They are fighting me on that.
One went so far as to threaten to write a book detailing his knowledge of the months leading up to my father’s death and the immediate aftermath of that.
I laughed in response.
I’ve lost count of the number of self-proclaimed insiders who have put pen to paper to write what they want to market as the ‘shocking tell-all.’
Since no one was in that hotel room in Miami but Ares and me, a tell-all will never hold the truth that I do inside of me.
A soft knock on my office door lures my gaze to it.
“Come in,” I call out, wondering if it’s Nigel, Juliet, or a member of my staff.
Nara and Alcott are here, as are a few other people I view as essential.
Drew is no doubt milling about, as is the woman who sees to it that my wardrobe is always in order, and my home.
As the door opens, Nigel appears. “I’m going to leave for the Baxter meeting, sir.”
I move to stand. “Good.”
“Juliet is in her office.” A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “She’s comfortable there. It’s obvious that she met Nara before today. They had a spirited discussion about honey ice cream.”
I didn’t see a need to fill Nigel in on my impromptu dinner party, but he’s fishing for information now, so I satisfy his curiosity. “I crossed paths with Juliet on Saturday. She joined me for dinner.”
“She did?”
Nigel doesn’t do feigned surprise well. He had already pieced all of that together on his own.
“She’s lovely, sir.” He glances at me. “There is something refreshing about her.”
I won’t go down this path with him. Juliet Bardin is here for one reason and one reason only. She’s going to write an article. Simple. When that task is complete, we’ll part ways.
“The Baxter meeting, Nigel,” I remind him with a tap of my finger against the face of my watch. “Don’t keep Beverly waiting.”
“Don’t keep Juliet waiting,” he counters. “She’s eager to begin the interview.”
I’m sure she is.
I’ll take a moment to respond to a few emails, and then Juliet will be my only focus for the next few hours.
“You wanted me to overhear Beverly Baxter’s name,” Juliet accuses as soon as I’ve sat down in a leather chair in the corner of the office I had set up for her.
It’s a suitable space with a white table desk, a few flowering plants, and several pieces of framed art on the walls. All those are feminine and bright and will find their way into an auction benefitting Baxter House once Juliet’s assignment is complete.
The artist is an up-and-comer that I’ve had my eye on for some time.
I cross my legs. “Did I?”
She tosses me a smirk from where she’s seated in the white leather chair behind the desk. “Of course you did. You don’t strike me as the type of man who lets anything slip.”
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.