His Best Friend's Sister. Sarah M. Anderson

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       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 СКАЧАТЬ