Love the One You're With (Sex, Love & Stiletto 2)

Along with a poll: “Does This Man Want This Woman?”

The results were in. Ninety-four percent of genius Stiletto readers had voted yes.

Jake knew that she’d wanted him too. It had been in the way she’d crossed and uncrossed her legs. The way she’d watched his mouth every time he took a sip of wine or smiled at her.

The way her pulse had fluttered under his touch.

But he had no proof.

His words were nothing compared to what she’d caught on camera.

Making things worse, Alex Cassidy was pissed. Here was his star womanizer staring across the table dopily at the woman who was conning him. Then Jake had reached out to touch her not once but twice.

And the real nail in his coffin was in the final shot—the way his hungry eyes had followed her shapely ass all the way to the bathroom before it had blissfully cut to black.

Thank God her accomplice hadn’t caught the end of the meal when he’d been this close to asking Grace Brighton out for real.

“Yeah, she’s expecting me,” Jake growled at the expectant doorman, who was already lifting the phone to his ear to call Grace.

After a hushed conversation between doorman and tenant, the short gray-haired man gave Jake a polite smile. “She says to go right on up.”

“Thanks,” Jake said curtly as he made his way to the high-rise apartment building’s elevator. Classy place for a classy lady.

Although classy wasn’t the only thing the building and the woman had in common, he thought snidely as his eyes searched for and found the discreet elevator camera. They both had a thing for hidden cameras.

His knock on Grace’s door was sharp and decisive, and he wasn’t surprised that she made him wait.

He was surprised by the version of Grace that awaited him on the other side of the door.

Grace Brighton in that tight pencil skirt on that first morning in the cab had been intriguing. The version in the sexy dress? Seductive as hell. And the other day in the deceptively demure shirt and slacks? She’d been pure, cool sophistication.

But Grace Brighton in a short—very short—blue robe that managed to look slinky and cozy at the same time …

This Grace was dangerous.

Dangerous to him.

Damn it. The 94 percent of women who’d voted in that idiotic poll had been right. He absolutely did want this woman.

“Jake,” she said in her smooth, upper-class voice.

“Grace.” He pushed past into her apartment. She let him.

“Nice place,” he said looking around at the surprisingly warm apartment. He’d been expecting lots of blues and whites and stainless steel, but instead she’d opted for amiable browns and earth colors. The effect was welcoming. Calming.

“I was about to take a bath,” she said pointedly. “It’s late.”

He didn’t give a fuck.

He spun back toward the conniving little sneak, moving toward her until she was backed against the door. He saw the pulse in her neck leap, and any other time he might have celebrated her reaction. Might have even lightly run his tongue along that delicate flutter.

But then he remembered the appalled look on Alex Cassidy’s face when he’d called Jake into his office and shown him that damn website. Remembered the incredulous amusement on his colleagues’ faces after word got around that Jake had been outsmarted.

He didn’t even blame them. He’d be smirking too if one of the other Oxford guys had been dumb enough to get his dick caught in some wily female’s trap.

He wanted to grab Grace’s defiant chin and kiss the smug look off her face, but then he’d only be proving that damn website’s point.

And the woman didn’t need any more ammunition against him.