His Best Friend's Sister

Two

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

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.