Fontana prided herself on her heightened awareness, never the type to bump into people in crowded malls or on narrow sidewalks. It was a form of self-defense, maybe, but she kept a sharp eye on her surroundings. Yet, as she tilted her head to follow Jaime’s gaze, she realized she’d let her guard slip. Big time. She’d relaxed too much, the Indian summer sun warming her back, the spirited echo of children’s voices, and the crack and pop of baseball filling the air.
Without a second’s notice, she’d let Campbell True stroll right back into her world.
“Ohh-la-la.Shaken, but not stirred. Not yet.” Jaime leaned forward to get a better view, his Vans thumping against the bleachers. “Now, why do I have a feeling Promise’s solitary notable is scanning this boisterous crowd for you? Must’ve been a memorableridehe gave you yesterday.”
“Hush,” she whispered, her pulse thumping in her ears. One swift glance across the grassy parking lot told her all she needed to know: sexy and annoyed male on the loose. Campbell True shoved his fingers through his hair, squinting, then released the tousled strands with a severe frown of displeasure. Braced against the side of the dream machine, his legs bared by cutoff jeans, wind molding a baggy sweatshirt to his chest, the transformation from elegant taskmaster to rough-and-ready male nearly toppled her from her perch.
Fortunately, the sun chose that moment to blind her. Unfortunately, through the golden shimmer, she thought she saw Campbell find his mark.
“I guarantee Mr. Beautiful hasn’t set foot in this park since the day he went ballistic against that twisty oak sitting outside”—Jaime squirmed, practically dancing in place—“whatever you call the spot on the right side. His daddy hauled him outof here quicker than you can say ‘boo.’ Never played baseball again, from what I heard.”
“Left field,” Fontana murmured, her gaze following Campbell as he marched toward the bleachers, his knotted fists banging against his hips. An intimidating, long-legged stride, shoulders rolling with every step. Surely, he’d only come for his brother’s practice. She’d left a note, proper procedure in her book. “He’s not looking for me. Obviously, he’s here to see Kit. Finally acceptingsomeresponsibility.”
As if he’d read her mind, Campbell’s gaze snared hers, dead to rights. He halted, a razor-thin smile crossing his face.
Jaime let out a squeak beside her. “Told you. Told you.”
Fontana jammed her butt against the bench and angled her chin, staring down the advance.Okay, Atlanta, take your best shot. Sure, her heart danced in her chest and her throat ached a little it was so dry, but she wouldnotcower.
He couldn’t dish out anything she hadn’t taken at some point in her life.
Every interaction she’d had with men—except Jaime—had been a battle of mastery and might. A losing battle. Even Henry, who thought he had her best interests at heart. Why should Campbell True be any different? A child she’d grown to love—and suspected the irate man stalking toward her loved as well—stood between them. Love or no, she couldn’t shake the belief that he’d make a second-rate parent for a discerning child, if he ever gained the legal right.
She simply couldn’t.
“Are you gonna run?” Jaime whispered, “or gear up for a showdown?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she said a silent prayer to her think-before-you-speak guardian angel. One who did not hang with her often.
It won’t help to anger the man again, Fontana.
Blocked vision allowed the sounds of everyday life topenetrate her consciousness: vehement coaching from fathers, the occasional crack of wood, the dull slap of rubber soles against packed dirt, and a ball striking the chain-link fence. Listening instead of looking, she heard the muddled clamor swirl away like water down a drain.
Cautiously, she blinked, expecting Campbell to be standing before her. Livid. But some feeling— the same one from last night, whether it was presumption or intuition, whatever you wanted to call it—told her he wasn’t that kind of man. Violent. Unpredictable. Scary. She could deny it all she liked, but instinct guided her.
And instinct had proven reliably accurate.
“Oh,my, am I glad your prehistoric hunk of junk Jeep pooped out and you needed me for transportation. I hate sporting events—such a sad waste of my minutes—but this? This is history in the making.” Jaime giggled behind his hand, his carefully maintained cool slipping as he scooted forward on the bench. “History, I tell you. Entertainment on a grand scale. Which Promise hasn’t got much, heck,anyof.”
Fontana swayed to the side and found Campbell leaning an elbow against the dilapidated clapboard enclosure the park superintendent called a dugout. Maybe it was because he stood on a field, surrounded by everything screamingathlete, but his build looked even more muscular than it had under his sharp suit. As if a photographer needed muscles like those. Along with every other person in attendance, because they wereallstaring, she saw his broad shoulders tense as he stepped back.
“They want him to take a swing,” Jaime said, his voice reaching the high notes, like it did when he was close to hyperventilating before a new job, and she’d have to make him breathe into a bag. “Saints and garlands, they want him to take a swing.”
Fontana frowned, part of the dugout obstructing her view. “You mean some kid who played so badly his father took him kicking and screaming off the field is being bullied into hitting the ball in front of half the town? How utterly cruel.”
Jaime jerked like a barbed switch had caught him across his backside. “Played so badly…”
“I bet he has awful hand-eye coordination. You should have seen him trying to figure out how to repair an engine.” Fontana twisted a length of hair around her finger, unable to look away from the drama unfolding on the baseball field. “No matter how irresponsible, irritating, and—personally, I can sympathize—utterly arrogant the man is, there’s no need to make a fool of him. It’s tempting because he’s successful. Famous in certain circles. And good-looking, in that smug, one-in-a-million kind of way. A jerk, I’ll grant, but that’s no reason to take advantage of a known handicap. Not every man’s an athlete.”
Jaime gazed at her, rapt. “Fontana, darling, you misunderstand. Wholly and indubitably. No one’s going to make a fool of him. It’s…it’s not the point.”
Fontana eyed the ballfield with a mounting sense of unease. Campbell's discomfort—a man she didn’t evenlike—was seeping into her own. “Is this some sort of Southern ritual? Does it end with being pelted by boiled peanuts?”
“It’s a rather long story, and I only know half of it. I’m not sure anyone but Campbell knows the whole thing.”
Fontana glanced at her Swatch, the cracked crystal distorting the hands. “We have an hour of practice left, so there’s time for long stories.”
“Maybe not,” Jaime said, nodding toward the ballfield.
