How to Win the Dating War. Aimee Carson

       “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

      MILLS & BOON

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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^®.

      Look out for more great titles, coming up soon!

       Did you know this is also available as an eBook? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

      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,