Cruel (The Buck Boys Heroes 2)

“We’ll start on Monday?” I ask.

“Be ready for the driver at nine a.m. sharp, Juliet.” He tilts his chin. “You can expect to put in a full day. I anticipate the process taking no more than a few days.”

After that bombshell he dropped on me, I was hoping to wrap this up by lunchtime on Monday.

“I’ll be ready.” I stay seated because I sense I need to wait for him to lead us to the end of this meeting.

He studies me. “You moved to New York recently.”

It’s not a question, and I can’t say that shocks me. He strikes me as the type of man who runs multiple background checks a day. He probably knows the entire life history of the tailor he buys his custom suits from.

“Six months ago.”

“That’s why you had no idea who I am.”

It’s egotistical to assume that everyone in the five boroughs knows his name, but until I research the details surrounding his father’s death, I won’t know how sensational they are.

Maybe he’s one of those trust fund kids who couldn’t wait for the payout.

I’d guess he’s a few years older than me.

He carries himself with the grace and confidence of a wealthy individual.

They’re easy to spot in this city.

Honestly, he’d stand out in any crowd and not because of his pedigree.

“My only concern is your business, sir,” I say in an even tone.

That lures the corners of his mouth up toward a smile, but it stops short of that. “That’s all for tonight, Juliet.”

That’s my cue to get the hell out of here, so I stand.

“There will be someone waiting at the elevator to escort you to the car.” He reaches to press a button on his desk phone.

I wait for the expected voice to ask what they can do for him, but instead I hear the ding of an elevator announcing its arrival in the distance.

His gaze trails up to meet mine again. “Goodnight, Juliet.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Bane,” I say before I slide the strap of my purse over my head and make a quick exit out of his office.

Thirty minutes later, I’m at the bookstore around the corner from my apartment, still trying to catch my breath as I balance six thick books in my hand.

“Can I help?’ A cute guy wearing dark-rimmed eyeglasses offers his hands to me. “I’ll put these on the counter. When you’re ready to check out, they’ll be waiting for you.”

I give him a better look. He’s more than cute. His blonde hair is cut short. His green eyes are a shade lighter than freshly cut grass. “Do you work here?”

“I’m the owner.” He motions for me to hand the books to him. “I’m Slate.”

His name doesn’t fit his image, but I kind of like that. I like his smile too.

“Juliet,” I offer as I push the books at him.

“Such a beautiful name.” He smiles before his gaze drops to the books. “It looks like you’re a fan of true crime.”

I’m not, but I’m a big fan of promotions, so I need to read up on who Kavan Bane is, even if none of that information can find its way into my article.

I have to understand the man if I’m going to present an article that is good enough to secure me the job I desperately want.

The online search I did in the SUV on my way home spelled out the crucial facts of the night Mr. Bane spoke of.

He was with his father, Ares Bane, in Miami when it happened. According to witnesses, there was arguing in the hotel suite that Kavan and his father were sharing, then a loud crash. Moments later, his father’s body was discovered in the parking lot beneath a broken window in their suite.

Kavan was arrested within hours.

Just weeks before he was to stand trial, the charges were dropped.

The case drew so much media attention because Ares Bane was a philanthropist. The man funded many charities, built a reputation on his acts of goodwill and after his death, it was revealed that he was the anonymous donor behind not one but two children’s hospitals along the eastern seaboard as well as a nationwide literary initiative.

I’m hopeful that the books I’m buying will give me more insight into Kavan and the company that his father founded decades before his death.

“You live in the neighborhood, don’t you?” Slate asks.

Surprised that he knows that, I narrow my eyes. “Maybe.”

He huffs out a deep-seated laugh. “I’m not stalking you. I’ve noticed you walking past.”

With a tilt of his elbow, he motions toward the bank of windows at the front of the store. “I like to people watch. It’s hard not to pay attention when you walk by.”

I could get used to this level of flirting.

“I’ll take these to the counter for you, Juliet,” he says my name with a lilt at the end. “Maybe sometime when you’re passing by, I’ll stop you to say hi.”