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 ca
lled 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
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 o
f 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?
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