How to Win the Dating War. Aimee Carson

      “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?”

      “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