How to Win the Dating War. Aimee Carson
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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.