Cruel (The Buck Boys Heroes 2)

Dropping my phone into my purse, I take a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“The driver will be waiting for you in front of the building when you’re done,” he explains. “He will also be at your disposal during the course of your assignment.”

“What’s his name?”

“Drew,” he says softly.

“All right.”

Nigel turns the doorknob in his hand. “Go right in, Juliet. Godspeed.”

My head snaps in his direction. “What?”

All he offers in response is a furrow of his brows. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

He pushes open the door an inch, and then scurries away leaving me standing in an empty hallway with a million reservations and one goal.

I’m going to write an article that will blow Mr. Marks away. There is no other option.

“Come in, Juliet,” a man’s deep voice calls from within the office I’m standing in front of.

Something stirs inside of me at the sound of that raspy tone.

It’s vaguely familiar, and without another thought, I push open the door and take a step forward, feeling undeniably drawn to that voice.

I stop mid-step when I catch sight of his back.

The ends of his black hair fall over the collar of his suit jacket. The broad shoulders beneath it stop my heart for a full beat.

He turns to face me, and it feels as though time has slowed.

When his blue eyes lock on my face, I let out a small noise. It’s nothing more than a whispered plea or a hushed moan.

It’s him.

My savior, the man who rescued me from the clutches of a mugger two weeks ago, is standing in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Welcome to my world, Juliet,” he says in a gruff tone. “I’m Kavan Bane.”

Chapter Thirteen

Kavan

Realization sweeps over her expression like a soft wave before it crashes into the jagged edges of a rock.

Her hazel eyes widen. “You’re Kavan Bane?”

Her reaction further cements my initial assumption. My name didn’t come out of her full lips with anything more than surprise wrapped around it. There’s no disdain attached to her voice. She doesn’t view me as a man who stole something irreplaceable from this earth.

“I’m Kavan Bane,” I say in a way that speaks my truth.

My mother suggested that I change my name after my father’s death. Her reasoning was simple, or so she claimed. She told me that I’d be able to start anew somewhere far from New York City. In reality, she viewed that as her escape.

If I disappeared from the face of the earth, the stain that soiled her name and reputation would vanish too.

I never seriously entertained that idea.

I’m a Bane.

Regardless of what people associate that name with, it is a part of my father’s legacy.

“Mr. Bane,” she says my name softly.

I wait for more, but she stares at me, contemplating something.

“Juliet, come in.” I gesture toward her. “Close the door behind you.”

She turns to close the door softly before turning to face me.

She’s dressed as casually as I’d expect, given the job I rescued her from. Thurston Marks rattled on about this assignment being her stepping-stone to a full-time position among the roster of journalists for New York Viewpoint.

It’s not my concern where she lands professionally after this, although I suspect she’ll have her choice of outlets desirous of her services.

I take a moment to admire the soft curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts beneath the floral dress she has on.

At another time, under different circumstances, I’d take her to bed.

That can’t happen. I never mix anything with pleasure.

I fuck to fuck.

There are no romantic motivations behind that. I’m not looking for any entanglement. I want a release with a willing woman who is mature enough to realize that one-night stands serve a purpose.

“Come here,” I say quietly. “Take a seat, Juliet.”

She approaches me with steady steps before she settles into one of the chairs that face my desk.

I look down at her.

Her doe eyes are pinned to my face. Her lips are slightly parted.

For a brief moment, a sliver of regret slices through me because I can already tell that she would be a dream to fuck.

It’s in the way she carries herself and her determination not to break eye contact with me.

That’s a rarity for me.

“Why am I here?” she asks without so much as a blink of her eye.

“To write an article,” I answer curtly.

“Why me?” she presses, adjusting her ass on the chair.

I watch as her legs cross, showing off a sliver of the smooth skin of her thigh.

My gaze trails back up to her face. I see strength and fortitude. But beneath that, there’s a hint of confusion in the way her eyebrows have perked.

“You’re a journalist,” I state simply.

That lures a small smile to her lips. “That’s not an answer to my question, Mr. Bane.”

If I’m going to keep this professional, the Mr. Bane must stay.