by Aimee Carson
But fate twisted the knife harder.
Susan paused, shifting on her feet. As if she had something important to say. “Marrying the men I had affairs with hasn’t worked out well.” Jessica froze. With a sheepish smile, Susan shrugged. “I guess following the sex wasn’t the wisest decision.” Jessica’s decision to sleep with Cutter made maintaining the calm expression difficult, but she persevered as Susan went on. “But listening to you share your goals has really motivated me to make some changes.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Jessica said. Oh, but she had. She’d glibly assumed she was stronger and smarter than Susan. But is that how people like her got started? One hot, intensity-filled moment at a time? Feeling like a fraud, she said, “I simply suggested a book when you asked for a recommendation.”
Susan shook her head. “No, it’s your levelheaded dedication to holding out for the right relationship that’s inspired me.” The irony was so heavy Jessica could barely withstand the weight as Susan continued. “I just wanted you to know I’ve decided to follow your example.”
Jessica bit back the hysterical laughter, hating her new role as a hypocrite as Susan said good-bye. When she left, Jessica sank into her chair.
Where had that levelheaded Jessica gone? She’d been slowly disappearing since Cutter upended her life. Had she really thought sex with him would make things better? Her mind scrambled for a reassuring platitude...but nothing seemed appropriate.
Except maybe the one about hindsight and clarity of vision.
The second she’d returned from orbit and landed back in that car, she’d known Cutter had smashed her plans for
exorcising him from her system.
Worse, he was more embedded in her mind than before. The memory of his body seared into hers. And why was the man she’d tossed out her rules for—the one so wholly unsuitable—why was that the guy who gave her the greatest pleasure?
For the love of God, he’d had her howling his name.
With a growing apprehension, her stomach writhed with nerves. One week and two Battle of the Sexes sessions left to go. And for the first time in her life, Jessica wondered if there was a plan that would save her.
* * *
The white paint on Cutter’s home reflected the brilliant Florida sun, emphasizing the lines that formed the right angles of the contemporary architecture. Nothing soft. No rounded corners.
Just like the man himself.
After climbing the flight of steps to the second-floor entryway, Jessica glanced anxiously at the doorbell. How long could she stare at the intricate details of the etched glass around the door before he’d find her standing there like a silly coward?
She nervously fingered the strap of her casual halter dress. The bright colors were supposed to inspire confidence, but it wasn’t working. When she caught herself staring at the doorbell again, she grunted in disgust and pushed the button.
You can do it, Jessica. Just get the contest done. You don’t need a plan beyond that. And just try to pretend—
The door opened and Cutter came into view, knocking her pep talk from her head.
She had no idea what he was thinking, the hard planes of his face impassive as he leaned in the doorway, hands hooked on his hips. The snug jeans and black T-shirt left little to the imagination—except she had no need for one now. She had memories scorched so heavily on her brain they’d never be scrubbed away. The waves of brown hair were damp, as if he’d just showered, and he eyed her dryly. “You’re back.”
His statement, and the look in his green eyes, only served to remind her of how she’d left, and heat slid up her spine. “Of course I am.” In an attempt to appear unflustered, she sent him a cool smile. “We have work to do.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “The Battle of the Sexes.”
He stepped aside to let her pass. She felt his gaze on her as her high heels tapped against the hardwood leading to his modern living room. The expansive floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the sparkling Biscayne Bay as if it were a tropical mural painted on the wall. Sunlight streamed inside, glinting off the glass-and-chrome accents in the room. Jessica studied the contemporary furniture, trying to decide where to sit. The leather couch implied intimacy, and she couldn’t stand around like a fool forever, so she targeted the mahogany bar in the corner.
Cutter’s voice came from behind as he followed. “I thought you were here to finish my promised one-night stand.”
Her body flooded with memory, fire pooling between her legs, and she almost tripped on the plush rug. She climbed onto a bar stool, resting her overheated palms on the cold marble as he rounded to the other side. When he braced his hands on the counter, his biceps grew more defined, and her body hummed the familiar tune of desire. She held her tongue as he gazed at her expectantly.
And Jessica fought to remain calm in the face of the world’s most perfect male storm.
“Or was the ’Cuda all the night I’m allowed?” he finally went on.
Keen to hear Jessica’s reply, Cutter raised an eyebrow wryly and waited. The tense look on her face would have been vaguely amusing if he wasn’t so worked up himself.
When she spoke, there was no answer to his question. “May I have a drink?”
He pursed his lips and studied her. Silky brunette hair hung in waves to bare shoulders, and her dark eyes looked troubled. The halter top of her dress clung to the breasts that had haunted his dreams since the ’Cuda, and lust returned with a vengeance to his veins.
He could definitely use a drink.
“All I have is beer.” He sent her a pointed look. “And I can’t guarantee the temperature.”
“Anything above freezing and below the boiling point will do.”
Cutter turned toward the small refrigerator, grateful for a moment to cool down. In the two nights since he’d made love to Jessica, his sleep had been sketchy. Whatever parts weren’t taken up with erotic dreams of the two of them had been spent reliving the lead-up to his accident. He’d woken repeatedly, heart pumping, body sweating, either from a wicked dream about Jessica or from anticipating his crash.
He was no closer to recovering those missing moments surrounding his wreck. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she’d bolted from his car.
The memory of her taking off—and the old, familiar sensation of being left behind—curdled in his stomach like sour milk as he pulled two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, closing it with a thump.
He twisted off the lids, set her beer on the counter, and tried to pin down the escape artist with his gaze. “I’d love to know where on your long list of rules it states dashing off after sex is polite.”
Or that coming back just for a lame publicity stunt was okay. Because when she’d given her reason for returning, he realized he’d been hoping she was here to see him. He gripped his cold bottle.
Man, was he a glutton for punishment.
She nervously feathered her fingers through her hair, the Bambi eyes wary, as if he’d just whipped out a gun. “Dashing off isn’t on my list.” Color touched her cheeks, making her complexion glow, and a small frown appeared. “Then again, neither is sex just for fun.”
His eyebrows shot higher. “Fun?” Of all the things he’d felt while making love to Jessica, lighthearted fun wasn’t one of them. “That’s not the word I would use.” Intense pleasure, yes. Immeasurable satisfaction, absolutely. Life-altering, spine-tingling orgasm, hell yeah.
And being left alone as he watched her take off didn’t meet his criteria for fun either.
“I told you before, Cutter,” she said. “I don’t engage in meaningless sexual exploits.”
Meaningless. He leaned closer, his gaze intent on her face, his stomach churning harder now. “Sunshine,” he said. “Just because I don’t believe in forever doesn’t mean what we shared
was trivial.”
“I didn’t say it was trivial.”
“Sounds like you did to me.”
“You’re twisting my words.”
He paused, realizing he was asking for more frustration...but he had to know. “Then what is your problem?”
Her lips pressed flat, and her creamy, delicious shoulders slumped a little. “I’m just...” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Disappointed in myself.”
The statement slammed into him. She wore a look of misery—a feeling he was sure she felt all the way from her sooty black lashes to her pretty, cinnamon-colored toes. And her demeanor made him feel like dirt. Just one more layer of hell this lady was heaping upon him.
“Why?” he said.
Cutter waited to hear how he wasn’t her usual choice. How a rebelliously bad-mannered, blue-jean-sportin’ guy with a surly attitude wasn’t on her wish list. Or how she’d always chosen dates like Kevin, successful men who spent their time being nice. Polite. And so charitable they made Cutter’s teeth hurt.
“No sex without an emotional investment,” she said. The look on her face grew more troubled. “I broke one of my most important rules.”
Once again, Jessica’s response surprised him, and the doubtful skepticism was hard to contain. “What is it with you and these rules?”
The pulse in her lovely neck bounded hard, as if fighting to break free. “Can we just get on with the competition?”
Cutter stared at her, considering his next move, stumped by her fixation with guidelines that guaranteed to suck all hope for spontaneity in life. The lady was clearly disturbed about their backseat rendezvous, but he was beginning to believe it was about more than just him.
And if she insisted on ignoring the issues and proceeding with the competition, so be it.
An idea formed in his head, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular. “Tell you what.” His thumbs wrestled with the tiny keyboard, the weak one on the left and the non-dominant on his right clumsily performing their tasks, but he pushed the irritation aside. “Why don’t we let our contestants chime in on the subject?”
Jessica’s voice was two octaves higher than normal, with a healthy dose of concern. “What are you typing?”
Cutter finished his text and looked at her. “I asked if an emotional commitment was a requirement for a physical relationship, and why or why not.”
She stared at him with such a mixed bag of emotion, Cutter wasn’t sure if she was about to laugh, cry or run screaming from the room in frustration.
He knew exactly how she felt.
“Listen...” Cutter slid his phone into his pocket. “I haven’t eaten dinner.” He picked up the two untouched bottles of beer. “Let’s take our drinks to the kitchen and rummage up some food while we wait for our contestants to respond.”
* * *
Damage control.
That’s what she should be working on. How to fix Cutter’s ridiculous post. How to straighten out her life after getting so thoroughly distracted. But even more pressing, how to convince her body to pay attention to all the worries swirling in her head.
Apparently her body refused to care.
Because, after twenty minutes in Cutter’s kitchen of rich wood and pricey appliances of stainless steel, Jessica still had no idea how to exercise that damage control. Or had even pondered it, for that matter. But she had managed to repeatedly peek at Cutter from the corner of her eye to admire his form. He’d been silently cooking steaks on the indoor grill, infusing the air with the smell of sizzling beef, while she’d been at the granite countertop arranging a salad. But the paucity of fresh vegetables in Cutter’s refrigerator was hindering her efforts. She headed for the fridge to make another sweep for something appropriate when she spied a pamphlet on the counter.
Jessica picked up the real-estate brochure with the picture of a sleek, metal warehouse in an upscale industrial park. Intrigued, she finally gathered the courage to break the silence.
She turned to face Cutter. “What is this?”
“It’s the building I just bought.”
Surprised, she stared at him, the brochure hanging from her fingertips. Property like that cost a hefty sum. Not exactly a purchase one made on a whim. Jessica’s curiosity rose exponentially. “What are you going to do with it?”
He continued with his task at the grill. “I’m starting up my own business,” he said, as if his statement was no big deal.
But it was. She’d seen the look on his face as he’d struggled to face what came next in his life. When he didn’t go on, she said, “Do I at least get to hear what the business is?”
Cutter lifted the steaks onto a plate, set them aside and cut off the grill. “I contacted a buddy of mine who used to work as a mechanic on my team before he retired. Turns out he’s bored stiff and ready for some fun.” He shifted to face her, leaning a hip against the counter and crossing his arms. With the display of gorgeous muscle, Jessica almost forgot to listen. “I’m going to open a garage that specializes in modifying cars for amateur racers.”
She tipped her head curiously. “What kind of modifications?”
“Those that improve the vehicles’ performance and efficiency.” For the first time since he’d started his story, a spark appeared in his eyes. “Which basically means Karl and I get to soup them up so they go faster.”
His first hint of a grin reminded Jessica how devastatingly beautiful he was when he smiled—or came close to smiling, anyway—and she tried hard not to gape at him. She was enormously pleased he was moving on with his life, but she was also taken by his mood. She could sense his anticipation, his excitement about the new opportunity. And the only other time she’d seen those emotions in Cutter was when he’d made love to her.
Hot memories of them steaming up the ’Cuda’s windows left Jessica struggling to breathe. She was saved from the treacherous thoughts when Cutter’s cellular beeped.
He pulled the phone from his pocket, checking the message. “It’s Calamity Jane.”
Her heart felt as if it had been tossed an anvil to catch. “Oh, for the love of God,” Jessica said. “Not her.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand. “Don’t tell me.” She dropped her arm to her side. “You just asked if an emotional commitment was a requirement for a physical relationship.” Jessica briefly lifted her gaze heavenward. “Of course she said no.”
“Technically,” he said, his mouth twisting dryly. “Her reply is: hell no.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you two in cahoots?”
His brow crinkled in curiosity. “What do you have against Calamity?”
The question hit too close to home, and she carefully set the brochure clutched in her hand onto the counter, buying some time. Because what was she supposed to say? That the woman made her feel dull? Uninspiring? Because her past sexual experiences, including her marriage, had fallen within the confines of a certain...respectability.
When she looked up, she was surprised to find Cutter now standing two feet away. Jessica’s heart rate responded accordingly. His intent expression wasn’t reassuring either. There would be no escaping this conversation.
When she didn’t answer his question, he tried another. “Why did you take off the other night?” he said.
She’d hoped he’d let the matter slide without further discussion, but that dream died with his words. She should have known he would demand honesty.
“Cutter,” she said, leaning her back against the refrigerator. “All my relationships have been with men who have made me feel...” She struggled to find the appropriate word. “Safe,” she finally finished. It was the truth, and she had no one to blame except herself, because she’d always chosen her relationships for that very reason. But not this time. She frowned, nibbling on her lip and remembering her cries
in the ’Cuda. “But you make me feel...”
When her voice died out a second time, Cutter leaned closer, the proximity doing nothing to ease her heart rate. “Sunshine,” he said, his voice low, “what do I make you feel?”
She fought to hold his heated gaze. “Like I don’t know what to expect next. I hate that feeling.”
And exploring the spaces outside her usual safe zone—or more like running around it with scissors in her hand—was too open-ended for comfort.
“I built a whole career out of pushing boundaries,” he said. “There is nothing wrong with setting your worries aside and going with your gut.”
“Yes,” she said adamantly. “There is.” His eyes were fixed on her, and he smelled of the musky soap that had filled the ’Cuda when they’d made love. The memory weakened her resolve, and she shifted her gaze to his chin, trying to breathe.
To think.
Flustered, Jessica pushed her hair from her forehead, deciding the truth was the only way to go. “I still remember every detail of the day my divorce was finalized.” Cutter’s body stilled, his face guarded, yet she could tell he was listening carefully. Good. “The lawyer’s office was on the top floor of a downtown Miami skyscraper. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. And the view of the Atlantic was beautiful. Everything was beautiful, yet I had this horrible, awful feeling of failure. And I was sitting there, amongst all that beauty, thinking...how did this happen?” She fisted her hand, the desolation washing over her again. “I invested fifteen months and worked hard to keep my marriage going. And then it was gone.”
“What happened?”
Her gaze drifted to the window overlooking the bay, wishing she knew for certain. Frustrated that she didn’t. “I think I simply chose poorly, because I needed more from Steve than he had to give, and marriage required more than he wanted to devote to it.” She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she went on, her voice soft. “Maybe we were just too young. Maybe we wanted different things.” She returned her gaze to Cutter’s. “But in the end, the reason doesn’t matter because there was nothing I could do about it.”
