But he hadn’t.
Call it journalistic integrity, but he was here to write about first impressions. So a first impression was what he was going to get.
Jake signaled to the bartender for another drink, making a mental note to slow down. He didn’t want to scare her off with whisky breath before she’d had a chance to take the first sip of her chardonnay or cosmopolitan or whatever it was the women from Stiletto were imbibing these days.
A flash of long female leg caught his eye as he set his drink back on the cocktail napkin, and like any heterosexual male, he turned for a better look. If those legs belonged to Grace Brighton, he’d send Alex Cassidy a handwritten thank-you note, because these legs were about as good as legs could get.
His eyes locked on a trim ankle. Shapely calf. Smooth thigh … a lot of smooth thigh. Holy hell, this skirt was cut clear up to her—
There was a clearing of throat, and Jake realized he’d been caught, his eyes snapping to her face.
Steady hazel eyes gazed back at him, and Jake temporarily forgot all about his mystery girl from Stiletto.
It was her.
The woman who lived in Tribeca but commuted uptown was in a midtown bar. As far as coincidences went, it was over the top, and a small warning bell sounded in the back of his head, but he ignored it.
It was tough to focus on anything but that damn dress.
“Here to share a cab again?” he asked. “I’m not sure we’re headed to the same place, but I’m sure we could—”
“Save it,” she said in her smooth, upper-crust voice, sliding onto the bar stool across from him. It had been that voice that had intrigued him that day in the cab. Pure class with just a touch of snob.
The best kind of challenge.
And Jake was more than ready for a challenge. And not because of the chase—well, not just because of the chase. Because it wasn’t Jake’s professional life that had felt off lately. His personal life was starting to feel a little hollow too.
Jake knew most of the city assumed he’d slept his way through Manhattan’s female population, but the truth was much less tabloid-worthy. He liked women, sure. Liked their softness, their curves, and the click of their heels. And he definitely liked their moans when he took them to bed.
But finding women he actually wanted to take to bed was more infrequent than anyone would guess.
Sometime after turning thirty, he’d gotten, well … picky.
Which would have been fine if it wasn’t also pretty damned lonely.
“Hot date?” he asked, doing what he thought was an admirable job of not staring at the breasts on display. The dress wasn’t quite indecent. But it was damn close.
He felt a stab of curiosity about who this buttoned-up woman might be getting unbuttoned for. Probably a lawyer. Or a banker. Someone whose wardrobe had an abundance of navy and khaki.
“As a matter of fact, I do have a date,” she said, crossing her legs and lifting a finger to get the bartender’s attention.
Jake lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate coming in and seeing you sitting next to me.”
“Why?” she asked, not even glancing at him. “Are you wearing dirty underwear again?”
He hid a smile before giving a quick scan of the bar. No sign of his Stiletto date.
“What’s with the Catwoman outfit?” he asked, turning back to the stunning brunette.
“I thought we just established I have a date.”
“With who, Batman?”
She ignored him as she ordered something called a sidecar. She was apparently in no hurry to leave, and Jake felt the first prickle of nervousness. She might not care about being seen with him, but he really didn’t need Ms. Stiletto seeing him with another woman. Not exactly the first impression he was going for.
“Is this your usual after work haunt?” she asked, turning toward him slightly.
Jake shrugged. “Not sure I have any usual places. I tend to let my date or the people I’m interviewing do the picking.”