by Aimee Carson
“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 Lately all the banter had been replaced by hard-core grilling about his wreck, his reason for the rash move that ended his career.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.
Flat on his back, Cutter stared up at her, the wrench still clutched in his hand. After a brief pause, Cutter said, “I gather it wasn’t a flattering photograph.”
“It shows the two of us texting together.”
A doubtful frown appeared. “And again I say...so?”
Jessica covered her eyes with her palm and counted, but only made it to seven. “Cutter,” she said as calmly as she could, dropping her hand. “This doesn’t look good for our contest. What if someone guesses I’m helping you? And even if they don’t come to that conclusion, if you were seriously dating me as the paper suggested, then you shouldn’t be flirting with other women online.”
Her words triggered a skeptical lift of his brow. “Not all of us hold ourselves to the same restrictions.”
Lips pressed flat, she ignored the temptation to comment on his unromantic morals and went on. “Okay, forget that you’re a lost cause. But you agreed to the rules, remember? Like the one that stated you would keep your relationships private until the contest was over. Image is important. And how will it look to my customers if I’m dating a man who is flirting with other women? Or worse, if I’m helping him flirt with other women.” Panic filled her chest, and her palms grew damp. “My business is built on the belief that you can find a soul mate through honest communication.”
“Sunshine, too much honest communication will kill your matchmaking attempts.” A still-skeptical eyebrow eased higher, though his tone grew thoughtful. “And I never could understand how the word soul got linked to the enjoyable act of mating.”
“Cutter.” Her voice was sharp. “This isn’t about your hopelessly warped views.”
He blew out a sigh and lowered his wrench. “Okay. Help me sit up so I can have this torturous conversation without the physical pain as well.”
Jessica grasped his hand and helped him into a sitting position. His fingers were warm, the calluses rough against her palm, and the blaze sweeping through her body was heating her from the inside out. She braced her feet and provided support as he rose.
All six foot three of his muscular frame towered over her, and he stood way too close for reasonable heart rates. The telltale suggestion of a grin returned. “I must be healing. That didn’t hurt at all.”
Yes it had. And it still did, because his musky scent was tempting. Jessica frowned, annoyed by her pounding heart. “Too bad.” Because if he dropped dead right now all her problems would be solved.
His lips twitched. Well, he might th
ink the situation was funny, but this year’s Battle of the Sexes was her creation. And her business meant the world to her. Bringing people companionship, finding The One for others is what sustained her hope that, someday, she would find the guy for her. “The public cannot think we are dating. Not when it could put the contest and my business at stake. Perception is reality.”
“The public doesn’t give a rat’s ass what you do in private. And for all anyone knows, we’re just good friends who went out for a boat ride while following some movie star on Twitter.”
Frustrated by his teasing tone, Jessica closed her eyes and inhaled and exhaled—twice. “I know you think my job is ridiculous.” She lifted her lids. “I know you think true love is a crock. But this is what I do.” The rising panic made her voice tight. “This is who I am. And if I ruin my reputation, it could have serious repercussions for my business.”
A frown appeared as he blew out a breath. “I don’t want you to ruin your business either,” he said. He ruffled a hand through his hair, a look of resignation on his face. “You have a wall full of grateful customers. And I respect that.”
“Thank you.” She blinked back the budding tears of frustrated relief, stunned by his words. “But that still doesn’t solve my problem.”
His face thoughtful, Cutter crossed to the car and leaned his back against the door, folding his arms across his chest. The distance was nice, but his biceps bulged beneath his T-shirt and, for a brief second, Jessica lost her train of thought.
“What did it say?” he asked
Blinking, Jessica tried to focus. “What did what say?”
“The paper.”
“It mentioned your reclusive status, who I was, my business, and then it questioned our relationship.”
He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn,” he muttered, and her anxiety winched higher as he went on. He dropped his arm to his side. “I know what to do.”
Jessica suppressed the urge to grab his shirt and shake him to spill the goods. The look on his face spoke volumes. Whatever his plan, he wasn’t happy about it.
“You go to the Aquarium with a date and I’ll go alone,” he said, his voice grim. “An evening with the two of us at the same party—but clearly not as a couple—will support the theory that we’re just friends.”
Jessica held his gaze as the full implication of his words washed over her. He was offering to go to the party. Attending a function that included the media. One he had adamantly refused to participate in before.
Cutter Thompson wasn’t the completely selfish bastard she’d thought.
Gratitude flooded, overriding her good sense, and she launched herself forward, throwing her arms around his chest for a hug. She landed against a wall of warm steel that smelled of musk and man, momentarily paralyzing everything but her pulse, every particle in her body aware of Cutter at a primal, cellular level.
Cutter’s voice was strained, as if in pain. “No need to get mushy. It’s not like I asked you to marry me.”
Jessica released a small laugh; intense relief over her business, mixed with an armful of potent male, was making her uncharacteristically giddy. “Quit being an idiot, Cutter. I appreciate what you’re doing for me.” She dropped her arms and stepped back, ordering her heart to ease its pace. Though her body still pulsed, her gaze never wavered. “And I would never say yes to a proposal from you.”
His expression mixed a grimace with amusement. “No need to worry, Sunshine.” The rare but devilish almost-grin returned. “I’d never ask.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE sprawling lobby of the Miami Aquarium was dotted with twinkling lights, huge tanks of colorful, exotic fish, and people in elegant finery. Phillip Carr, CEO of Carr Investments, looked as if he’d been born into this world wearing an expensive tuxedo. He had blond hair, blue eyes and a smile so smooth it warranted its own flavor of ice cream. But as far as Cutter was concerned, the man was too polished. Too refined.
And much too comfortable with his hand on Jessica’s back.
Whatever the guy’s game, he’d been the perfect date for her, making sure the two of them had hit every cluster of chattering guests, working the crowd with the dedication of a campaigning politician in November. And finally, he’d stopped at Cutter’s little band of social renegades, folding Cutter into a knot.
Because, from a distance, Jessica was a knockout—but up close, she was devastating. A red halter-top dress hugged her breasts and narrowed at her waist before flaring gently to the floor. With her hair piled on top of her head, wispy tendrils brushing her graceful neck, her creamy shoulders were exposed in a display that had Cutter’s libido beating a drum that made concentration difficult.
She was one-hundred-percent ultra-refined class.
Just like the man whose hand clung to the small of her back like an accessory. And suffering through a twenty-minute rundown about Phillip Carr’s business was about nineteen minutes and fifty-five seconds more than Cutter could stand.
Phillip was the kind of man any parent would proudly call their son, would go out of their way to claim—despite the fact the man was a pompous jackass. He monopolized the conversation with tales about himself and looked down on everyone in a way that was beyond patronizing. The man sought society’s adoration, and no doubt society shoveled it back at him in spades, despite the obvious lack of sincerity beneath the man’s intent.
Because the people loved charm, no matter how blatantly false.
And they approved of manners, no matter how bogus the intent beneath the etiquette.
Cutter didn’t play those games anymore. He’d bent over backwards to behave as a kid, but it hadn’t worked out for him then, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start again now. Suffering in silence was the best he could do. Unfortunately, there was little to celebrate when Phillip finally steered the topic of conversation away from himself.
“There’s a new art exhibit at the gallery this week,” the man said.
Jessica’s face lit up, the sight punching Cutter in the gut. “I’ve heard,” she said.
Phillip Carr aimed his too-slick smile at Cutter. “Have you seen the display of Picasso’s work?”
Since the man was gazing directly at him, silence was no longer an option. And somehow, Cutter knew he was being intentionally singled out. “Nope,” Cutter said. “I hate his stuff.”
Apparently hate was too strong a word, because Jessica’s gaze cut to Cutter, her eyes widening in a what-are-you-doing? look. The remainder of the group’s chatter died, and Philip Carr’s face oozed a tolerance that was annoying. Cutter was apparently a simpleton to be pitied because he didn’t appreciate the subtle ‘nuances’ of fine art.
“His work from the later years can be difficult for some people to grasp,” Phillip said.
Cutter took the condescending slap in the face without a flinch, calmly taking a sip of his beer before answering, his gaze leveled at the man. “What’s there to grasp about a lady with a nose that protrudes from her cheek?”
A tight smile appeared on Phillip’s face. “It’s an artistic style referred to as cubism.”
“Don’t care what you call it,” Cutter said with a nonchalant shrug, pausing before he went on. “It’s still ugly,” he said easily.
By now Phillip Carr’s smile was huge, but still nowhere near his eyes, and the visual daggers Jessica was hurtling at Cutter were whistling close by. Pissing contests weren’t Cutter’s usual style, but Phillip’s preening-peacock attitude, not to mention his constant possessive touch on Jessica, were grating.
“Picasso was gifted,” Phillip said.
“Picasso was anatomically challenged,” Cutter returned.
Jessica cleared her throat and, this time, the knife she hurled could have parted Cutter’s hair.
“Yes, well...”
Flustered at first, Phillip then sent Cutter a condescending look that elevated annoying to hellaciously irritating. “Driving fast around a circular track is hardly a challenge.”
The ignorant description of his sport, and the man’s agitated look, brought a smile to Cutter’s lips as he took another sip of his beer, eyes on Mr. Tuxedo. “Racing can be difficult for some people to grasp.”
Jessica chucked an optical barb that hit Cutter smack in the forehead, but he’d had more than he wanted of the conversation. And he wasn’t going to stand here and listen to the two of them discuss their opinion of art.
“If we’re done with our little artistic critique session,” Cutter said, “I’m going to check out the selection at the buffet.”
Frustrated, Jessica watched Cutter head towards a table of appetizers set up between a huge tank of puffer fish and an aquarium with floating Portuguese man-of-war. When Phillip began discussing his business yet again, Jessica knew it would be a while before he let up. One eye on Cutter, she murmured an excuse to the group and wove her way through the guests, picked up a plate, and went to stand across from him in the buffet line.
Not wishing to attract attention, she kept her voice low. “What was that all about?”
Looking unconcerned, Cutter continued to study the display of food. “I believe I was discussing Picasso with your date while you were giving a running commentary via your visual claws.”
“I was trying to get you to play nice.”
“I don’t do nice.”
An exasperated breath escaped her lips. “Can’t you at least pretend?”
His gaze lifted, spearing her and halting her movements. “Sunshine, whatever you get from me is guaranteed to be one-hundred-percent genuine.”
“Insults and all?”
“Insults and all.” His lips twisted in suppressed amusement. “It appears you have a problem with my every conversation today.”
Jessica tilted her head with false patience at his mention of the day’s Battle of the Sexes debate. “I wasn’t about to let you encourage Calamity to share her stories of her sexual exploits at work.”
