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?”
“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
