How to Win the Dating War

“Great sex does not take the place of common interests or scintillating conversation.”

Ignoring her lecture, Cutter slowly leaned his head forward, and her nose was filled with his musky scent.

Lips against her shoulder, he said nonchalantly, “What kind of conversation?”

She swallowed hard, her throat constricted. “Books.”

His mouth moved down her neck, nipping gently, coiling her nerves, searing her skin as he went. “Any other topics allowed?” He pulled her hips against his hard thighs and her knees went wobbly.

Her mind swimming in the heat of desire, she whispered, “Movies.” One of his hands moved higher up her ribcage and her voice broke a bit. “Good wine, music and current events,” she finished desperately, proud she could speak coherently.

He lifted his head to stare at her, his thigh between her legs, and his hand cupped a breast. “Do you want me to do this? Or do you want me to discuss the historical significance of Picasso?”

Staring up at him, she heard her answer come out as an unintelligible mumble. And, as if the babbling words were a signal, his mouth landed on hers.

The summer she turned eleven, AIMEE CARSON left the children’s section of the library and entered an aisle full of Mills & Boon® novels. She promptly pulled out a book, sat on the floor, and read the entire story. It has been a love affair that has lasted for over thirty years.

Despite a fantastic job working part time as a physician in the Alaskan Bush (think Northern Exposure and ER, minus the beautiful mountains and George Clooney), she also enjoys being at home in the gorgeous Black Hills of South Dakota, riding her dirt bike with her three wonderful kids and beyond patient husband. But, whether at home or at work, every morning is spent creating the stories she loves so much. Her motto? Life is too short to do anything less than what you absolutely love. She counts herself lucky to have two jobs she adores, and incredibly blessed to be a part of Mills & Boon’s family of talented authors.

Aimee Carson’s first book,

SECRET HISTORY OF A GOOD GIRL, was published in Mills & Boon Loves … a collection of novels from our fantastic new authors.

The collection is still available to buy from

www.millsandboon.co.uk

How to Win the Dating War

Aimee Carson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my editor, Flo Nicoll. Thanks for all your hard work and dedication. And to Dan. Without you none of this would be possible.

HOW TO WIN THE DATING WAR is Aimee Carson’s first book for Mills & Boon®.

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CHAPTER ONE

Maneuvering tools while lying on his back wasn’t easy with the relentless stabbing in his chest, and when the wrench slipped, Cutter’s hand plowed into the drive shaft. Pain smashed, and the underside of his ‘71 Barracuda was lit with stars.

“Damn.” The muttered word was lost in the rock music wailing in his garage.

Blood dripped from his knuckles onto his T-shirt. He shifted to the right, and his ribs screamed in protest, eliciting a groan of agony as he pulled a rag from the pocket of his jeans, wrapping it around his hand. His chest still sent crippling signals, but—on the good side—the sting in his fingers now took precedence over the two-month-old, lingering ache in his left arm.

Because Cutter Thompson, former number-one driver in the American Stock Car Auto Racing circuit, never did anything half-assed. Even screwing up. He’d ended his career in style, flipping his car and sliding across the finish line on his roof before crashing into a wall.

Pain he was used to. And even if crawling beneath the belly of the ‘Cuda went against the doctor’s orders, Cutter was going to complete this project even if it killed him.

The music cut off, Bruce Springsteen’s voice dying mid-verse, and a pair of high-heeled sandals tapped their way across the concrete toward the ‘Cuda. Cinnamon-colored toenails. Nice ankles. Slender, shapely calves. Too bad the rest was blocked by the bottom of the car. The fine-looking legs were most likely encased in a skirt. From this angle, if he rolled his creeper forward, he’d get an eyeful.

And you could tell a lot about a woman by the underwear she wore.

With a delicate squat, knees together, the owner of the legs leaned low until her face appeared beneath the car. Dark, exotic eyes. Glossy, chestnut-colored hair.

“Hello, Mr. Thompson.” Her voice was smooth. Warm. Like heated honey. Her smile genuinely bright. The kind of enthusiasm that should be illegal. “Welcome back to Miami.”

Welcome home, Thompson. Like a career-ending injury at thirty was a blessing.

Cutter stared at the lady. “You interrupted Springsteen.” Her smile didn’t budge. “I’m Jessica Wilson.” She paused. “Did you get my messages?”

Jessica Wilson. The crazy lady who wouldn’t take no for an answer. “All five of them,” he said dryly. He turned his attention back to his work, his tone dismissive, his words designed to send her away for good. “I’m not interested in a publicity stunt,” he said firmly. He wasn’t interested in publicity, period.

He used to like it. Hell, he’d lived for it. And his fans had been fiercely loyal, following him around the circuit and supporting him unconditionally. Sticking with him through thick and thin. The kinds of things parents usually did. Except for his.

And now what was he supposed to say to the press? Awesome wreck, huh? And how about that stellar suspension the officials had slapped on him? ‘Course, that was before anyone knew his split-second decision had cost him more than separated ribs, a fractured arm and a humdinger of a concussion. It had cost him a career.

Pain of a different sort pierced the base of his skull, and regret hollowed out his stomach. Cutter gripped the wrench, awkwardly wrestling with the bolt again. He’d had to go and ruin his dominant hand, too.

Slowly he became aware the lady was still here, as if waiting for him to change his mind. Some people were too persistent for their own good. He tried again. “I’m busy.”

“How long have you been working on the car?”

He frowned, thrown by the change in topic. “Fourteen years.”

“So fifteen more minutes of a delay won’t be too inconvenient?”

Amused, he rolled his head to stare at her. He was trying to be rude and get rid of Little Ms. Sunshine. Why was she still being so friendly? Her eyes were wide. Luminous. The color of melted chocolate. Cutter lowered the wrench warily. “inconvenient enough.”

“As I explained in my messages, the Brice Foundation wants you for their annual charity auction,” she went on, obviously undaunted by his attitude. “We need a fifth celebrity to round out our list.”

“Five celebrities gullible enough to participate will be hard to find.”

She ignored his comment and went on. “I think your participation would generate a lot of excitement, especially as a native Miamian and a national hero.”

Cutter’s gut clenched. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

No heroes here. Not anymore. That had ended with his self-destructing, split-second decision on the track. But if she was looking for a night of sex, the fulfillment of a few fantasies, then he was the man for her. Doubtful she was. And right now he wasn’t interested in involvement of any kind, in bed or out. “My answer is still no.”

She stared at him with those big, Bambi, don’t-shoot-me eyes. It had to be an uncomfortable position, balancing on the balls of her feet with her chest against her thighs, her head hanging low enough to look under the bottom of the car. But her voice remained patient. “Will you please just hear me out?”

Damn, she wasn’t going to go away.

With a frustrated groan, Cutter rubbed a hand down his face. He needed peace. He needed The Boss blaring on the stereo, drowning out the turmoil in his head. And he needed to get the ‘Cuda up and running. But he wouldn’t get any closer to accomplishing these if the lady didn’t leave. Though, much longer in that position and she’d pass out from a lack of blood flow to her brain. At least then he could haul her out of his garage.

But no matter how much he wanted her to go away, he couldn’t let a person continue to hold this discussion while impersonating a contortionist. Even if his chest hadn’t recovered from the effort it had taken to climb beneath the car in the first place, even if moving would bring more pain, he had to convince her to leave from a standing position.

With a forced sigh and a grunt of agony, he gripped the chassis of the ‘Cuda and pulled the creeper on out from beneath the car, wheels squeaking as he went. He rolled off, his ribs screeching louder in protest, and he sucked in a breath … and got hit with her delicate scent. Sweet, yet sensual, infused with a hint of spice. A lot like her voice.

When he finally managed to straighten up, he got a view of her willowy body wrapped in a cool sundress the color of the sky in springtime. Silk clung to her hips and thighs.

Her shoulder-length dark hair framed a delicate face that housed beautiful brown eyes. Classy. Feminine. A girly girl through and through. The visual was almost worth the excruciating pain that now pounded his ribs.

Almost.

She sent him another smile and nodded toward his car. “Fourteen years is a long time. It looks like it still needs a lot of work.”

Cutter’s eyebrows pulled together. Sweet or not, no one was allowed to dis his ‘Cuda. “Engine’s almost fixed.” Mostly because when the doctor had delivered the bad news, Cutter had dragged the vehicle out of storage and given himself until the end of the month to get it done. Better than dwelling on his messed-up life. “Be ready for a test run any day now.”

She peered in the window. “But there’s only a backseat.”

“I kissed my first girlfriend there. Happens to be my favorite spot. Just a few more technicalities to take care of.”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. Stepping back, she glanced at the concrete blocks the car was perched on. “Are tires considered a technicality, too?”

He quirked an eyebrow, amused by her dry tone. “I’ll get to it. I’ve been busy.” Busy racing. Ruining a career.

A scowl threatened. Couldn’t a man retreat to his garage for a little one-on-one time with his car without a cheerful, pushy woman tracking him down? Maybe if he looked busy she’d go away now.

He rounded the car to where the hood was propped open and twisted off the oil cap. With the clap of heels, she appeared beside him. Ignoring her proximity, and after pulling out the dipstick, he used the rag wrapped around his mashed knuckles to check the level.

She peered around his right shoulder. “Plenty of oil,” she said, sounding amused. “Though I doubt you’d lose much since the car doesn’t run.”

Busted. Not too girly a girly girl. “Can’t be too careful.”

“Words to live by, Mr. Thompson.”

“Precisely.” Though not exactly his motto until recently. With a self-chastising grunt, he shoved the oil stick back with more force than necessary. “No publicity stunts for me.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

“Always is.”

“You haven’t even heard the details.”

“Don’t need to.” Refusing to look at her, he screwed the oil cap on. “I’m not doing it.”

She placed her hands on the car frame and leaned close, her evocative scent enveloping him. “The Brice Foundation does the kind of work you and your sponsors have always supported in the past. I know if you hear the details, you’ll agree.”

The optimistic little lady sounded so sure of herself. Cutter straightened and placed his hands on the frame beside hers, finally meeting her face-to-face. Her olive skin tone suggested a distant Mediterranean ancestor somewhere. Even features. High cheekbones. Full mouth, but not too lush. Nice. “I don’t have sponsors anymore.” He raised an eyebrow to bring his point home. “And you don’t know anything about me.”

“You started in the ASCAR truck series at seventeen. Two years later you were dubbed someone to watch by Top Speed magazine.” Her wide, deep-brown eyes held his. “You burst into the stock car series and blazed your way to the top. You’re known for your cutting words and for being fearless on the track, earning you the nickname the Wildcard. You’ve held the number-one rank for the past six years—” a brief hesitation before she went on “—until your accident two months ago when you intentionally bumped your biggest rival, Chester Coon.”

Acid churning in his gut, Cutter suppressed the urge to look away. He’d pay for that moment for the rest of his life. He relived it every night in his sleep. The roaring engines. The smell of rubber. And then he spies Chester to his left. Cutter grips his steering wheel … and then he wakes with a jerk, drenched in sweat, heart pounding.

And feeling every one of his injuries as if they were fresh.

But the actual moment of bumping Chester—and fortunately, the crash itself—were a blank. Retrograde amnesia the doctor had called it. A gift bestowed upon him by his concussion.

Or perhaps it was a curse.

His fingers clenched the car frame harder. “The officials should have suspended Chester for the Charlotte incident last year. Damn rookie put everyone at risk when he drove. And then he nearly got another driver killed.”

“There was a lot of hard driving the day of your wreck. Everyone knew Chester had it coming.”

Surprised, he cocked his head. Jessica Wilson clearly knew the unwritten rules of the track. A familiar niggle of doubt resurfaced. “You’re not one of those fanatics who likes to stalk their favorite driver, are you?” After her five messages that was exactly what he’d assumed, though she didn’t seem crazy in person. But it could be she was crazy and smart enough to hide it. He’d met a few of those along the way. “If so, your charity ruse is imaginative. Though it’s hard to beat the fan who snuck past security at the track, picked the lock on my RV and climbed into my bed naked.”

The spirited sparkle in her eyes was captivating. “I hope you tossed him out.”

Despite his mood, a rusty bark of a chuckle escaped his throat, knifing his still-smarting ribs. He was beginning to like the pushy little do-gooder, overly optimistic or not. “I tossed her out.” He leaned close, his senses swimming in her scent. “I would have definitely thought twice about getting rid of you.”

“I’m a fan, Mr. Thompson,” she said evenly. “Not a fanatic.” She hiked a brow, loaded with meaning. “And I’m not a groupie.”

He dropped his eyes to her mouth. “Too bad. I’d love to have you wrap yourself in nothing but a bow and mail yourself to me in a crate.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “You’re making that one up.”

“Nope.” He tipped his head. “The story has been passed around the track for years. Could be just an urban legend though.”

She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes, and his unfamiliar urge to grin was strong. Her voice dropped an octave. “And you are legendary for supporting organizations that work with disadvantaged kids.”

The do-gooder was back. “And here I thought you leaned closer just to flirt with me.”

Her bottomless brown eyes were unwavering. “I never use flirting as a tool.”

“Too bad.” But he liked her close, so he stayed put. “And I told you, no way will I—”

“These kids need support from role models like you.”

Role models.

The words slammed with all the force of his career-ending crash, killing his urge to grin. Outside of setting a spectacular example of how to destroy the single good thing in your life, what did he have to offer the public now? His one claim to fame was gone. He was just a washed-up driver who’d taken a risky move and gone down in a blaze of shame.

Other than an amused glint in his sea-green eyes, Jessica had yet to see Cutter smile. She watched the glint of humor die as the masculine planes of his face hardened.

“Look, lady.” Cutter ruffled an impatient hand over closely cropped, light-brown hair. “You have me confused with someone who cares. My sponsors paid me millions. They told me which charities to support. The only person I support is me.”

Jessica’s smile faded at the egocentric words.

Cutter turned and walked past shelves of car parts and tools, heading in the direction of a utility sink in the corner. “And right now I have a car to fix,” he added with a tone of finality.

Disenchantment settled deep in Jessica’s chest. So he didn’t care. So he’d only thought of his bank account. And maybe his moving words of support in the past were speeches written by a paid writer. This wasn’t about her disappointment that an idol of hers wasn’t the hero she’d thought. This was about the Brice Foundation Steve had started. And she’d promised him she’d get Cutter Thompson on board. Because she owed Steve.

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?”