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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
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!”