between that suicide and the pyramid scheme until Clint and his father had been arrested, along with most of the other people who worked at Preston Investment Strategies.
Bailey was thorough in his research. In addition to articles from the Wall Street Journal, Business Insider and CNNMoney, he also forwarded articles from the New York Post and even the Daily News. Those articles were filled with sly quotes from friends and acquaintances, all taking swipes at Renee and her mother. It only got worse after Renee’s mother disappeared. It seemed there was an open debate as to whether or not Renee knew that her family was corrupt or if she’d been too dim to figure it out. Either way, the pieces were not flattering. Neither were the pictures posted with them. Awful paparazzi shots, catching her with red eyes, making her look far more pregnant and jiggly than she was in real life.
Disgusted, he stopped reading the articles because they were only pissing him off. How the hell had this happened? How had Darin Preston managed to get away with this pyramid scheme for this long? How had Clint—a guy Oliver knew was a good guy—allowed himself to be sucked down to these levels? It didn’t make sense. None of it did.
His phone buzzed insistently. He picked it up—hell. His father was calling.
“Yeah, Dad?” Oliver said, closing the windows on all of the information Bailey had sent him.
“You done pissed off Herb Ritter, boy,” his father drawled in a thick Texas accent. “I thought you knew better than to do that.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. His father had been born and raised in New York City, although his family did come from Texas. Oliver’s grandfather Mitchell had abandoned Texas when Lawrence Oil Industries—the forerunner to Lawrence Energies—had made him a multimillionaire.
Milt had lived in New York full-time until he was in his forties. Before thirteen years ago, he spent no more than a few weeks in the fall in Texas every year. The Lawrence family had maintained a house here for tax purposes and because this was where Lawrence Energies was based—but his father was not a Texan.
He sure liked to pretend he was, though. “I’ve made my apologies to Ritter,” Oliver said, keeping his voice level. “We’ve already rescheduled the meeting.”
“That’s not going to be good enough.”
Oliver gritted his teeth and decided to change the subject before this call devolved into a shouting match. “Dad, have you heard about Darin Preston?”
Milt was silent for a moment. “That con man? I never did trust his get-rich-quick schemes.” He paused, making a low humming noise in the back of his throat. He always did that when he was thinking. “Wasn’t he in the news recently?”
“He was.” Oliver didn’t want to tell Milt that Renee was asleep upstairs. He had promised her privacy, after all.
It was the only thing he could promise her.
“Why do you ask?”
Oliver decided to hedge the truth. “I had a strange message from Clint. It seemed he was helping his father scam people.”
“Now, that’s too danged bad,” Milt said. “Clint was good people. And his sister—what was her name?”
“Renee.”
“Yeah, Renee. She and Chloe got along real well. Trixie...” He paused and cleared his throat. Oliver knew that his father’s eyes were watering, not that he would ever admit to it. Even after all these years, the mention of his beloved wife choked Milt up. “She thought the sun rose and set on Renee. She used to take the girls shopping. Always made sure to include that girl whenever she could. Hell, she always included Clint when she could. But she had a soft spot for Renee.” He hummed again. “Your mother, God rest her soul, didn’t think too highly of Rebecca and Darin Preston. And you know she was an excellent judge of character.”
Oliver considered this. He honestly had no memories of his mother doting on Renee. But then again, it did seem like the little girl had always been underfoot, hanging out with Chloe and plotting how next to irritate Oliver and Clint.
The Preston kids had eaten a lot of meals at the Lawrence table—and Oliver didn’t remember going over to Clint’s house very much. Hardly at all, actually. There’d been a few times he and Clint had sneaked into Clint’s house to get some trading cards or the latest video games...but they always sneaked right back out and hightailed it to Oliver’s house.
It hadn’t struck him as odd then. But what if it’d been more than that? Clint had told him they had to be quiet—no, not quiet, but silent. He hadn’t wanted his mother to know they were in the house. No noise and no touching anything.
Looking back now, Oliver had to wonder—had Clint been afraid of his mother?
“I read that Mrs. Preston ran off to Europe with the rest of the money.”
“Hell. What a family, eh? The Preston kids were good kids, but there’s only so much a kid can do when they’re raised in a pit of vipers. It’s a shame that they got caught up in this. At least you had your mother and me. For a while anyway.” He cleared his throat again.
It was a damned shame. “I did. We all did.” Most days, dealing with his Tex-ified father left Oliver frustrated and bitter. But it was true. Before Trixie Lawrence’s death, Oliver had loved his parents. Both of them. For fifteen years, the Lawrence family had been happy and healthy and stable. Not everyone had that.
He’d promised his mother that he’d take care of his family. They may not be as happy or as stable—thank God they were all healthy—but at least they hadn’t all been arrested and indicted. That had to count for something.
But it wasn’t enough for his father. It never was. When Milt spoke again, Oliver could hear the forced cheer.
“Have you finished negotiations with ESPN about running the All-Stars?”
“I had to reschedule that meeting today. Something came up.” And unlike Herb Ritter, Oliver was in no hurry to get back to this one. “You should let Chloe take the meeting. She’d do a great job.”
“She’s the Princess of the Rodeo and she’s doing that clothing line,” Milt reminded him, as if Oliver could ever forget. “I don’t want that Pete Wellington anywhere near her.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. He didn’t like Pete Wellington any more than his father did but the man was too much a born-and-bred cowboy to ever lay a hand on a woman. As evidenced by the fact that he hadn’t killed any members of the Lawrence family yet. And he’d had plenty of opportunity. “He wouldn’t hurt her.”
Not for the first time, Oliver considered signing a minority stake in the rodeo back over to the Wellington family. It’d been their damn rodeo before Pete’s father, Davy, had lost it in that poker game. Pete had never forgiven either his father or Milt. Which meant he bore one hell of a grudge against anyone with the Lawrence last name. Oliver would be more than happy to cede a little control of the All-Stars back to Pete. Hell, if Oliver thought it would help, he’d just outright hire Pete to run the damn thing.
The only problem was Pete’s pride wouldn’t settle for merely working for the All-Stars. He maintained Milt Lawrence had stolen the All-Stars and he wanted it back. All or nothing.
Which meant he got nothing. Funny how winning here felt a lot like losing. “Chloe would be great in the meeting.” She’d have the marketing team eating out of her hand and they both knew it.
As usual, though, Milt ignored Oliver. “She’s already doing her part. You make sure you do yours.” With the final hmph, Milt hung up.
The rodeo was good for the business, Oliver repeated silently, just like he did every single time he had to deal with the damn thing. The All-Around All-Stars Rodeo was 60 percent of their marketing and had been consistently in the black for the last six years.
That didn’t mean Oliver had to like it.
He pushed the All-Stars out of his mind and focused on the problem at hand. He didn’t have to like anything about the Renee situation. He wasn’t enjoying this trip down memory lane, where he couldn’t remember if his mother had taken Renee under her wing or not. Hell, for that matter, he still hadn’t recalled how Renee knew he hated the rodeo.
He hated not knowing. Starting from a place of ignorance—about his childhood memories of the Preston kids, about the Preston Pyramid scam, about the woman currently upstairs in bed—that was how bad decisions got made. No matter how the saying went, ignorance was not bliss. It was disaster. And he was tired of this day feeling like a runaway train about to crash into the station.
He couldn’t get off this train and continue to let it barrel down on Renee like everyone else had. Her brother and father? They hadn’t so much abandoned her as they’d been taken into federal custody. But her husband, her mother—hell, even her friends—all had. No one had stood by her.
He couldn’t add himself to that long, long list. Not when he thought back to the way he’d coaxed a small smile out of her when he’d told her the names of his swans. Not when she’d looked at him, trying so hard to be strong, and asked if he’d still be here when she woke up.
Not when his own father remembered Renee as a little girl who’d needed a friend.
Something had to give. He hit the number for Chloe. “What?” she said, sounding breathless.
“And good afternoon to you, too. Listen,” Oliver said, bracing himself for the lie. He was not naturally good at deception. “You get to deal with ESPN. The contract negotiations are yours.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Is this a joke? Because it’s not funny, Oliver,” she snapped. “You know Dad would never let me do anything beyond carry the flag.”
“No joke,” he assured her. “Consider it a...” His mind scrambled for a reasonable explanation that wasn’t simply I don’t have time for this. “A test run. You do a good job on this, and we’ll give you more responsibilities. Because I think the rodeo should be yours.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie.
“And Dad agreed to this?” she asked, doubt heavy in her voice.
That was the problem with Chloe. She was too perceptive for her own good. “He wants the deal done.” He hedged. “He wants to see how you handle this and the clothing line.”
It’d been Chloe’s idea to capitalize on her popularity as the Princess of the Rodeo by launching an eponymous clothing line. She’d been overseeing the development of jeans, tailored T-shirts and sequined tops with the intent of launching with this year’s rodeo season. So far, so good.
But could she keep up that success and handle high-level negotiations? God, Oliver hoped so.
She was quiet and Oliver wondered if she’d say no. If she did, Oliver was screwed. “You’re sure this isn’t a joke?”
He was surprised at how young she sounded. “Chloe, you know I don’t have a sense of humor.”
“Ha. Ha. Fine.” She blew out a long breath. “I can do this, you know.”
“I know. I’ll forward you the information and let the ESPN people know you’re handling the account from here on out. And Chloe?”
“Yeah?”
He almost told her Renee was upstairs and maybe Chloe could come home for girlfriend time so he could get back to work? But at the last second, Renee’s face floated before him again, a single tear tracing down her cheek. He remembered the way her skin had felt under his hands as he’d wiped that tear away.
Renee needed him. Chloe needed to prove herself with the rodeo. And maybe it was wrong or selfish, but Oliver would rather help Renee than negotiate a TV distribution deal. Besides, all he needed to do for Renee was get her settled and see what he could do to help her out. How hard could that be?
He’d keep Renee’s presence here a secret just a little bit longer. He told Chloe, “Keep an eye out for Pete Wellington. Dad’s concerned he’s going to pull something.”
“Oh, wonderful. There’s nothing I love more than unspecified threats from disgruntled cowboys.” Oliver heard something in her tone beyond annoyance. But before he could figure out what that was, Chloe went on, “Fine. Anything else?”
“And keep Flash out of trouble,” he added, because that was what he always asked her to do. Not that it ever worked. No one could keep that man on the straight and narrow.
“You’re up to something,” she said, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “And when I find out what it is, you’re gonna pay.” With that parting shot, she hung up.
He looked at the clock on the wall. It was already three thirty. He had no idea how long Renee was going to rest but there was no shot in hell of him making it back to the office during the workday at this point.
She needs a friend. Oddly, the little voice that whispered this in his mind wasn’t his own or even Chloe’s—it was his mother’s.
Renee was not family. She wasn’t grandfathered under the long-ago deathbed promise Oliver had made. He didn’t have to take care of her.
And yet...
She needs a friend.
Had Trixie Lawrence said that once upon a time, perhaps when Oliver had complained about how much Renee and Chloe were bugging him and Clint?
He didn’t know. But one thing was clear. If he didn’t do his level best to help Renee out of this situation, his mother would be disappointed in him. Or she would’ve been anyway.
He stared at nothing in particular and then made up his mind. If he was going to get to the truth of the matter, he had to go straight to the source. He hit his lawyer’s number. “Miles? It’s Oliver. I need—”
“No, no—let me guess. Did you finally strangle your father? Or your brother? I’ve got twenty bucks riding on the answer,” Miles Hall replied with a laugh.
“Neither.” Oliver shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be doing any of this. Funny how that wasn’t stopping him. “I need to talk to Clinton Preston. He’s in jail in New York City on fraud charges for—”
“The Preston Pyramid guy?”
He scowled. Did everyone know about the scam but him? Sheesh. He’d have to have Bailey add “major scandals involving people I used to know” to his morning news briefs. “Yeah. Well, the son anyway. I need to talk to him on the phone. Can you make it happen?”
Miles was quiet for a moment. “Give me thirty.”
“Thanks.”
Clint had a hell of a lot to answer for. Starting with why he’d helped his father steal that much money and ending with why he’d asked Oliver to look after Renee.
Then, once Oliver had his answers and made sure Renee was comfortable and safe, he could get back to work.
But the thought of making Renee comfortable, of carrying her back to bed and this time, staying with her...
Hell. He definitely had to get back to Dallas tonight.
Four (#u15177143-8269-56b5-bbfc-eaad95f170ec)
Renee came awake slowly. It was so quiet here. New York was never quiet. There was always someone shouting, horns honking, sirens blaring. A person could barely think in New York City.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so deeply. Usually, it was because terrible nightmares woke her up every few hours, panting and crying. Right now, she felt surprisingly calm. She wouldn’t go so far as to say peaceful, but she was thrilled with calm.
A thunk from somewhere below her finally got her eyes open. She started when she focused her eyes on the clock. Was it four thirty already? She had been asleep for hours. She needed to get up and...do something. What, she had no idea.
But it wasn’t like her to laze the day away. Even back when she’d been little more than a trophy wife, she’d still kept busy. She’d been on the boards of several charities, including her favorite, One Child, One World. She liked helping kids but...since the Preston Pyramid collapsed, she’d resigned from all those boards rather than taint their good works with her family’s scandals.
Which left her at loose ends. But it was fine. No one was missing her in New York, that was for sure. This was part of her plan to hide in Texas. If she wanted to nap, she would nap, by God.
She tossed back a blanket and forced herself from bed. It was tempting to go right back to sleep, but...
Oliver had said he would wait for her to wake up.
She was hungry and she had to pee. She stretched, trying to get the kinks out of her shoulders. Over a dresser there was a large mirror and she recoiled in horror when she caught sight of her reflection. Her hair was lopsided and her makeup had not survived the nap. Plus, her dress was wrinkled horribly, and besides, it really wasn’t very comfortable.
But her lawyer had recommended that, if she went out in public, she maintain a somber, mourning appearance. It wouldn’t do anyone any favors if she were seen looking frivolous or, God forbid, happy. Not that there was a lot of risk of that, but Renee understood the point.
Her entire life had been about keeping up appearances. The bereft widow, the horrified daughter—they were all just another role to slip into.
She tore the dress off and kicked it under the bed. She couldn’t wear it for another moment, couldn’t maintain the fiction that she mourned her husband.
She looked around the room. Had she fainted? She didn’t remember coming into this room. She only remembered...Oliver’s arms around her, holding her close. His deep voice rumbling in her ear, although she couldn’t remember the words. A light touch on her forehead, then her cheek. The smell of his cologne.
She remembered feeling safe and cared for. That was all she needed.
But this was a nice room. There was a small sitting area with a low coffee table—her bag was on it. The love seat ran along one wall and a fancy desk that looked like it belonged in the parlor instead of a guest room was on the other side. The walls were a pale green and the bedding was pristine white. It was calm and peaceful and reminded her of a garden in the early-morning sun.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She could breathe here.
She dug into her bag. Along with her wedding ring, she had left most of her couture and designer clothing for the feds. Her wardrobe had been worth hundreds of thousands of dollars—but it had been just another prop in her never-ending role as the adoring wife, the picture-perfect daughter. She was tired of living that lie.
She dug out leggings and a slouchy tunic. This was her normal outfit for yoga classes—but it was forgiving enough that she could still wear it comfortably. She might even get several more months out of the top. She’d love to take her bra off because the damned thing barely fitted anymore and sleeping in it had not been a good idea. But the thin, creamy cotton of her shirt wouldn’t hide anything from anyone. Especially Oliver.
A chill raced over her and her nipples tightened, which was exactly why she had to keep the bra on. She really hoped Oliver wasn’t involved with someone else. But the moment that thought crossed her mind, she scowled at herself in the mirror. Okay, he was amazingly hot. And yes, he was being really sweet to her. That didn’t mean there was any mutual attraction here and even if there was, what was she going to do? Seduce him? Please. She was the hottest of hot messes and almost five months pregnant.
Fine. It was settled. No seduction. At least...not on her end anyway.
Purposefully not thinking of what Oliver might do if she paraded around braless, she used the en suite bathroom and fixed her hair and face, opting for a simple ponytail and just enough under-eye concealer to hide the worst of the dark circles. When she was done, she took stock again.
She looked not-quite-so-pregnant in her loungewear and the nap had helped a lot. She didn’t look like the woman she’d been six months ago. The salon-perfect hair was gone, as was the expertly contoured foundation. And she could see the pregnancy weight rounding out her face and her arms. Her mother had called her fat right before she’d run to Paris.
No, Renee was not the same woman she’d been six months ago. Was that such a bad thing? She’d been a mannequin then. Someone to be seen and coveted but not heard. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure who she was now.
She wouldn’t allow her voice to be silenced again. As she stroked her stomach, she made a promise to herself and her child—she would do better. Better than her mother. Better than Renee herself had been. She’d be...someone like Oliver’s mother. Renee would be the fun mom who made cookies with her child and friends or took them for ice cream in the park. Whether she had a boy who liked fashion or a girl who played soccer, it didn’t matter. Just so long as Renee was a better mom. A better woman.
She dabbed at her eyes. Stupid hormones. If there was one thing she’d learned growing up, it was how to keep her emotions on lockdown to avoid getting into trouble. But suddenly she was pregnant and hiding and she couldn’t keep her stupid eyes from watering stupidly. Gah.
Besides, there was no need to get teary now. She had a long way to go before tea parties and sports. She had to start being this new, improved woman before the baby got here and it wasn’t likely to happen in the bathroom. She needed something to eat and... Well, food first. Plans second.
Quietly, she made her way downstairs, listening hard for the sounds of people. A low hum seemed to be coming out of Oliver’s study. He was talking to someone, she realized—probably on the phone. A wave of relief swept over her. He’d made a promise to her and he’d kept it—even if it was an inconsequential promise to hang around for a few hours. He’d still kept it.
Guilt wasn’t far behind. She’d pulled him away from a workday. He was probably trying to get caught up. She shouldn’t interrupt him. He’d said the kitchen was in the back of the house, right? She should go.
But then, in a voice that was more of a shout than a whisper, Oliver clearly said, “You are, without a doubt, the most vile, abhorrent, morally bankrupt idiot I have ever had the misfortune to know and that’s saying something. You know that, right? I mean, what the hell were you thinking, Clint?”
Renee stumbled to a stop. Eavesdropping was not exactly on the moral up-and-up, but was he talking to her brother? How the hell had he pulled that off?
She moved to stand just on the other side of the door to his study. There were some pictures here, so she pretended to look at them. But really, her entire attention was focused on one half of the phone conversation happening in the next room.
“Yeah, she’s here. What the hell, man? You send me a one-line email with no other explanation, no other context—no, I didn’t know your entire family had crashed and burned. I’m busy!” This time, he was shouting. “I have my own family to manage, my own business to run—a business that does not steal money from investors! So you’ll excuse me if I haven’t kept up with all the ways you’ve destroyed your life!”

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