His Best Friend's Sister. Sarah M. Anderson
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 of 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?
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