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 here 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
