Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(8)

I groan, because it’s so much worse than an accident.

I purse my lips and consider my options. I could pretend I’m not here, but remember before when I said that I know people?

Well, I know this guy better than most. He’s relentless. And he will wait me out.

Giving in to the inevitable, I open my front door, not bothering to hold Juno back from throwing her considerable weight at Matt Cannon.

Instead of looking annoyed by the eighty pounds of Lab / Rottweiler mix getting fur all over his thousand-dollar suit, Matt bends down and gives Juno an affectionate rubdown. “Hey, girl.”

I lean against the doorjamb, begrudging my dog her poor taste in character. “How’d you get in here?”

Juno rolls onto her back, tongue lolling out, belly up, and Matt obliges, scratching the dog like they’re old friends. “Doorman let me up.”

“You’re not on the list.”

“You sure about that?” he says with a grin. Then he looks up at me and does a double take at my appearance. “Whoa. Has it finally happened? Have you finally run out of skin-tight dresses and high heels?”

“What did you think, I slept in a push-up bra and Louboutins?”

His grin shifts from playful to seductive. “I know firsthand that you don’t.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying that in the few times he’s seen me in my bra—and out of it—we don’t exactly do much sleeping.

Because of that, I’m relieved at my current appearance. The casual clothes feel like a shield of sorts—a guarantee that he won’t make his move and that I won’t be helpless to resist, as I generally am.

Matt gives my dog one last pet and stands. His six-foot-two frame doesn’t quite tower over my five-foot-seven self, but I have to look up, and that’s annoying.

Actually, everything about him is annoying.

See, adversaries aren’t supposed to look like him. And make no mistake, for all our ill-advised hookups in the past, Matt is an adversary. As such, it’d only be fair for him to have scars, a paunch, or at least an asymmetrical face.

He’s got none of the above. Simply and reluctantly put, men don’t come better-looking than Matt Cannon. He’s the epitome of a golden boy. Perfectly styled blond hair? Check. Mischievous blue eyes? Yup. Chiseled jaw? Uh-huh. Perfect body . . .

Yeah, you get the idea.

Also, I hate him.

I lean against my doorjamb, still blocking his entry. “Why are you here, and why in God’s name did my doorman let you up?”

Matt puts a hand to my waist as though it’s his right and nudges me aside so he can enter my apartment. As though that’s his right, too. Juno follows him in happily.

“You were in Baltimore last month,” he says.

I blink in confusion at the change of subject. “And?”

“You asked Kate to watch Juno, except she went out to Jersey to have brunch with her parents, and the train broke down. Your dog needed to go out, so . . . I came over. Juno and I hit it off, so I took over dog-sitting duties for the weekend.”

I stare at him, aghast. “Just like that. You were in my apartment. Watching my dog.”

He looks down at me. “Don’t be weird about it. I’ve been in your apartment before.”

“Yeah, for dinner parties. Under supervision. And when . . .”

His eyebrows lift. “Yes?”

I refuse to blush, and I refuse to answer. I don’t particularly care to think about the times my body’s desire for this man has overridden common sense, resulting in a hookup or two. Or twelve. And I definitely don’t talk about it.

His cocky wink tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking, but for once, he doesn’t give me shit. Instead, he turns to survey my apartment.

“I’ve never mentioned this before, but I like your place. Juno and I made ourselves at home while I watched her.”

“Juno was home,” I point out. “You were an uninvited intruder.”

He ignores this. “Your home suits you.”

“I’m assuming there’s an insult in there somewhere?” I ask over my shoulder, heading back into the kitchen.

“Nope, I really do like it. It’s the only thing I like about you,” he says, following me.

I ignore the barb, since it’s sort of what we do. Plus . . . I like my place, too. It’s on the forty-second floor, right on Park Avenue, and the view alone is worth the astronomical rent.

I’m also pretty proud to say I’ve made a home out of what could have been a generic mausoleum. The leather sofa’s gray and warm and comfortable, with inviting red throw pillows. Instead of a coffee table, I’ve got an enormous ottoman, with a tray for cocktails and scented candles.

There’s a wine rack in one corner of the living room, a dog bed in the other, and the rest is all windows with a glorious view of the Empire State Building, the bright lights of downtown twinkling off in the distance.

The kitchen, too, is inviting, at least by Manhattan standards, since we New Yorkers aren’t exactly known for our cooking skills.

Juno dashes for her beloved, albeit slightly decrepit, squeaky sheep-shaped toy and takes to her dog bed, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as Matt comes to join me in the kitchen.

He’s wearing a suit, which isn’t all that surprising—he’s pretty much always wearing a suit. This one’s a dark gray, and the blue tie matches his eyes, though a medieval torture chamber wouldn’t get me to admit that I notice.