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“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.
