“Great sex does not take the place of common interests or scintillating conversation.”

Ignoring her lecture, Cutter slowly leaned his head forward, and her nose was filled with his musky scent.

Lips against her shoulder, he said nonchalantly, “What kind of conversation?”

She swallowed hard, her throat constricted. “Books.”

His mouth moved down her neck, nipping gently, coiling her nerves, searing her skin as he went. “Any other topics allowed?” He pulled her hips against his hard thighs and her knees went wobbly.

Her mind swimming in the heat of desire, she whispered, “Movies.” One of his hands moved higher up her ribcage and her voice broke a bit. “Good wine, music and current events,” she finished desperately, proud she could speak coherently.

He lifted his head to stare at her, his thigh between her legs, and his hand cupped a breast. “Do you want me to do this? Or do you want me to discuss the historical significance of Picasso?”

Staring up at him, she heard her answer come out as an unintelligible mumble. And, as if the babbling words were a signal, his mouth landed on hers.

The summer she turned eleven, AIMEE CARSON left the children’s section of the library and entered an aisle full of Mills & Boon® novels. She promptly pulled out a book, sat on the floor, and read the entire story. It has been a love affair that has lasted for over thirty years.

Despite a fantastic job working part time as a physician in the Alaskan Bush (think Northern Exposure and ER, minus the beautiful mountains and George Clooney), she also enjoys being at home in the gorgeous Black Hills of South Dakota, riding her dirt bike with her three wonderful kids and beyond patient husband. But, whether at home or at work, every morning is spent creating the stories she loves so much. Her motto? Life is too short to do anything less than what you absolutely love. She counts herself lucky to have two jobs she adores, and incredibly blessed to be a part of Mills & Boon’s family of talented authors.

Aimee Carson’s first book,

SECRET HISTORY OF A GOOD GIRL, was published in Mills & Boon Loves … a collection of novels from our fantastic new authors.

The collection is still available to buy from

www.millsandboon.co.uk

How to Win the Dating War

Aimee Carson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Flo Nicoll. Thanks for all your hard work and dedication. And to Dan. Without you none of this would be possible.

HOW TO WIN THE DATING WAR is Aimee Carson’s first book for Mills & Boon®.

Look out for more great titles, coming up soon!

Did you know this is also available as an eBook? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

Maneuvering tools while lying on his back wasn’t easy with the relentless stabbing in his chest, and when the wrench slipped, Cutter’s hand plowed into the drive shaft. Pain smashed, and the underside of his ‘71 Barracuda was lit with stars.

“Damn.” The muttered word was lost in the rock music wailing in his garage.

Blood dripped from his knuckles onto his T-shirt. He shifted to the right, and his ribs screamed in protest, eliciting a groan of agony as he pulled a rag from the pocket of his jeans, wrapping it around his hand. His chest still sent crippling signals, but—on the good side—the sting in his fingers now took precedence over the two-month-old, lingering ache in his left arm.

Because Cutter Thompson, former number-one driver in the American Stock Car Auto Racing circuit, never did anything half-assed. Even screwing up. He’d ended his career in style, flipping his car and sliding across the finish line on his roof before crashing into a wall.

Pain he was used to. And even if crawling beneath the belly of the ‘Cuda went against the doctor’s orders, Cutter was going to complete this project even if it killed him.

The music cut off, Bruce Springsteen’s voice dying mid-verse, and a pair of high-heeled sandals tapped their way across the concrete toward the ‘Cuda. Cinnamon-colored toenails. Nice ankles. Slender, shapely calves. Too bad the rest was blocked by the bottom of the car. The fine-looking legs were most likely encased in a skirt. From this angle, if he rolled his creeper forward, he’d get an eyeful.

And you could tell a lot about a woman by the underwear she wore.

With a delicate squat, knees together, the owner of the legs leaned low until her face appeared beneath the car. Dark, exotic eyes. Glossy, chestnut-colored hair.

“Hello, Mr. Thompson.” Her voice was smooth. Warm. Like heated honey. Her smile genuinely bright. The kind of enthusiasm that should be illegal. “Welcome back to Miami.”

Welcome home, Thompson. Like a career-ending injury at thirty was a blessing.

Cutter stared at the lady. “You interrupted Springsteen.” Her smile didn’t budge. “I’m Jessica Wilson.” She paused. “Did you get my messages?”

Jessica Wilson. The crazy lady who wouldn’t take no for an answer. “All five of them,” he said dryly. He turned his attention back to his work, his tone dismissive, his words designed to send her away for good. “I’m not interested in a publicity stunt,” he said firmly. He wasn’t interested in publicity, period.

He used to like it. Hell, he’d lived for it. And his fans had been fiercely loyal, following him around the circuit and supporting him unconditionally. Sticking with him through thick and thin. The kinds of things parents usually did. Except for his.

And now what was he supposed to say to the press? Awesome wreck, huh? And how about that stellar suspension the officials had slapped on him? ‘Course, that was before anyone knew his split-second decision had cost him more than separated ribs, a fractured arm and a humdinger of a concussion. It had cost him a career.

Pain of a different sort pierced the base of his skull, and regret hollowed out his stomach. Cutter gripped the wrench, awkwardly wrestling with the bolt again. He’d had to go and ruin his dominant hand, too.

Slowly he became aware the lady was still here, as if waiting for him to change his mind. Some people were too persistent for their own good. He tried again. “I’m busy.”

“How long have you been working on the car?”

He frowned, thrown by the change in topic. “Fourteen years.”

“So fifteen more minutes of a delay won’t be too inconvenient?”

Amused, he rolled his head to stare at her. He was trying to be rude and get rid of Little Ms. Sunshine. Why was she still being so friendly? Her eyes were wide. Luminous. The color of melted chocolate. Cutter lowered the wrench warily. “inconvenient enough.”

“As I explained in my messages, the Brice Foundation wants you for their annual charity auction,” she went on, obviously undaunted by his attitude. “We need a fifth celebrity to round out our list.”

“Five celebrities gullible enough to participate will be hard to find.”

She ignored his comment and went on. “I think your participation would generate a lot of excitement, especially as a native Miamian and a national hero.”

Cutter’s gut clenched. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

No heroes here. Not anymore. That had ended with his self-destructing, split-second decision on the track. But if she was looking for a night of sex, the fulfillment of a few fantasies, then he was the man for her. Doubtful she was. And right now he wasn’t interested in involvement of any kind, in bed or out. “My answer is still no.”

She stared at him with those big, Bambi, don’t-shoot-me eyes. It had to be an uncomfortable position, balancing on the balls of her feet with her chest against her thighs, her head hanging low enough to look under the bottom of the car. But her voice remained patient. “Will you please just hear me out?”

Damn, she wasn’t going to go away.

With a frustrated groan, Cutter rubbed a hand down his face. He needed peace. He needed The Boss blaring on the stereo, drowning out the turmoil in his head. And he needed to get the ‘Cuda up and running. But he wouldn’t get any closer to accomplishing these if the lady didn’t leave. Though, much longer in that position and she’d pass out from a lack of blood flow to her brain. At least then he could haul her out of his garage.

But no matter how much he wanted her to go away, he couldn’t let a person continue to hold this discussion while impersonating a contortionist. Even if his chest hadn’t recovered from the effort it had taken to climb beneath the car in the first place, even if moving would bring more pain, he had to convince her to leave from a standing position.

With a forced sigh and a grunt of agony, he gripped the chassis of the ‘Cuda and pulled the creeper on out from beneath the car, wheels squeaking as he went. He rolled off, his ribs screeching louder in protest, and he sucked in a breath … and got hit with her delicate scent. Sweet, yet sensual, infused with a hint of spice. A lot like her voice.

When he finally managed to straighten up, he got a view of her willowy body wrapped in a cool sundress the color of the sky in springtime. Silk clung to her hips and thighs.

Her shoulder-length dark hair framed a delicate face that housed beautiful brown eyes. Classy. Feminine. A girly girl through and through. The visual was almost worth the excruciating pain that now pounded his ribs.

Almost.

She sent him another smile and nodded toward his car. “Fourteen years is a long time. It looks like it still needs a lot of work.”

Cutter’s eyebrows pulled together. Sweet or not, no one was allowed to dis his ‘Cuda. “Engine’s almost fixed.” Mostly because when the doctor had delivered the bad news, Cutter had dragged the vehicle out of storage and given himself until the end of the month to get it done. Better than dwelling on his messed-up life. “Be ready for a test run any day now.”

She peered in the window. “But there’s only a backseat.”

“I kissed my first girlfriend there. Happens to be my favorite spot. Just a few more technicalities to take care of.”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. Stepping back, she glanced at the concrete blocks the car was perched on. “Are tires considered a technicality, too?”

He quirked an eyebrow, amused by her dry tone. “I’ll get to it. I’ve been busy.” Busy racing. Ruining a career.

A scowl threatened. Couldn’t a man retreat to his garage for a little one-on-one time with his car without a cheerful, pushy woman tracking him down? Maybe if he looked busy she’d go away now.

He rounded the car to where the hood was propped open and twisted off the oil cap. With the clap of heels, she appeared beside him. Ignoring her proximity, and after pulling out the dipstick, he used the rag wrapped around his mashed knuckles to check the level.

She peered around his right shoulder. “Plenty of oil,” she said, sounding amused. “Though I doubt you’d lose much since the car doesn’t run.”

Busted. Not too girly a girly girl. “Can’t be too careful.”

“Words to live by, Mr. Thompson.”

“Precisely.” Though not exactly his motto until recently. With a self-chastising grunt, he shoved the oil stick back with more force than necessary. “No publicity stunts for me.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

“Always is.”

“You haven’t even heard the details.”

“Don’t need to.” Refusing to look at her, he screwed the oil cap on. “I’m not doing it.”

She placed her hands on the car frame and leaned close, her evocative scent enveloping him. “The Brice Foundation does the kind of work you and your sponsors have always supported in the past. I know if you hear the details, you’ll agree.”

The optimistic little lady sounded so sure of herself. Cutter straightened and placed his hands on the frame beside hers, finally meeting her face-to-face. Her olive skin tone suggested a distant Mediterranean ancestor somewhere. Even features. High cheekbones. Full mouth, but not too lush. Nice. “I don’t have sponsors anymore.” He raised an eyebrow to bring his point home. “And you don’t know anything about me.”

“You started in the ASCAR truck series at seventeen. Two years later you were dubbed someone to watch by Top Speed magazine.” Her wide, deep-brown eyes held his. “You burst into the stock car series and blazed your way to the top. You’re known for your cutting words and for being fearless on the track, earning you the nickname the Wildcard. You’ve held the number-one rank for the past six years—” a brief hesitation before she went on “—until your accident two months ago when you intentionally bumped your biggest rival, Chester Coon.”

Acid churning in his gut, Cutter suppressed the urge to look away. He’d pay for that moment for the rest of his life. He relived it every night in his sleep. The roaring engines. The smell of rubber. And then he spies Chester to his left. Cutter grips his steering wheel … and then he wakes with a jerk, drenched in sweat, heart pounding.

And feeling every one of his injuries as if they were fresh.

But the actual moment of bumping Chester—and fortunately, the crash itself—were a blank. Retrograde amnesia the doctor had called it. A gift bestowed upon him by his concussion.

Or perhaps it was a curse.

His fingers clenched the car frame harder. “The officials should have suspended Chester for the Charlotte incident last year. Damn rookie put everyone at risk when he drove. And then he nearly got another driver killed.”

“There was a lot of hard driving the day of your wreck. Everyone knew Chester had it coming.”

Surprised, he cocked his head. Jessica Wilson clearly knew the unwritten rules of the track. A familiar niggle of doubt resurfaced. “You’re not one of those fanatics who likes to stalk their favorite driver, are you?” After her five messages that was exactly what he’d assumed, though she didn’t seem crazy in person. But it could be she was crazy and smart enough to hide it. He’d met a few of those along the way. “If so, your charity ruse is imaginative. Though it’s hard to beat the fan who snuck past security at the track, picked the lock on my RV and climbed into my bed naked.”

The spirited sparkle in her eyes was captivating. “I hope you tossed him out.”

Despite his mood, a rusty bark of a chuckle escaped his throat, knifing his still-smarting ribs. He was beginning to like the pushy little do-gooder, overly optimistic or not. “I tossed her out.” He leaned close, his senses swimming in her scent. “I would have definitely thought twice about getting rid of you.”

“I’m a fan, Mr. Thompson,” she said evenly. “Not a fanatic.” She hiked a brow, loaded with meaning. “And I’m not a groupie.”

He dropped his eyes to her mouth. “Too bad. I’d love to have you wrap yourself in nothing but a bow and mail yourself to me in a crate.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “You’re making that one up.”

“Nope.” He tipped his head. “The story has been passed around the track for years. Could be just an urban legend though.”

She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes, and his unfamiliar urge to grin was strong. Her voice dropped an octave. “And you are legendary for supporting organizations that work with disadvantaged kids.”

The do-gooder was back. “And here I thought you leaned closer just to flirt with me.”

Her bottomless brown eyes were unwavering. “I never use flirting as a tool.”

“Too bad.” But he liked her close, so he stayed put. “And I told you, no way will I—”

“These kids need support from role models like you.”

Role models.

The words slammed with all the force of his career-ending crash, killing his urge to grin. Outside of setting a spectacular example of how to destroy the single good thing in your life, what did he have to offer the public now? His one claim to fame was gone. He was just a washed-up driver who’d taken a risky move and gone down in a blaze of shame.

Other than an amused glint in his sea-green eyes, Jessica had yet to see Cutter smile. She watched the glint of humor die as the masculine planes of his face hardened.

“Look, lady.” Cutter ruffled an impatient hand over closely cropped, light-brown hair. “You have me confused with someone who cares. My sponsors paid me millions. They told me which charities to support. The only person I support is me.”

Jessica’s smile faded at the egocentric words.

Cutter turned and walked past shelves of car parts and tools, heading in the direction of a utility sink in the corner. “And right now I have a car to fix,” he added with a tone of finality.

Disenchantment settled deep in Jessica’s chest. So he didn’t care. So he’d only thought of his bank account. And maybe his moving words of support in the past were speeches written by a paid writer. This wasn’t about her disappointment that an idol of hers wasn’t the hero she’d thought. This was about the Brice Foundation Steve had started. And she’d promised him she’d get Cutter Thompson on board. Because she owed Steve.

How many ex-husbands helped their former wife get a business up and running?

Her online dating service had given her a sense of purpose at a time when her life was falling apart. And finding The One for others, in some small way, compensated for her personal failure.

And though she’d vowed long ago that melancholy wasn’t allowed, the garage smelled of gasoline and motor oil, stirring poignant memories. Toward the last months of their marriage, Steve had withdrawn, spending more and more time tinkering with his boat. Maybe twenty was a little young for marriage, but Jessica had been confident they could work through anything. She’d been wrong. And Steve had begun to insist he couldn’t give her what she needed.

In the end, Jessica had agreed.

But, between her father and her ex, she was used to men and their masculine domains. And Cutter Thompson was man in its rawest form. Long, powerful legs encased in worn jeans. Well-muscled arms. The wide expanse of back beneath his gray T-shirt was a veritable billboard sign for male power. He was a media favorite for his rugged charm, so the blunt honesty wasn’t new. But the slight hunch as he walked certainly was. Why was his gait uneven?

Curiosity trounced her good sense. “If it was your arm you fractured in the crash, why are you limping?”

“I’m not. I’m splinting. The torn cartilage between my ribs still hurts like a mother.”

At the sink, he turned on the tap, and—without a hiss or a grimace—stuck the mashed knuckles of his right hand under the water. His left arm reached for the soap, and he dropped it twice before a stab of sympathy hit her.

Selfish or not, no one deserved permanent nerve damage from a broken arm.

“Let me,” she said as she moved beside him.

His eyes lit with faint humor. “Promise you’ll be gentle?”

Ignoring him, Jessica picked up the soap and reached for his bleeding hand. It was large, calloused, and a disturbing sensation curled in her stomach, permeating lower. Neither of them spoke, increasing the crackle of tension. The sound of running water cut the silence as her fingers gingerly cleaned the wounds, finally finishing her task.

The glint in his eyes was bright. “Sure you didn’t miss a spot?”

“Quite sure.” She calmly dried his hand with a paper towel. “The weakness in your left hand is worse than your publicist let on.” Once finished, she looked up at him. “I can see why you decided to retire.”

The glint died as an unidentifiable flicker of emotion crossed his expression, but his gaze remained steady, his tone droll. “A man can’t drive two hundred miles per hour packed bumper to bumper with an unreliable grip. Keeping a firm grasp on the steering wheel is important.”

She looked for some sign of sadness, but there was none. “I’m sorry.”

“Happens.” He shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face. “I can’t complain. I made enough money that I never need to work again.”

They stared at each other for three breaths, Jessica fighting the urge to beat a hasty retreat. He’d made his millions. Racing had served its purpose. She knew he was planning to reject her request again, but Steve was counting on her. Despite Cutter’s casual air, instinct told her to let the reminder of his injuries—the loss of his money-making career—fade before bringing out her best shot at persuasion … her pièce de résistance.

Her mind scrambled for something to say, and her gaze dropped to the marks on his shirt. “You should wash out the blood before it stains.”

“Because it clashes with the motor oil?”

Boy, he had a comeback for everything. “No,” she said dryly. “Because blood stains are so last season.”

The light in his eyes returned with a vengeance. “Blood is always in style,” he said. “And rising from a horizontal position about did me in. I’m just now able to breathe again without wanting to die. If I attempt to pull this shirt over my head, I’ll pass out from the pain.” He finally flashed the rarely dispensed yet utterly wicked suggestion of a smile. The one that sent his female fans into a frenzy. “So how about you pull it off for me?”

She lifted her eyes heavenward before meeting his gaze. “Mr. Thompson, I spent half my childhood following my father around his manufacturing plant full of men. I’m not susceptible to your brand of testosterone.”

And one dream-crushing divorce later, she considered herself fully vaccinated, immune and impenetrable to anyone who couldn’t totally commit. She needed someone who was willing to work hard to keep the romance alive.

Egocentric bad boys, no matter how gorgeously virile, had never made it to her list of acceptable dates. While all her friends were swooning over the rebel-de-jour, Jessica had remained untouched. Even as a teen, she’d avoided risky relationships that were destined for failure. She supposed she had her parents’ divorce to thank for that.

But she refused to slosh about in dismal misery. Making a plan—being proactive—was the only way to avoid the mistakes of the past. Both her parents’ … and her own.

“I don’t know, my brand of testosterone is pretty potent,” Cutter said. “And seduction could go a long way in convincing me to participate.”

“Believe me.” Her smile was tight. “I have no intention of seducing you.”

Cutter almost managed a grin again. “After six painful career accidents, this is the first time I’ve ever felt like crying.”

“Don’t shed any tears on my account, Mr. Thompson.” Rallying her courage, she crossed to her oversize purse by the stereo, pulled out a folder, and returned to Cutter. She would not be sidetracked. “I’m just here to recruit you.” Jessica extracted a photo of an eight-year-old boy with a sweet smile. Without preamble, she continued. “Terrell’s father died of cancer. He attends the Big Brothers’ program the Brice Foundation supports.”

The almost-smile died on his face, and the pause stretched as a wary look crept up his face. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“It’s easier to say no to a nameless, faceless child. And I want you to know who you’ll be letting down when you refuse to participate.” She pulled out a second photo of a freckle-faced kid. One way or another, she was going to get him to agree to the charity event. “Mark is an eleven-year-old foster child attending a program that helps young people learn to find their place in a new home.” She paused theatrically, hoping to draw attention to her next statement. “Older kids are harder to place.”

“Orphans.” Cutter frowned. “You’re bringing out bloody orphans?”

His response left her feeling hopeful, so Jessica pulled out a third photo—a scowling teen. Dark hair reached his shoulders. Baggy pants hung low on his hips, red boxers visible above the waistband. The belligerent look in his eyes was sharp. If sweet smiles and freckled faces weren’t enough, an adolescent with a defensive attitude would be harder to refuse. Not a smidgen of Cutter’s history had been overlooked in her quest to get him to agree.

She was on a mission, and Jessica Wilson was famous for following through.

“Emmanuel dropped out of high school,” Jessica said. “The Brice Foundation hooked him up with a mentor who took him to see you race.” She made sure her face went soft, her eyes wide.

Cutter’s frown grew bigger. “Are you trying to work up some tears?”

She blinked hard, hoping she could. “He was getting into trouble street racing.” When the tears wouldn’t come, she opted to drop her voice a notch. “Just like you.”

His frown turned into an outright scowl. “Damn, you’re good. And you did your research, too. But the mushy voice is a bit much. I’d respond better to seduction.”

Jessica ignored him and went on. “Now he’s attending night school to get his diploma.” When his face didn’t budge, she dropped her pièce de résistance. “He’s decided he wants to be a race-car driver … just like you.”

Cutter heaved a scornful sigh, and the exaggerated breath brought a wince to his face. He propped a hand on his hip, as if seeking a more comfortable position. “If it will get you to leave so my ribs can commune with an ice pack and some ibuprofen, you can put me down on the list of gullible five.”

Mission accomplished. With a flash of relief, Jessica sent him a brilliant smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll get the packet of information so we can go over—”

“Sunshine.” He winced again, shifting his hand higher on his hip, clearly in pain. “We’ll have to put off the rest of this discussion until tomorrow. But don’t worry …” A hint of amusement returned to his eyes. “I’ll leave the offer to remove my shirt on the table, just for you.”

CHAPTER TWO

“HELL no,” Cutter said.

“But we’ve already released the press announcement,” Jessica said.

The rising sense of panic expanded as she watched Cutter cross his modern living room. And though the room was adorned with leather furniture, glass-and-chrome accents, it was the plate-glass window overlooking a palm-tree-lined Biscayne Bay that took masculine posh to outright lavish.

If he backed out now, it would be a publicity nightmare. “It was announced on the local six o’clock news last night,” Jessica went on.

She’d been full of hope when she’d arrived back at his home this evening to discuss the fundraiser. Cutter was clearly feeling better than he had yesterday, no longer splinting as he walked. All she’d had to do was explain the plans for the fundraiser, get him signed on to the social-networking site hosting the event, and then her duty to Steve would be complete. Which meant her dealings with Cutter Thompson would be through.

Wouldn’t that have been nice?

Cutter turned to face her, the waterway and its line of luxury-boat-filled docks beyond the window. “You should have waited to announce my participation until after you explained how this little publicity stunt was set up.”

“We’re short on time. We start next week. And I don’t understand your problem with it.”

His face was set. “I thought it would be the same auction they do every year. Men show up and strut their stuff. Women bid. The Brice Foundation makes money for homeless children, and I get to sit at the benefit dinner with the victorious socialite who doesn’t have a clue—or cares—what poor kid her outrageous bid is helping.” He crossed his arms, stretching the shirt against hard muscles. “I had no idea I’d have to interact with the women competing to win a date with me.”

“But that’s the beauty of the setup.” Jessica rose from the leather couch, unable to restrain the smile of enthusiasm despite his misgivings. She’d worked long and hard to create something that wasn’t the usual superficial masculine beauty show. “It’s not as demeaning as auctioning off a celebrity like a slab of high-priced meat.”

He sent her a level look. “I find nothing degrading about women trying to outbid each other all in the name of scoring a dinner with me.”

Her smile faded a bit. “Maybe you don’t. But I wanted something a little more meaningful. Watching intelligent men prance across a stage in an effort to increase the bidding is an undignified way to raise money.”

“You forgot my favorite part: the screaming women.” Cutter sent her the first hint of a grin for the evening. “You have to know how to work the crowd. Bring them to the edge of their seats. The key to raking in the dough is to wait until just the right moment to take off your shirt.”

His chest was impressive covered in fabric; no doubt he’d made millions for various fundraisers over the years.

Jessica focused on the task at hand. “The board wanted something fresh and new, not the same old thing they’ve done the past ten years.” She crossed thick carpet to stand beside him. “Except for your attendance at the benefit dinner, all the interaction is done online. You engage in a little flirty debate with the ladies competing for you. It’s supposed to be an entertaining battle of the sexes over what comprises the perfect date.” Her smile grew. That was her favorite part. Since her marital misstep, the study of relationships had become a passion. “For a nominal fee, the public can cast their vote for the ‘most compatible.’ So the people decide your companion to the benefit dinner, not the socialite with the most money to bid.”

It had taken her weeks of brainstorming to finally land on a plan she was proud of, and she waited for some sign of his approval.

“So the masses decide which contestant—a lady I’ve never met nor will ever see again—I’m most ‘compatible’ with?” It was obvious from the air quotes with his fingers that he found her plan ridiculous. “Who the hell came up with this Trolling for a Celebrity idea?”

Jessica frowned. “It was my suggestion. And it’s supposed to be all in fun, so I’d prefer you use the term flirting to trolling.”

“What the hell do you think flirting is?”

“It’s engaging in meaningful dialogue that shows you find a person interesting.”

He stared at her. “Maybe if you’re twelve. For adults, it’s all about sex.”

She barely kept the criticism from her voice. “No it’s not.” She bit the inside of her lip, and inhaled, forcing herself to go on calmly. “There is plenty of data to support the notion that successful people are those who market themselves in a positive manner. Building strong relationships is the key to success, no matter what your goal, be it business, friendship or love. And flirting,” she continued with emphasis, “establishing that rapport between two people, proves that the most important aspect of a romantic relationship is effective communication.”

Cutter’s brows had climbed so high Jessica thought his eyelids would stretch clear over his forehead. “Who has been feeding you all this bullshit?”

“It isn’t bullshit.”

“Sunshine, you are up to your black, sooty little eyelashes in it.” The amused look in his eyes almost constituted a smile. “You are so Pollyanna-ish you could light the world with the sunbeams that glow from beneath your skirt.” His voice turned matter-of-fact. “The attraction between a man and a woman is built on spark, pure and simple. And you can’t communicate your way around the lack of it.”

She’d had plenty of experience with a man who lacked the ability to engage in earnest dialogue. The spark starved without it, and though she’d done everything in her power to prevent the death of her marriage, a small part of her—the part that had failed—could never be made right.

Gloom weighed down her heart, and she folded her arms across her chest to ease the load.

Think positive, Jessica. We learn from our mistakes and move on. Don’t let Mr. Cynical bring you down.

“Sparks are sustained by emotional and intellectual attraction,” she said. “And both are much more important than the physical one.”

His eyebrows pulled together in doubt. “What’s that have to do with an online flirting fiesta between virtual strangers?”

Jessica inhaled slowly and quietly blew out a breath, regaining control. She’d gotten off track. Convincing him of her views wasn’t important. All she needed was for him to follow through on his initial agreement. If he backed out now, the fundraiser would fail before it even started. Hundreds of fans would be disappointed. And then Steve would kill her, because signing Cutter on had been her idea. Steve had thought the retired driver was a risky proposition, but Jessica had always been impressed with Cutter’s magnetic, if a little unconventional, charm on TV.

Apparently he was really good at faking it when money was involved.

Lovely to be finding that out now.

“Forget that I think the basic concept is flawed,” Cutter said, interrupting her thoughts. “We still have several problems. First, I don’t know a thing about social networking.”

Feeling encouraged, she said, “I can teach you.”

“Second, I don’t have time for all this online interaction stuff.”

“You can do it anywhere, even while standing in line at the grocery store. It takes five seconds to text a question to the contestants. Maybe ten to respond to their answer.”

“I don’t text.”

Stunned, Jessica stared at him. “How does anyone inhabiting the twenty-first century not text?”

He headed for a bar made of dark mahogany and glossy black marble along the far wall. “Sunshine, I do all my interacting with women live and in the flesh.” He lifted a bottle of chardonnay from the rack, removed the cork and set the wine on the counter, meeting her gaze. “If I want to ask her out, I speak to her in person. If I’m going to be late for a date, I call her on the phone.” He pulled a beer from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap with a hissing pop, and shot her a skeptical look. “I do not spend 24/7 with a cellular attached to my hand so that I can inform my friends via Twitter that I’m leaving for the store to buy a six pack of beer.” He flipped the cap with his fingers, and it hit the garbage can with a ping.

She bit back a smile. “That’s good, because I doubt anyone is interested in those kinds of details.” She wasn’t sure whether she was making headway with him. After a pause, she pulled down a wineglass from the hanging rack over the marble counter and poured herself some chardonnay. She sat at the bar and sent him a measured look. “Cutter, I’m not asking you to provide the public with a banal running commentary on every detail of your life.”

Beer in hand, Cutter rounded the counter and climbed onto the stool beside her, planting his elbows on the bar. “So my search for just the right toilet paper isn’t relevant.”

Jessica couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “No.”

He swiveled in his seat to face her. “What about those annoying little emoticons?” A faint frown appeared. “Smiley faces aren’t my style.”

“I’ve noticed. And the double smiley faces are definitely out. Though there is one for a devilish grin that would work really well for you.”

“I could do a devilish grin.” He demonstrated one on his face.

She subdued the laugh that threatened to surface. “LOLs and exclamation points aren’t a requirement either.”

“What about using all caps?”

“Caps are for amateurs.”

He leaned forward a touch. “What if I have something important to do? Like turning a woman’s head with my sparkling wit and personality? Wouldn’t I want to capitalize the word beautiful when I compliment her on her looks?”

The intensity in his eyes made it clear he was talking about her. A low burn started, but she ignored it. “Forget the looks. You’d win more points complimenting her on her sense of humor. And a sophisticated texter doesn’t need the caps button.” She tipped her head. “He leaves a woman weak in the knees with just the right words.”

The hint of a smile appeared on his face. “A real man leaves a woman weak in the knees with just the right look.”

Absolutely. Which was why it was a good thing she was sitting down. Because he was sending out some potent, powerful vibes. She was almost tempted to be charmed. She took a fortifying sip of crisp, dry wine, eyeing him warily over her glass.

“I’ll agree to go through with this if you lend me a hand in the beginning,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“We get together and you share my texting responsibilities.”

She coughed on her wine, the words sputtering out in a squeak. “You want me to flirt with other women for you?”

“Just help me out until I get going.”

“Absolutely not.” She turned to face him in her seat. “You have to do your own flirting.”

“Why? I’m not marrying any of them. I’m not even agreeing to date them. All I’m promising is one lousy dinner in the name of a good cause.”

“Because it’s … because it’s …” as her mouth grappled to catch up with her brain, Jessica’s mind scrambled for the right word. Sacrilegious sounded melodramatic. Rude he clearly wouldn’t care about. At a loss, she set her glass down with a clink. “Because it’s unromantic, not to mention unethical. You cannot outsource your flirting.”

He tipped his head in disbelief. “Jessica, we’re not talking about destroying our local economy.”

“You’re the Wildcard,” she said levelly. “Women elude security and pick locks to climb into your bed. I’m sure you’re more than qualified to handle a little internet flirting with several women at the same time.”

Unimpressed by her attempts at flattery, Cutter said, “I’ve never had to flirt with a woman online in my life.” He gave a small shrug. “It’s either have some help to get me started or I won’t do it.”

Jessica propped her elbows on the counter and covered her eyes with her palms. Cutter Thompson was frustrating and cynical. But she’d promised Steve.

She owed Steve.

He might not have been the love of her life as she’d once hoped, but he’d helped her find her passion. The great gift of career satisfaction. She loved her work. It defined her. And, despite their divorce, Steve had been a big part of that discovery. And his advice during her fledgling business years had been invaluable.

She wouldn’t be the success she was today with his support.

“Fine.” She dropped her hands to the counter and turned her head to meet Cutter’s gaze. “But here are the rules. Once you get the hang of it, I’m done. And no one can know I’m helping you. They have to believe that everything comes from you or the whole thing crumbles in a heap of shame. Maintaining the integrity of the event is my top priority.”

The expression on his face promised nothing. “I want to have my ‘Cuda done by the end of the month. That’s my priority.”

With a sense of victory and relief, Cutter pulled open the glass door and entered the small but elegant reception room of Perfect Pair Inc., pulling off his baseball cap and sunglasses. It had taken twenty minutes to shake the reporter trailing him since he’d left his house. A full week of media hype about the fundraiser had the worst of Miami’s parasitic paparazzi on a renewed quest to hunt Cutter Thompson down. He’d left North Carolina and moved back to Miami to avoid this kind of scrutiny.

Of course, his sudden aversion to interviews only made the press hungrier for tidbits of his activities, but he was determined to keep the facts about his memory loss private. Bad enough he’d regained consciousness in the ambulance in the worst agony of his life; no need for the world to rehash every gritty detail. He refused to tap dance his way around another grilling over what was next for Cutter Thompson. And he sure as hell wouldn’t field one more question about his reason for illegally bumping Chester Coon.

Hell, when—if—he ever figured out the answers, he’d take out a flippin’ full-page ad in the Times and let everyone know. Until then, every member of the press was persona non grata in Cutter’s book.

Even though he’d managed to lose the newshound tailing him, the encounter had left him with a foul mood he couldn’t shake. He’d been having a good day in the garage. The pain was tolerable, and the new camshaft went in like a dream.

But then he’d had to take a trip across town with a bloodsucker on his trail. And he owed his ramped-up publicity appeal to do-gooder Jessica Wilson—the lady who’d toppled his plans for seclusion with a barrage of sympathy-invoking photos.

Weak. He was well and truly weak.

His only option now was to get in and out as quickly as possible. Complete the first round of chatting with his contestants and get back to the peace of his garage. He needed to crawl back under the ‘Cuda. Solving problems there was simple. Things connected and made sense. Broken parts could be easily repaired or replaced.

Unlike his life.

With a frown, he scanned his surroundings. The small reception room off to the left was decorated like a cozy living area, complete with a collection of leather couches arranged in a circle, the walls lined with pictures of smiling couples mocking his black mood. Some looked candid, some were professionally done, and others were wedding photos of happy brides and grooms.

He grimaced at the marital bliss propaganda being displayed on the wall.

Jessica appeared in the hallway, her lovely long legs bare beneath a gray skirt that ended in a dainty ruffle. A gauzy pink blouse clung to gentle curves. She was an intriguing mix of sophisticated class, professionalism and soft femininity. But she believed in true love and things like ‘effective communication.’

“Thanks for coming here,” Jessica said. “I have to meet someone for dinner at eight, so I’m pressed for time.”

Yet, here she was, championing her cause. Helping him do his part. He was still trying to figure that one out. “Why is this fundraiser so important to you? Was your childhood so awful you feel obligated to fix it for others?”

Her expression was one of restraint, with a hint of annoyance. “No. My childhood consisted of two parents who loved and nurtured me. I’m a longtime supporter of the work the Brice Foundation does, and my ex-husband is chairman of the board. I promised him I’d recruit you for the benefit dinner.”

His eyebrows lifted. That she was divorced came as a surprise. That she was still on speaking terms with her ex was a shock. “Seems strange to hear the words help and ex-husband in the same sentence.”

“This is the twenty-first century, Mr. Thompson,” she said as she started down a hallway.

He followed beside her. “So you keep telling me.”

“Our marriage failed,” she said. “But our friendship didn’t. And I owe him.”

Owe?

Growing up in his world meant divorced parents who talked about each other with animosity and refused to speak to one another. Which had left a five-year-old Cutter carrying messages between them … because they couldn’t get along for the two minutes it took to discuss his visitations. By all reports, his parents had been head-over-heels in love until his mom had got knocked up with Cutter and they’d had to tie the knot. According to his mother, for the entire four years of her marriage, bliss had been a distant memory.

Who needed that kind of misery?

He hiked an eyebrow dryly. “What’s with the sense of obligation toward your ex? Did you treat him like crap during your marriage?”

She shot him a cutting look. “I owe him because he helped me start my online dating service after our divorce.”

Cutter came to a halt and watched her continue down the hall. “So your ex-husband helped you start a business finding love for other people?” It was hard enough comprehending how a woman so thoroughly indoctrinated in the happily-ever-after club could have joined the till-divorce-do-us-part league. But the irony of her profession was comical. “Shouldn’t a failed marriage disqualify you from the job?”

She stopped and turned to face him, a frown on her face, her voice firm. “A divorce doesn’t disqualify you from anything.”

He moved closer to her, puzzlement pulling his eyebrows higher. “Ruining your own life wasn’t good enough, you feel the need to make others miserable, too?”

She actually bit her lower lip. Cutter was sure it was to cut off a sharp retort, and he was amazed she managed to sound so civil. “When two people are compatible, marriage isn’t miserable.” She turned into an office clearly decorated for a woman, done in soft mauves and creams. “And despite my divorce, I still believe in romantic relationships.”

Cutter followed her inside, letting out an amused scoff. “I’m not divorced, and even I know they’re a crock.”

She rounded her leather-topped desk adorned with a vase of cheerful yellow lilies and took a seat at her computer, eyeing him warily. Her tone held more than a trace of concern. “Mr. Thompson,” she said. “Let’s try not to bring up your jaded views while discussing your ideal date online.” It seemed she’d concluded he was a hopeless cause.

Hell yeah. Count him up as one who had seen the light a long time ago.

“My views aren’t jaded,” he said. “They’re realistic.” And the sooner the two of them got started, the sooner he could be done with this fake flirt fest. “Okay. How do we start?”

“With a question for the contestants. Something to get the conversation going.”

“About dating, right?” He crossed to stop behind her chair and frowned at the waiting computer, feeling foolish for getting involved. Cutter hoped the sullen teenage Emmanuel wound up a friggin’ Supreme Court Justice. Nothing less would justify caving in to this absurd unreality show. “How about asking their favorite date destination?”

Jessica folded her arms across her chest. “You need something more open-ended. All someone has to say is the beach or a restaurant and the conversation dies.”

“At least I’d be done for the evening. And you’d have time for a pre-dinner drink.”

Jessica looked up at him with a determined pair of brown Bambi eyes that said she’d miss the dinner before she’d do less than her best.

Her ex must be one hell of a guy.

With a resigned sigh, Cutter sat on her desk. “Okay, what if I ask them about their worst dating experiences?”

“Same problem. Those require individual responses and you’re looking for an interactive debate.” A small grimace filled her face. “Not to mention it’s a negative way to start.”

He stared at her. “You mean, not only do I have to have this debate, I have to be upbeat about it?” He didn’t know how, not since he was a kid when his dad had left for good and his mother had blamed Cutter.

Not a lot to be upbeat about there.

“Number-one rule of first dates,” Jessica said with a soothing smile, but he had the feeling she was faking it. Somehow, that made it all the more intriguing. “No one likes a whiner.”

He wasn’t sure why, but he found her amusing. “I thought it was don’t eat anything with garlic and wear comfortable clothes.”

For a brief moment, she almost looked horrified. “Your clothes should make a statement. They are a reflection of you.”

“True,” he said matter-of-factly. “You can tell a lot about a woman by the underwear she wears.”

With a sigh, she raised an eyebrow dryly, her tone carefully patient. “By the time you get to her underwear, you should know quite a bit about her already.”

He shook his head. “You go for pastel colors. Lace. No thongs. Nothing see-through. Practical, yet pretty. And not too racy.”

A hint of color appeared on her cheeks, but her tone was defiant. “Have you thought of a question for your contestants yet?”

Cutter rubbed his jaw, enjoying her flushed face. “I take it favorite lingerie choices are out?”

Her answer was a slight narrowing of her eyes and an expression of forbearance that was downright adorable, and Cutter realized his foul mood was long gone. Damn, when had he started enjoying himself? And how could someone so ridiculously optimistic about relationships pull him out of his funk with her militant views on dating? He pulled his gaze from her caramel eyes and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, staring at the blank screen.

Cupid’s longest-running gag was torturing mankind with the opposites-attract rule.

The thought inspired him. “How about—What creates a spark between two people?”

He knew he’d succeeded when the light in her eyes flickered brighter. And the admiration on her face was worth waiting for. “Perfect,” she said, her bone-melting smile of approval skewering his insides.

Jessica turned to the computer and typed. A few moments later, she looked up, her dark, exotic gaze on him. “Love Potion Number Nine’s reply: chemistry. What do you want to say in response?”

Caught in her spell, and captivated by her sooty lashes, he had no idea. “What happened to love potions number one through eight?”

“You can’t mock her user name.”

“Is that first-date rule number two?”

“No,” she said dryly. “It’s just assumed under the one about negative whiners.”

His lips twitched, itching to grin, but he persevered. “You sure have a lot of dating rules.” He forced his gaze from chocolate eyes to the monitor. “Ask her to define chemistry.”

As Jessica entered his question, another contestant’s answer popped onto the screen, and Cutter leaned forward to read it. “Calamity Jane says spark is defined by sexual attraction.”

That was a no-brainer. He looked down at Jessica again, her sweetly spiced scent tantalizing him while her smoky eyes eroded his need for distance. Not only was she beautiful, she was feisty without getting too defensive. Sensual, and confident in her sexuality without being desperate.

Used to be, getting in the zone could only be achieved by high speeds. That feeling of intense focus, a heightened awareness and being both mentally and physically in tune with his body. Now, one look from the beautiful Jessica Wilson and he was in the zone.

And how could he be so attracted to an optimistic, self-styled guru on relationships?

Because he was definitely in tune with his body. Maybe too in tune.

Blood pumped through his veins, disturbing in its intensity. “I’d say Calamity is on to something,” he murmured. “No discussion necessary. I’ll just agree with her.”

Her eyelids flared in panic. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, if you agree then there’s no give and take. No debate is boring. Second of all, spark isn’t defined simply by sexual attraction. The physical is just a small part. Chemistry is a connection based on shared interests.”

Amused, Cutter hiked a brow. “Unless we’re talking about a shared interest in each other’s bodies, that’s not what Calamity Jane said.”

The pink mouth went flat. “Calamity is wrong.”

As Cutter looked down at her, the urge to smile was now almost overwhelming. “Now who’s being negative?” From this angle, he noticed her blouse gapped at the neckline, and the curves of her breasts were cupped in a lacy bra.

He was right, except it was light purple, not pink. Lavender and lace.

Ms. Sunshine was wearing a cliché.

Delight spread through him. He’d changed his mind. Suffering the disruption of his day, enduring the bloodsucking journalist’s chase, both were worth her company.

“Back to Calamity,” Jessica said. “Why don’t we start with this for a response—Sexual attraction is important.” She looked up at him. “What should we add?” Her beautiful gaze looked thoughtful.

A pair of eyes that could make a guy willingly trade his man cave for an evening in a mauve-colored, foo-foo office peddling romance online.

He sent her a faint grin. “How about … I also like a woman who challenges me.”

Her smile was like healing salve on a burn. “That’s better.”

Yes … it was. Cutter’s grin grew more defined. “Oh, and tell her I also have a thing for lavender-and-lace underwear.”

CHAPTER THREE

Disaster.

The fundraiser for the Brice Foundation was going to be a monstrous disaster, and it was all her fault.

Stopping for a red light, Jessica glanced at her watch. She only had ten minutes to get to her dinner date. The past hour had been long, frustrating and infinitely illuminating, and she was amazed she hadn’t pulled out every hair on her head.

And, as if Cutter’s attitude alone wasn’t enough, he’d looked down her shirt. Like an impulsive twelve-year-old riding a testosterone high he couldn’t control. Granted, from his angle on her desk it would have been hard to prevent. But still, mentioning what he saw was less than gallant.

The word gallant had no business existing in the same universe as Cutter Thompson.

In the beginning, she’d been less than thrilled to continue her involvement with Cutter during his Battle of the Sexes participation. Now it seemed it was a blessing in disguise.

Because Cutter Thompson in a stock car was sure to get a woman’s heart racing.

Cutter Thompson in a TV interview was truly electric.

But Cutter Thompson flirting online was a catastrophe.

Every time a contestant responded, his automatic response would have alienated half the participants and a good portion of Miami as well. He didn’t appreciate that a cocky response—where the words weren’t tempered with a handsome face, green eyes that sparkled with humor and a teasing tone—could have disastrous effects.

In retrospect, maybe she should have realized the pitfalls of asking ASCAR’s former number-one driver to participate. When she’d offered to do this stunt for Steve it was to help make it a success, not steep it in shame. And Steve had been right. She should have gone for the local cello player who had won the North American Academy of Musicians’ competition last year. So he’d been a little soft and a bit too sweet. No one would have noticed online.

Now she was stuck with the Wildcard, Master of the Cutting Comment.

And how many years had he been honing that ability to whip out a blithe insult with stunning clarity, just skirting the edges of amusing charm?

Jessica turned her car into a parking space at the restaurant, cut off the engine, and sat, tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel. The Battle of the Sexes was a month long, and she didn’t want to hover over the man and deflect his every inappropriate remark for the entire competition. Which meant Mr. Cutter Thompson needed a lesson or two in how to behave online. He was way beyond help in his personal, face-to-face interactions, but if she could just get him through the publicity stunt, the rest didn’t matter. After she was done with him, he could insult the Pope if he wanted.

Tomorrow when they met for round two, she was going to review online etiquette and the rules of acceptable behavior. Surely the man was trainable.

If he wasn’t, she’d have to spend the next month glued to his side, fending off furtive peeks at her underwear. And the thought of that was far from appealing.

“Nice job, Jess,” Steve said, his voice muffled. One hand on the steering wheel, Jessica adjusted the earpiece of her cell phone, and Steve’s words were clearer when he went on. “Last night’s Cutter Thompson debut was pure gold. Is he a prima donna to work with?”

Prima donna? Her fingers clenched the wheel. More like a cross between a prima donna and a raging hormonal teen. And he wielded a masculinity that would make him millions if it were bottled and sold. Actually, it had—Jessica had enjoyed the perverse pleasure of eating her breakfast this morning while staring at Cutter in his racing uniform, arms crossed, his trademark suggestion of a grin plastered on her cereal box. And for the love of God, why couldn’t he just smile? It was as if he knew his hint at a grin was more powerful than the beaming smile of a Hollywood leading man.

“He was a little difficult. But I was ready for him,” she said, feeling guilty for lying. How could anyone ever be ready for the likes of Cutter?

“No one is ever more prepared than you,” Steve said. “And speaking of, how did your dinner go last night?”

Jessica made a face as she turned the car into Cutter’s neighborhood. “He was certainly nothing like his online dating profile.”

“There are a lot of weirdos out there.” Steve’s voice grew concerned. “You’re steering clear of the stalkers, right?”

Jessica smiled. “No stalkers yet.”

“Good. But if you need me to hire a hitman to break some knees, just let me know.”

“A true sign of a good friend.”

Steve paused before he went on. “I just want to see you happy, Jess.”

Jessica gripped the wheel harder, and signed off, disconnecting her cellular.

She was happy. And one day she’d find someone to share that happiness with. Because he was out there. She could feel it. The perfect man for her. It was like she told her customers at Perfect Pairs.

“You have to be open to love to find it. And you have to be willing to work hard, before and after you do.”

Steve was a great guy; he just hadn’t been the right guy. And all the hard work in the world couldn’t overcome a mismatched choice. The blues threatened to color her mood, and she swatted them back.

For now, it didn’t matter anyway. Her life, full with running her business, had taken on a bursting-at-the-seams quality since she’d dragged Cutter into the fundraiser. For a little while, dating would have to take a backseat.

And she’d learned a lot from her mistakes; next time she was positive she’d get it right. Then again, as a child she’d been positive her parents were happy, too, and look how wrong she’d been about that. She ignored the dull ache in her heart, the pain an unwelcome guest she’d learned to live with.

She pulled into the driveway of Cutter’s modern three-story home, hidden from the street by a jungle of thick, woody banyan trees and patches of bamboo. A yard as wild as the owner itself. The garage constituted the entire first level, and on the door was a note: Come Around Back.

After rounding the house, Jessica passed a sparkling blue pool and headed down the grassy, palm-tree-studded backyard that ended at Biscayne Bay. A powerful-looking speedboat was parked at the dock, and Cutter was on deck, coiling a rope with easy, confident movements.

She crossed to the end of the dock. His brown hair had streaks of gold that glinted in the sunshine. In khaki shorts and a knit shirt, he made casual cool.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” she said.

“I’m waiting on a part for the ‘Cuda, so I spent the day tuning up the boat. I figured we could take a test run and woo my contestants at the same time.” His sea-green eyes roamed down her peach princess-styled dress to her two-inch sandals. “But you look overdressed.”

“Much like blood, silk is always in style.”

A twinkle appeared in his eyes as he held out his hand. “Then climb aboard.”

As he helped her onto the boat, the skin-on-skin touch was more disturbing than she’d prepared for. Perhaps she simply needed to acclimate to the sight of bare, muscular legs. “Nice boat,” she said, carefully removing her fingers from his.

“With a four-hundred-and-thirty-horsepower engine, she’s one of the fastest crafts in the neighborhood.”

Jessica settled onto the leather bench that stretched across the stern, resting her arms along the back. This was one element of Cutter Thompson she was equipped to deal with. “That’s because your neighborhood is full of wimpy vessels.”

From the bucket seat in front of her, hand on the key in the ignition, Cutter turned to shoot her a look. “Are you saying my equipment is small?”

She smiled and crossed her legs. He was defending his boat the way he’d defended his car. He was such a guy. “I’m telling you your equipment is slow.”

“Sunshine—” he hooked his arm on the back of his chair “—nothing about me is slow.” He lifted his brows. “Including my boat.”

“I’ve driven faster.”

His face exuded skepticism. “What boat would that be?”

“A Mach III Sidewinder.”

He stared at her, the chiseled, masculine planes of his face lit by the sun. Finally, he let out a reverent whistle. “Damn. Those top out at a hundred and seventy miles per hour.”

“I know. My father builds them.” And after her parents’ divorce, she’d spent hours with her father at his plant, her life divided evenly between two worlds. One ultra-feminine, the other pure male.

“I suppose my plan to impress you with speed won’t work,” he said.

“I’m afraid not.”

Suddenly, his mouth held the potential for a smile, but even skirting the edge of possibility he managed to leave her breathless. “Guess I’ll have to come up with something better.” His look brimmed with cocky promise.

Stunned, Jessica realized her heart was thumping in her ribs. Cutter’s mesmerizing gaze released hers when he turned to start the boat and eased them out into the channel, where she finally inhaled a breath of salty, fresh air. The sun was warm, and, without his focus on her, she was able to relax. But since when was she even fleetingly susceptible to Neanderthals?

She pushed the thought aside as they cruised past exclusive homes with tropical landscapes, private boats aligned in a parade of wealth, under bridges, and finally through downtown. Columns of condominiums and skyscrapers dwarfed them, stainless-steel-and-glass giants gleaming in the sun.

After finding a safe spot with a view of the city, Cutter cut the engine and tossed out the anchor, taking a seat beside her. He propped his legs up on the edge of the boat, the extension of hard muscle seemingly going on forever.

Yes, it had to be the naked limbs that were getting under her skin.

But she was here to complete her task, not gawk at powerful legs dusted with dark hair. Jessica sat up a little higher and forced her gaze to his face. But the square-cut jaw, green eyes and brown hair with touches of gold were striking in a wholly masculine way. Not exactly the visual relief she needed. Jessica cleared her throat, reining in her reaction. “We need to discuss social-networking etiquette.”

The grimace on his beautiful face was absolute. “I’d rather you pull out my fingernails.”

She went on, ignoring his lack of enthusiasm. “You need to remember that your words minus the facial expression and the inflection in your tone are open to interpretation.” Holding his gaze, she used her tone to emphasize her point. “You think you’re being charming and witty, and the recipient thinks you’re being insulting.”

“Most of the time I am.”

She stared at him and realized he was telling the truth. Why would someone go out of their way to be disagreeable? “Well … that won’t work for us.”

“I don’t know how to be a suck-up.”

She held back the lift of her brow at the understatement. “Just be aware of the subtle nuances in your words and how they can be interpreted.”

“Nuances?” he said, as if the word had a foreign taste.

“And remember,” she said, continuing her usual spiel on online interactions, pleased he was at least pretending to listen—even if her every statement was followed by a sarcastic comment. “People are interested in those who are interested in them. A little self-deprecating humor is good, as it’s humanizing, but not too much or you’ll appear to lack self-confidence.” Of course, this piece of advice hardly applied to Cutter Thompson. But she was offering up her full speech, because this man needed all the help he could get.

His brows drew together in doubt. “Maybe I should have agreed to establish peace in the Middle East instead,” Cutter said. “Might have been easier.” He settled deeper into the bench. “But I did manage to come up with today’s question for my contestants—If I invited you to a costume party, which superhero pair would you want to go as and why?”

Jessica smiled. Impressive progress. Mr. Thompson appeared to be trainable. Maybe after today’s session he could carry this off on his own. “I like it. It has humor, a flirtatious quality and requires more than a one-word answer.” Feeling encouraged, Jessica pulled her phone from her purse. “I’ll send it out now.”

“No need.” Cutter retrieved his cellular from his shorts and went to work, his thumbs clumsily pushing the buttons.

She blinked. “I thought you didn’t text.”

“I spent the day practicing.” He met her gaze. “Gave my old pit crew buddies a blow-by-blow account on the tune-up of my boat.”

Jessica’s mouth twitched in a smile, trying to picture a bunch of men, hands smeared with grease, phones beeping in their back pockets. “And what did they think?”

“That I’d gone off my rocker.” By his tone and the look on his face, she could tell he agreed with their assessment.

“It’s a quick way to send out a message,” she said. “It’s also perfect for when I don’t have time for one of my mother’s lengthy conversations.” She sent him a dry smile. “You might find it useful with your family.”

The lines of skepticism vanished from his face and Cutter looked to the city. Staring across the glistening urban landscape, he went on in an even tone. “I don’t have a family.”

Jessica’s heart did a double take. “Where are your parents?”

“My dad took off when I was a kid and my mom died five years ago.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, and held no trace of emotion. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Don’t be.” His tone was easy, and the small twist of his lips didn’t betray a hint of lingering sadness. “The Thompson mantra is when life sucks, deal with it.”

Which had served him well, no doubt. She studied his profile thoughtfully, wondering how old he’d been when he’d adopted the attitude.

When he turned to look at her, he must have caught the question in her eyes. “Sunshine,” he said with a light scoff as he sent her an amused look. “I don’t have any feelings to share and I don’t do Dr. Phil. If you’re looking for a man with a feminine side.” He leaned in, bringing his hot, sea-green eyes and bold gaze so close that her breath momentarily froze in her throat. “You’re looking at the wrong guy.”

She was looking all right. Despite the rising rate of her heart, and now her breathing, she resisted the need to break eye contact. As she stared at Cutter, her brain frantically broadcast a warning about their incompatibility. Unfortunately, her body wasn’t picking up the signal.

Because when it came to men, she preferred charm. And she insisted on polite. Or—for the love of God—at least agreeable.

None of which described Cutter Thompson. But when his gaze dropped to her mouth, as if contemplating kissing her, the rate of her breathing dropped to zero.

He’d take what he wanted with no apologies. No slow, sensual lead-ups. No rose petals on silk sheets. And she was unfamiliar with the rebel breed. Steve had been her first lover, and what had started out gentle had grown into comfortable fun. The sex, at least, had been good. And she’d entered into two intimate relationships since her divorce. Satisfying, both, but not the kind that lit the world and left scorch marks on the ground.

And not one of the men wore the raw edges that defined Cutter.

Water lapped the boat as they stared at each other until his phone beeped. Cutter glanced at the small screen, breaking the spell, and Jessica quietly sucked in air, relieved with the fresh supply of oxygen again.

“Calamity Jane says she wants to go as Batman and Batgirl because I’d look good in tights.” Cutter shot her a lazy, brash look. “Guess I’ll have to explain that real men would choose the sexy, villainous Catwoman over the friends-with-predict-ably-boring-benefits Batgirl every time.”

Jessica didn’t bother stifling her groan. So much for progress.

Lovely, his self-centered ways went beyond money, they applied to women, too. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but his flippant attitude towards relationships went against every value she held dear.

His smoldering glance … the bold stare … No doubt he delivered that look to every woman he found attractive. Cutter Thompson was the worst of the worst, a man with the emotional depth of a flatworm and a derisive attitude toward romance. He didn’t believe in The One, more like The Many. He was everything she didn’t want, wrapped up in a package that was oh-so-much worse. And if the rate of her thumping heart was any indication, her body’s reaction was about more than naked, muscular legs.

Which meant she wasn’t quite as immune to the egocentric bad boy as she’d thought.

An hour later Cutter watched Jessica maneuver the boat towards home. She’d taken over the helm so he could continue his instant messaging, and he was impressed with her ability to handle the craft and intercept his inappropriate comments at the same time. The more appalled her look, the more he’d enjoyed himself. And although peace and quiet had been his only goal since the day he’d announced his retirement, Jessica Wilson had fast and furiously become a major exception to the rule.

He should find Emmanuel, the teenager with the bad-ass photographic attitude, and thank him personally.

She was too easy to tease. “I think I have the hang of this online flirting thing,” he said. “I don’t need your help anymore.”

Jessica stared at him, wide-eyed, and with more than a trace of fear.

A small grin slipped past before he could stop it. He hadn’t smiled this much since he’d first won Nationals. “What?” he said with as much innocence as a thirty-year-old washed-up race-car driver could muster. “You don’t trust me?”

She skillfully maneuvered alongside his dock and cut the engine. “I absolutely trust you to alienate Susie Q Public.”

After hopping out, he secured the boat, and then hiked a brow at Jessica. “Women know better than to look for Prince Charming in me.” He liked how she managed to maintain her femininity while commenting on the oil level in his car or parking a boat with finesse. “That’s why they find me so attractive. It’s a primal propagation-of-the-species thing.” Cutter leaned in, took Jessica’s hand and helped her onto the dock beside him. Her ethereally lovely face and mysterious scent entwined around his senses. “Deep down they know that nice guys finish last.” He’d learned that the same way he’d learned everything else. The hard way. And early on.

“Nice guys do not finish last.” Her doe-eyed brown gaze held his. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll hang around and moderate the Cutter Thompson mouth until this nightmare of a flirting debacle is over.”

He almost grinned again. Much more of this and he’d lose his reputation. “Don’t mind at all.”

Jessica looked as if it wouldn’t matter if he did. Cutter was still contemplating smiling in amusement when she continued. “Don’t forget the cocktail party at the Miami Aquarium on Saturday. Steve invited reporters to the mixer so the media will have access to our Battle of the Sexes celebrities. It should help increase our press coverage.”

Media, reporters and press coverage—hell no.

The idea left a nasty taste in his mouth, and his jaw muscles hardened, all thoughts of smiling gone. “I have no intention of attending a party with journalists.” Fun time was over. Time to get back to the ‘Cuda. He’d find something else to work on until the new carburetor arrived.

Cutter headed toward the house, and Jessica fell into step beside him. “It’s not a press conference,” she said. “Just a couple of reporters from a few of the major papers will be in attendance.”

Sure, the same journalists who had been staking out his house since he’d returned to Miami. Cutter was better at losing them now, but no way was he gonna choose to be in the same room with the press.

“I have no interest in interviews,” he said. “The last thing I want is a hotshot reporter grilling me about my dating methods and writing an exposé on my social life.” He knew damn well that wasn’t what they’d ask. They’d use the Battle of the Sexes publicity stunt as an excuse to get close and then badger him hard about the accident.

A tumultuous riot of tension and nerves broke out in his body.

Jessica slowly came to a stop and stared at him, looking baffled. “You never seemed to worry about the media’s opinion before.”

He halted on the walkway. “That was when dealing with them went with the job description.”

When the questions had been easy to answer and the banter had been full of fun and camaraderie. Lately all the banter had been replaced by hard-core grilling about his wreck, his reason for the rash move that ended his career. And he was no closer to knowing the answer now than he had been two months ago.

He might never remember the moment he’d screwed up his life.

His gut roiled, and his gaze locked with hers. “No cocktail party. No schmoozing with the press.” He frowned and continued up the walk, heading for his garage. “And no changing my mind.”

The next morning Jessica ate her breakfast, flipping through the morning paper as Cutter’s picture stared at her from her cereal box. She had yet to figure out how the man could have such an effect on her. Handsome, yes.

Virile, most definitely.

But what did it matter when he was the antithesis of everything she was looking for?

In the five years since her divorce, she’d been on a lot of first dates, had been subjected to every possible combination of good looks and charm imaginable. She’d even gone to dinner with a model who regularly appeared in GQ magazine. He was drop-dead gorgeous and sweet, but the chemistry during the evening was flat. They had nothing in common. When he asked her out for a second date, she’d politely turned him down.

She’d thought she was impervious to the sexual appeal of an unsuitable guy, yet the powerful pull of Cutter Thompson was proving greater than the sum total of her experiences.

With a sigh, Jessica flipped to the society section of the morning newspaper and spied the front-page photo, a bolt of shock zipping along her nerves. Her spoonful of granola hovered in the air as she scanned the picture of her and Cutter. They were sitting side by side in the boat, Cutter texting on his cellular, and Jessica leaning in to look at his message. But the headline was the worst part—Is Local Racing Hero Turned Recluse Now Dating?

Shock turned to horror as she read the accompanying blurb, mostly about Cutter’s refusal to appear in public since retiring. And whoever had snapped the photo had done their homework, accurately identifying her. They’d even mentioned her motto at Perfect Pair: Fostering honest dialogue in finding The One. Multiple questions regarding their relationship were raised in the paragraph, suggesting she and Cutter were hot and heavy into an affair.

Panic spread and, without a second thought, she grabbed her purse and headed out the door.

Twenty minutes later Jessica stepped out of her car and onto Cutter’s driveway. The garage door was open, and rock music blared. After she passed through the entrance, she switched off the music and headed toward the old muscle car and the pair of tennis shoes protruding from beneath.

Balancing on the balls of her feet, she squatted and leaned forward, staring up past long legs, a flat abdomen, to arms that jutted into the underbelly of the vehicle. “Cutter, we have a problem.”

He kept right on tinkering. “I’m gonna start thinking you don’t like my taste in music.”

Jessica summoned her patience and tried again. “Cutter, our picture was in the paper.”

His hand continued torquing the wrench. “So?”

With an exasperated sigh, Jessica reached down and pulled on Cutter’s feet, rolling him from beneath the vehicle in a smooth motion.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.