Rubbing a hand over my chin, I nod. “Bane Enterprises has a long-standing relationship with Baxter House. You would have discovered that information on your own, Juliet.”

  She glances at the open laptop on the desk.

  It’s sitting next to the brand new, still boxed, one that Alcott ordered for her.

  “I’ve spent over an hour trying to find a connection.” Her gaze darts to the laptop screen. “Bane isn’t listed as a donor on the website for Baxter House, and there’s no photographic evidence that you attended the fundraising gala they had a few months ago. You weren’t at last year’s event either.”

  I tap my fingers on my knee. “Photographic evidence?”

  “Everyone at those events posts pictures online,” she says. “Mrs. Baxter always hires a photographer to interact with the guests so she can use those images in future fundraising campaigns.”

  I’m not oblivious to how it works, but I’m enjoying her take on it.

  Juliet has no idea that Bane Enterprises is Baxter House’s biggest donor. That began after I took over. My father’s generosity was always directed toward initiatives that made headlines.

  I prefer to give without regard to appearances.

  “I don’t do galas.” The word feels foreign coming from my lips.

  “Your dad did.” She taps a finger on the corner of her laptop screen. “I found an image of him and your mom at one. It was twenty years ago.”

  She throws that out as casually as someone would do when talking about the weather.

  I ignore the comment. “You’d like to include the connection between Baxter House and Bane Enterprises in your article.”

  “You’d like that too,” she says pointedly. “That’s why you dropped her name on me in the foyer.”

  She’s perceptive.

  “What other charities are benefitting from your generosity, Mr. Bane?”

  “You’re assuming there are more, Juliet.”

  “It’s not an assumption.” She leans back in her chair. “On the table in the foyer, there’s an envelope addressed to you from The Foster Foundation.”

  If there is, that wasn’t by design.

  Alcott must have dropped the mail he picked up at Bane Enterprises this morning on that table before he went to tend to another task.

  On a typical day, Nigel rifles through it to pick out whatever needs my attention. The rest would be directed to my lawyer, accountant, or whoever is best equipped to deal with it.

  “The Foster Foundation helps people who can’t afford medical care,” she recites the organization’s mission almost word-for-word. “You donate to them as well, don’t you?”

  “Bane Enterprises does,” I clarify since the focus of her article is on my company, not me.

  That sets her forward in her seat. “Do you fund any charitable causes, Mr. Bane?”

  Many, but we aren’t going there.

  I intend to keep my personal finances private.

  “I take it the non-answer is a yes?” She smiles.

  “You should take it at face value, Juliet.” I keep my expression stoic. “A non-answer is just that. It’s not an answer. Don’t assume anything.”

  Her hazel eyes trail over my face. “It’s too late for that, Kavan. I’ve already made some assumptions about you.”

  Kavan.

  I’ve never heard my name sound quite like that.

  “It’s okay for me to call you that, right?” A smile slides over her full lips. “We are going to be spending a lot of time together while I learn more about you.”

  “About the business,” I correct her, but I don’t take it further.

  Very few people call me by my first name, but I won’t stop her if she wants to.

  “Right.” She nods. “This is all about the business.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Juliet

  I thought Kavan Bane in a three-piece suit was a treat for the eyes. Seeing him without the jacket, in just the vest, with the ends of his dark hair brushing his shirt collar, quickens the beats of my heart.

  He looks like one of the devilish Rakes on the show that I can’t seem to get enough of.

  He’s standing in the doorway of my office, glaring at me.

  If this has to do with the fact that I called him Kavan instead of Mr. Bane, he can spank me.

  I hold in a laugh and maybe even a tiny moan while I think about that.

  He’s the type of man who must fuck a woman senseless. He probably leaves women in such an orgasm-fueled trance that they can’t remember their own names.

  I’ve never had an experience like that.

  I can’t recall most of the names of the handful of men I’ve slept with in the past. Regrettably, they are all that forgettable.

  “Juliet,” my name snaps off his lips. “I just spoke to Nara.”

  I know where this is going.

  It seems that Nara is required to plan a three-course menu for every meal. She’s been doing that almost daily for two years. She explained that to me when she presented today’s lunch menu to me when Kavan stepped out of my office to take a call.

  I told her to prepare whatever inspired her for lunch.

  I’m guessing that wasn’t the right choice.

  I rest both elbows on my desk. “It’s about lunch, right?”

  Leaning one of his biceps against the doorjamb, he crosses his arms over his chest.

  He has the whole bad boy/boss man vibe down pat.

  There’s a lot more to him than meets the eye. He’s thoughtful, even if he’d never admit it. When I mentioned his parents, I saw the subtle shift in his expression.

  He may have thought he was being stoic, but sadness seeped into his eyes before he tore his gaze away from me.

  “You didn’t choose.”

  I nod. “I like surprises.”

  He doesn’t say a word, but I swear I spot a ghost of a grin on his mouth. “Did you smile?”

  His lips fall into a straight line. “No.”

  I push up to my feet. “You did.”

  “Juliet.” My name comes out with a bite of frustration attached to it. “Choose what you want for lunch.”

  “Nara is going to choose.”

  “I want you to choose.”

  Unable to comprehend why this matters so much, I stand my ground because I don’t think he deals with that often, if at all.

  I’ve learned that the best way to defend yourself is to own your actions, thoughts, and beliefs.

  Right now, I believe that Nara will prepare something worthy of a five-star restaurant for lunch.

  I’d be happy with a PB and J sandwich, but I don’t think Kavan knows what that tastes like.

  “Why does it matter?” I smooth a hand over the front of my blouse, my fingers scattering up the row of pearl buttons.

  His gaze follows that path until it rests on my breasts before he looks me in the eye.

  Staring into his intense blue eyes, I suddenly realize what this is all about.

  It’s control.

  He’s giving up one small slice of control to me. He’s handing it to me as a gift, even if he’s not fully aware that’s what he’s doing.

  “I’ll go talk to Nara,” I say as I round the desk. “I’ll choose the lunch menu, Kavan.”

  He stands stoic in my path in the doorway.

  I look up to meet his gaze with mine.

  His jaw is less tensed, his brow not furrowed anymore. “Good.”

  “After lunch, we’ll get back to the interview?” I ask.

  “Drew will take you home after lunch. I have meetings all afternoon.”

  “But,” I begin to argue that at this rate, it will take me months to finish the article. I stop myself, though, because a snail’s pace may just be what I need to dive into the innermost corners of Mr. Bane’s mind and his heart so I can deliver the article worthy of a byline in New York Viewpoint.

  “But?” he repeats softly.

  “But, I’d prefer to walk,” I blurt out as an excuse. “I need to run a few errands.”

  His hand moves toward my chin, but he pulls it back abruptly. “Stay out of alleys, Juliet. I won’t be there to save you.”

  I tilt my chin up as a beacon, but his hand falls to his side. “I can save myself.”

  “I’m sure you can,” he says before he steps to the side to give me room to pass by.

  I had no idea lunch would be a threesome.

  Nigel appeared at the table just as I was about to take a seat. I hadn’t heard him come back to the penthouse, but that’s likely because I was tucked away in my office, searching Google for anything it could tell me about Kavan Bane.

  The man himself went back into his office after I told him I’d choose the menu.

  Now, we’re seated at the dining room table, eating bowls of spiced carrot soup as an appetizer.

  There are Brie and fig salads to come and fresh fruit tarts.

  I’ll be skipping dinner tonight.

  “What made you want to pursue a career in journalism, Juliet?”

  I look toward Nigel since he asked the question. “I crave information. I find people fascinating.”

  Nigel’s gaze doesn’t falter. “My mother was a journalist.”

  “For a magazine?” I ask.

  “Newspaper,” he answers swiftly. “She started as a reporter but worked her way up to senior editor.”

  “Impressive.” I toss him a smile. “Did you ever think about following in her footsteps?”

  “Me?” he says with an exaggerated poke in his chest with his finger. “That’s not my forte.”

  When Nara arrives with three plates heavily loaded with fresh salad greens, figs, cheese, and a delicious smelling dressing, the conversation stalls.

  I thank her, as does Nigel, when she clears the soup bowls.

  I slide my fork around my plate, tugging on a piece of lettuce with the tines. “What is your forte, Nigel? Besides, your job with Bane Enterprises.”

  He sets his fork down. “I’m not sure I follow, Juliet.”

  I steal a glance at Kavan to find him watching the two of us in silence. Redirecting my attention back to Nigel, I tap the top of his hand with mine. “When you’re not working at Bane, what do you like to do? What are you really good at?”

  His cheeks flood with pink. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Tell me.” I lower my voice. “If I had to guess, I think it must be related to birds.”

  That’s enough to bring a smile back to his face. “I bird watch in Central Park.”

  “You do?” Kavan’s voice breaks into our conversation.

  Nigel looks at him. “As often as my schedule allows.”

  “That’s fascinating.” I lean back in my chair. “Are there many different birds to see there?”

  “So many.” His face lights up. “I sort them all by color. I have an entire binder filled with pictures, dates, facts…all of it is there.”

  Kavan watches Nigel carefully. I can tell that he had no idea that his right-hand man was a birdwatcher.

  Nigel reaches to squeeze my hand. “How did you know it was related to birds, Juliet? I haven’t mentioned it to you.”

  I tilt my chin to the right. “The day we met you were wearing a peacock pin on your lapel. Today, it’s a robin.”

  His gaze drops to the pin, as does Kavan’s.

  Nigel pats his hand over the pin. “They belonged to my wife. When she died, I promised her I’d keep bird watching for the both of us. It helps me feel as though she’s still with me.”

  I reach forward to straighten the pin for him. “I think that bird watching is definitely your forte.”

  With tears welling in his eyes, he nods. “I’d agree.”

  I look toward Kavan to find his gaze locked on the robin pin.

  He’s been living in a hell of his own making for so long that he didn’t see that the man who views him as a son was trying to create his own slice of heaven on earth.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Juliet

  I asked Drew to drop me off three blocks from my apartment, so I could walk off at least a few of the calories I consumed at lunch.

  As an extra special treat just for me, Nara added a small bowl of honey ice cream next to my fruit tart.

  Once lunch was over and Kavan went back into his office to take care of more calls, I hugged the chef.

  She was taken aback, but she returned the hug and thanked me for thanking her.

  Kavan Bane may be hot-as-fuck, but he’s also apparently rude-as-hell.

  It doesn’t hurt to thank people who help you, whether you’re paying them or not.

  I spot my destination a half of a block ahead.

  I’m going to stop in the bookstore and have a quick peek at the new memoirs released today.

  It’s fuel for my next guessing game with Sinclair.

  She’ll get a kick out of it, and I’ll get to spend more time with her.

  I wave to the woman who runs a small bistro that I often stop at for brunch with Margot. She’s outside, writing something on the sign that faces the sidewalk traffic.

  I stop to take a read.

  “A jellied, plum torte?” I sigh. “Yes, please.”

  “You want one?” she questions with a grin.

  “Margot will love it.”

  “I can attest to that,” she says as she leads me into the bistro. “Your sister stopped by for a taste test last week.”

  Curiosity piqued, I tap her shoulder. “With or without a man?”

  She laughs. “Without. I have a son around her age. He’s smart, successful, and handsome. That checks all Margot’s boxes, right?”

  I watch as she slides a decadent looking torte from the display case. “It does but Margot will tell you that she’s too busy with work for love.”

  Carrying the torte across the bistro toward a stack of pink boxes, she shakes her head. “No one is too busy for love.”

  I won’t argue with her.

  I glance around at all the offerings. “What can I take home for Margot for dinner? Something light.”

  “The broccoli quiche will put a smile on her face.” She starts toward another display case. “I’ll pack all of this up for you, Juliet. Your sister will be pleased as punch once she gets home from work.”

  If she gets home from work before I go to bed.

  Margot puts in long hours, but it’s her joy, so I’ve never tried to get her to change.

  “Juliet!” The dulcet tones of a man’s voice pull at me from the left.

  I dart my gaze over the crowded sidewalk trying to find a recognizable face that I can attach to that voice.

  I come up empty.

  “Over here, Juliet.”

  This time I spot the owner of the voice immediately. It’s Slate.

  That makes sense, given that I’m just feet away from the door to his store.

  He’s standing in the doorway, with a muscular arm raised in the air in greeting.

  I’m not the only woman who has turned to look.

  I make my way toward him, holding tightly to the strings of the stacked boxes I got from the bistro in one hand. My laptop bag’s handle is firmly within the grasp of my other hand.

  “Hey, Slate,” I say as soon as I’m close enough that I know he’ll hear me.

  “Are you coming in?” he asks, adjusting the frame of his glasses.

  My gaze drops to the gray T-shirt he’s wearing. It bears the name of a college hockey team. I’ve never asked how old he is, but if pressed to guess, I think he must be my age or a year or two older.

  “My alma mater,” he says as he tugs on the front of his shirt.

  That sends the bottom hem up a few inches to reveal a toned stomach complete with a trail of dark hair.

  I tear my gaze away from that and focus on his face. “I thought I could spend a few minutes browsing the memoir section.”

  He nods. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  I decide to take a shortcut that I haven’t before. “Anything published by Morgan Press.”

  The corners of his lips quirk. “I’ve got a few of those on hand.”

  Stepping into the shop, I smile. “Great. Point me in that direction.”

  “Why don’t I guard those bistro goodies, so you have a free hand?” He reaches out to me. “It looks like you’re all set for dinner tonight.”

  I nod.

  Taking the boxes from me, he glances in my direction. “What about tomorrow night? Do you have dinner plans?”

  This is unexpected but not unwelcome.

  I haven’t been on a date in weeks, and he’s cute. He’s friendly too.

  “I don’t,” I answer quietly.

  “Have dinner with me,” he pauses, “I mean do you want to have dinner with me?”

  Margot once told me not to seem too eager, so I take a second before answering.

  That’s apparently too long for Slate because he clears his throat. “I’m not suggesting anything fancy. Let’s do informal. Jeans, burgers, maybe a beer.”

  The jeans and burgers work for me, but I can’t stomach the taste of beer. “I’d like that a lot.”

  “Great.” He grins. “I close up at eight. I can walk over to your building to pick you up, or…”

  “I’ll walk over here,” I suggest.

  “It’s a date.” He looks into my eyes. “I’m looking forward to this, Juliet.”

  “I am too,” I say honestly.

  I deserve to have some fun, especially since I’ll be spending at least part of my day with moody Mr. Bane.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kavan

  “Is there anything else you need before I leave, Mr. Bane?”

  I turn to see Nigel standing in the doorway of my office. It’s nearing seven. I had a busy afternoon of meetings via phone. Nigel sat in for some, and during others, he tended to work I had assigned him.

  I beckon him into my office with a curl of my fingers. “Come and sit.”

  He doesn’t hesitate.

  Nigel never hesitates when I ask anything of him, even when it is unthinkable, as it was the night my father died.

 

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