His Best Friend's Sister

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.

Four (#u15177143-8269-56b5-bbfc-eaad95f170ec)

Renee came awake slowly. It was so quiet here. New York was never quiet. There was always someone shouting, horns honking, sirens blaring. A person could barely think in New York City.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so deeply. Usually, it was because terrible nightmares woke her up every few hours, panting and crying. Right now, she felt surprisingly calm. She wouldn’t go so far as to say peaceful, but she was thrilled with calm.

A thunk from somewhere below her finally got her eyes open. She started when she focused her eyes on the clock. Was it four thirty already? She had been asleep for hours. She needed to get up and...do something. What, she had no idea.

But it wasn’t like her to laze the day away. Even back when she’d been little more than a trophy wife, she’d still kept busy. She’d been on the boards of several charities, including her favorite, One Child, One World. She liked helping kids but...since the Preston Pyramid collapsed, she’d resigned from all those boards rather than taint their good works with her family’s scandals.

Which left her at loose ends. But it was fine. No one was missing her in New York, that was for sure. This was part of her plan to hide in Texas. If she wanted to nap, she would nap, by God.

She tossed back a blanket and forced herself from bed. It was tempting to go right back to sleep, but...

Oliver had said he would wait for her to wake up.

She was hungry and she had to pee. She stretched, trying to get the kinks out of her shoulders. Over a dresser there was a large mirror and she recoiled in horror when she caught sight of her reflection. Her hair was lopsided and her makeup had not survived the nap. Plus, her dress was wrinkled horribly, and besides, it really wasn’t very comfortable.

But her lawyer had recommended that, if she went out in public, she maintain a somber, mourning appearance. It wouldn’t do anyone any favors if she were seen looking frivolous or, God forbid, happy. Not that there was a lot of risk of that, but Renee understood the point.

Her entire life had been about keeping up appearances. The bereft widow, the horrified daughter—they were all just another role to slip into.

She tore the dress off and kicked it under the bed. She couldn’t wear it for another moment, couldn’t maintain the fiction that she mourned her husband.

She looked around the room. Had she fainted? She didn’t remember coming into this room. She only remembered...Oliver’s arms around her, holding her close. His deep voice rumbling in her ear, although she couldn’t remember the words. A light touch on her forehead, then her cheek. The smell of his cologne.

She remembered feeling safe and cared for. That was all she needed.

But this was a nice room. There was a small sitting area with a low coffee table—her bag was on it. The love seat ran along one wall and a fancy desk that looked like it belonged in the parlor instead of a guest room was on the other side. The walls were a pale green and the bedding was pristine white. It was calm and peaceful and reminded her of a garden in the early-morning sun.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She could breathe here.

She dug into her bag. Along with her wedding ring, she had left most of her couture and designer clothing for the feds. Her wardrobe had been worth hundreds of thousands of dollars—but it had been just another prop in her never-ending role as the adoring wife, the picture-perfect daughter. She was tired of living that lie.

She dug out leggings and a slouchy tunic. This was her normal outfit for yoga classes—but it was forgiving enough that she could still wear it comfortably. She might even get several more months out of the top. She’d love to take her bra off because the damned thing barely fitted anymore and sleeping in it had not been a good idea. But the thin, creamy cotton of her shirt wouldn’t hide anything from anyone. Especially Oliver.

A chill raced over her and her nipples tightened, which was exactly why she had to keep the bra on. She really hoped Oliver wasn’t involved with someone else. But the moment that thought crossed her mind, she scowled at herself in the mirror. Okay, he was amazingly hot. And yes, he was being really sweet to her. That didn’t mean there was any mutual attraction here and even if there was, what was she going to do? Seduce him? Please. She was the hottest of hot messes and almost five months pregnant.

Fine. It was settled. No seduction. At least...not on her end anyway.

Purposefully not thinking of what Oliver might do if she paraded around braless, she used the en suite bathroom and fixed her hair and face, opting for a simple ponytail and just enough under-eye concealer to hide the worst of the dark circles. When she was done, she took stock again.

She looked not-quite-so-pregnant in her loungewear and the nap had helped a lot. She didn’t look like the woman she’d been six months ago. The salon-perfect hair was gone, as was the expertly contoured foundation. And she could see the pregnancy weight rounding out her face and her arms. Her mother had called her fat right before she’d run to Paris.

No, Renee was not the same woman she’d been six months ago. Was that such a bad thing? She’d been a mannequin then. Someone to be seen and coveted but not heard. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure who she was now.

She wouldn’t allow her voice to be silenced again. As she stroked her stomach, she made a promise to herself and her child—she would do better. Better than her mother. Better than Renee herself had been. She’d be...someone like Oliver’s mother. Renee would be the fun mom who made cookies with her child and friends or took them for ice cream in the park. Whether she had a boy who liked fashion or a girl who played soccer, it didn’t matter. Just so long as Renee was a better mom. A better woman.

She dabbed at her eyes. Stupid hormones. If there was one thing she’d learned growing up, it was how to keep her emotions on lockdown to avoid getting into trouble. But suddenly she was pregnant and hiding and she couldn’t keep her stupid eyes from watering stupidly. Gah.

Besides, there was no need to get teary now. She had a long way to go before tea parties and sports. She had to start being this new, improved woman before the baby got here and it wasn’t likely to happen in the bathroom. She needed something to eat and... Well, food first. Plans second.

Quietly, she made her way downstairs, listening hard for the sounds of people. A low hum seemed to be coming out of Oliver’s study. He was talking to someone, she realized—probably on the phone. A wave of relief swept over her. He’d made a promise to her and he’d kept it—even if it was an inconsequential promise to hang around for a few hours. He’d still kept it.

Guilt wasn’t far behind. She’d pulled him away from a workday. He was probably trying to get caught up. She shouldn’t interrupt him. He’d said the kitchen was in the back of the house, right? She should go.

But then, in a voice that was more of a shout than a whisper, Oliver clearly said, “You are, without a doubt, the most vile, abhorrent, morally bankrupt idiot I have ever had the misfortune to know and that’s saying something. You know that, right? I mean, what the hell were you thinking, Clint?”

Renee stumbled to a stop. Eavesdropping was not exactly on the moral up-and-up, but was he talking to her brother? How the hell had he pulled that off?

She moved to stand just on the other side of the door to his study. There were some pictures here, so she pretended to look at them. But really, her entire attention was focused on one half of the phone conversation happening in the next room.

“Yeah, she’s here. What the hell, man? You send me a one-line email with no other explanation, no other context—no, I didn’t know your entire family had crashed and burned. I’m busy!” This time, he was shouting. “I have my own family to manage, my own business to run—a business that does not steal money from investors! So you’ll excuse me if I haven’t kept up with all the ways you’ve destroyed your life!”