by Aimee Carson
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 Toward the last months of their marriage, Steve had withdrawn, spending more and more time tinkering with his boat.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 sco
rnful 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 this load of bull?”
“It isn’t bull.”
“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 t
ime 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.”
