Her dread of losing everything.
Because, in Promise, for perhaps the first time, she feltsafe.
She swallowed and threw a quick glance around, just to make sure.Locked up nice and tight, Tana. Yes, of course. She knew that. She received monthly medical reports on Alias Quinn’s progress. Or lack thereof.
Looking over her shoulder was a habit, nothing more. Though he had said he’d find her if he ever got out. But he would never get out.
Fontana ignored the thick scent of grease in the air and counted each exhalation until her heartbeat slowed. Another therapy trick. Leaning against the counter at the Snack Shack’s order window, she pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from her pocket and ordered a pop and a bag of peanuts.
“Pop,” the pimply-faced clerk repeated, his jaw slack in confusion.
“She means Coca-Cola. Make it two.”
Her lashes lifted, and her gaze met Campbell’s, dark and direct beneath the shaded bill of his cap. Remnants of emotion lingered in his eyes, dim but visible. Something, though she wasn’t sure what, had happened on that field.
Once again, a tingle of awareness—of predestination—fluttered through her.
Perhaps he felt it, too, because his mouth flattened, carvingshallow creases into his stubbled cheeks. Reacting, those impossible dimples flickered to life.
Run, Tana.
“Nice hit,” she said instead, reaching to take her drink from the clerk, pleased that her hand hardly trembled.
Lifting his cup to his lips, Campbell studied her over the curved rim. “You think so?”
“You know so.”
Silent at first, he surprised her by finally admitting, “I guess I do.” Grabbing the bag of peanuts, he tossed four bills on the counter and turned away, expecting her to follow. “That your fiancé sitting up there, ogling the third base coach?”
Fontana fell in step beside him, trying to ignore the generous expanse of skin exposed by his cutoffs, the play of muscle in his shoulders and chest. Figures, she thought, exhaling sharply. God had bestowed a truly sensational faceanda hotter-than-hell body on this guy. “What was I supposed to say when we met? Sure, dinner and a movie sound great. Don’t know you from Adam, but what the hay? In fact, how about we get to know each other a little better in this muddy ditch?”
A grunt of laughter escaped him. “Still slicing apples with your tongue, I see.” He took a long sip, his throat pulling taut as he swallowed. “Charming.”
“Cool. My top priority in life. To be charming.”
“Jesus.” His gaze raked over her, head to toe, then back. “You’re something else, Fontana Quinn.”
The words slipped out before Fontana could stop them. “I’ll be anything you want—if you sell me your mother’s studio.”
chapter
six
Scar Tissue–Red Hot Chili Peppers
CAMPBELL
Feelingas stunned as she looked, the bag of peanuts slipped from his fingers. A surge of raw desire jolted through him, hardening his cock beneath threadbare denim he knew wouldn’t hide the reaction. “You’re either crazy, Hellcat”—grabbing her elbow, he hustled her into a deserted equipment shed—“or you’re fucking desperate.”
“Maybe I’m desperate for a?—”
“No.” He shook his head, studying her as flecks of dust floated down through the slice of sunlight piercing the tin roof. Hunger surged through him, so intense he had to fight the urge to shove her against the shed’s wall and show her exactly how desperatehewas.
Still, the faint beam of light revealed Fontana’s flushed cheeks and the way she nervously chewed her bottom lip, as though she’d just blurted out something dreadful. Skilled enticement,it was not.
Her unease froze him in place, pulling his focus from his body and into his mind.
Relief washed over him, though he couldn’t explain why. “All I can say is, you don’t know what you’re asking.”
