Читать книгу How to Win the Dating War - Aimee Carson - Страница 9

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.