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.
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.