“You’ve done more research.”
Her gaze drifts to the right. “It’s part of my job.”
“Let me guess.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You read some or all of The Bad Bane.”
Her eyes travel over my shoulders to my biceps and then trail down the gray sweater I’m wearing to the front of my black pants before she looks at my face again. “I don’t rely on fiction as a source for my articles.”
“It’s being marketed as true crime,” I point out.
“True to who?” She drops one hand to her hip. “The author? You’ve never spoken to him, have you?”
“I haven’t.”
“The first rule of journalism is to rely on cold, hard facts.” Her eyes never leave mine. “I prefer gathering information from the source than a third party who has no direct knowledge of the subject at hand.”
This is a woman who takes her job seriously. That’s not surprising given her inexperience and her eagerness to prove herself to Thurston Marks.
“Have you had dinner, Juliet?”
The abrupt subject change catches her off guard. I see a flash of confusion in her expression before she drops her gaze to the ground to find her bearings. “No. Not yet.”
“I live close.” I adjust the cuff on the sleeve of my sweater to uncover my watch. “Join me there for dinner.”
She considers the invitation carefully, not saying anything as she searches my face for my motivation.
She won’t find it there.
Necessity has taught me how to shroud my emotions behind a blank expression. I’m inviting her home with me so I can set this interview process in motion as soon as possible.
It won’t go further than a few general questions about Bane Enterprises, but it’s an unexpected opportunity to lay the foundation of what I want the article to look like when we’re done.
“I can do that,” she says. “To talk about the article.”
“Of course.” I motion to the end of the alley leading out to Park Avenue. “This way, Juliet.”
She falls in step beside me, and even though the city around us is bursting with the noise generated by horns and the people who call this place home, I hear the faint sound of her keys hitting the bottom of her purse as they fall from her grip.
Chapter Eighteen
Juliet
I wasn’t surprised that a private elevator brought us up to Kavan’s penthouse. An attendant was waiting at a side door of the skyscraper on Fifth Avenue. He let us in, and then we walked silently down a corridor to an elevator where a man greeted Mr. Bane by name.
He rode the elevator with us to the top floor of the building, and when we stepped off, he wished both of us a good night.
I thought I’d have a great night having dinner with my sister, but that fell to the wayside.
I’m currently standing in the foyer to Kavan Bane’s penthouse while he has a hushed conversation with a man in a dark suit.
The man can’t be much older than me. Behind them, a blonde-haired woman dressed in a chef’s coat seems to be waiting her turn to get in the conversation.
I tear my gaze away from them to focus on the room in front of me.
It’s an open space leading to a bank of windows opposite where I’m standing. Even from this distance, I can see the lit skyline of the city.
The décor is not what I expected, although I’m not sure what I thought I’d see when Kavan unlocked the door.
The floors are dark hardwood. The furniture is oversized and crafted in leather in masculine tones. There’s a large rug near the fireplace. Next to that is an antique table and lamp. A stunning wooden cart sits nearby. Atop of it is an array of beautiful decanters; all are half-filled with amber liquids of varying shades.
The ambiance of the space is both strong and calming.
“Juliet.” My name snaps off of Mr. Bane’s lips. “Take a look at the menu for dinner.”
A menu for dinner?
Judging by the chef’s jacket draped around the woman standing next to Kavan, I assumed that she would be cooking for us.
I approach him and the woman. She can’t be more than a few years older than me.
“Good evening, Miss Bardin,” she greets me. “I’m Nara. I’ve prepared several options for dinner.”
I glance down as her hand appears from her side with a piece of paper in it.
She shoves it at me, so I take it, glancing briefly at Mr. Bane.
I read it carefully.
There are two options for appetizers, three for entrees, and four for dessert.
“This seems like a lot of trouble,” I say to her. “Whatever you were preparing for Mr. Bane is fine with me.”
“Choose, Juliet.” Kavan’s voice comes out low.
My gaze trails up his chest to meet his eyes. I see power there and determination.
Nodding, I choose the first thing listed under each heading.
Lobster bisque.
Aged prime rib with seared mushrooms and a pan sauce.
Pears roasted in wine with honey ice cream.
I read out each with a slight tremble in my voice before I hand the menu back to Nara.
She offers me a smile. “Excellent choices, Miss Bardin, and for the wine?”
I defer to Mr. Bane with a look.
Thankfully, he takes the hint and says the names of what I think are three different bottles of wine. The last is the only one I recognize. It’s very expensive. I know that because I debated buying it to celebrate my sister’s purchase of her apartment, but my budget wasn’t on board.
Nara disappears around a corner.
I take a deep breath. “Your home is lovely.”
He nods. “Take a seat, Juliet. I need to return a call. I’ll be back shortly.”
Grateful that I’ll have a second to catch my breath, I set out toward a large couch set in the middle of the living room. The color is a creamy light brown. A thin striped blanket is draped over the back.
In front of it there’s a coffee table that features a large metal bowl filled with some decorative leaves and berries. Next to that is a perfectly fanned-out selection of finance and business magazines. Sitting on top is the most recent copy of New York Viewpoint.
As I take a seat, I stare at the cover.
That takes me right back to my earlier conversation with Mr. Marks.
No harm can come from considering his proposition. I’ll go into this focused on Bane Enterprises, but if the opportunity presents itself, I’ll take it and dive deeper into the night that Ares Bane died.
I steal a glance around the room to see beautiful artwork hanging from the walls, but there are no personal pictures. I don’t see a framed photograph anywhere.
A soft sound behind me lures my gaze over my shoulder.
“Mr. Bane thought you might enjoy a pre-dinner drink.” Nara extends a silver tray holding one glass garnished with a speared sour cherry. “It’s a Manhattan. He said it was your favorite.”
With a shaking hand, I take it from her. “It is, but how did he know?”
She smiles as his heavy footsteps approach from behind her.
“The articles you’ve written are a wealth of knowledge, Juliet,” Kavan says, raising a tumbler partially filled with what looks like whiskey. “To the future.”