How to Win the Dating War

“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 scornful 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 all this bullshit?”

“It isn’t bullshit.”

“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 time 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.”

Jessica couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “No.”

He swiveled in his seat to face her. “What about those annoying little emoticons?” A faint frown appeared. “Smiley faces aren’t my style.”

“I’ve noticed. And the double smiley faces are definitely out. Though there is one for a devilish grin that would work really well for you.”

“I could do a devilish grin.” He demonstrated one on his face.

She subdued the laugh that threatened to surface. “LOLs and exclamation points aren’t a requirement either.”

“What about using all caps?”

“Caps are for amateurs.”

He leaned forward a touch. “What if I have something important to do? Like turning a woman’s head with my sparkling wit and personality? Wouldn’t I want to capitalize the word beautiful when I compliment her on her looks?”

The intensity in his eyes made it clear he was talking about her. A low burn started, but she ignored it. “Forget the looks. You’d win more points complimenting her on her sense of humor. And a sophisticated texter doesn’t need the caps button.” She tipped her head. “He leaves a woman weak in the knees with just the right words.”

The hint of a smile appeared on his face. “A real man leaves a woman weak in the knees with just the right look.”

Absolutely. Which was why it was a good thing she was sitting down. Because he was sending out some potent, powerful vibes. She was almost tempted to be charmed. She took a fortifying sip of crisp, dry wine, eyeing him warily over her glass.

“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.”