His Best Friend's Sister

by Sarah M. Anderson

  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.

  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 he
re 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.