Like making love in his mother’s cherished studio to a woman who gave him the jitters simply because he couldn’t stopthinkingabout her was an okay thing. When there was something solid yet unseen—as potent as the scent of chemicals clinging to a newly-developed photograph—linking them.
His hand jerked, and he released the shutter, capturing a photo that would definitely not be in focus.
Campbell knew what he needed to do.
He needed to walk away before Fontana Quinn tangled him in knots, muddled his plans, and misconstrued his intentions. He didn’t know what being tangled in knots felt like, exactly, but he suspected she’d be the one to do it.
Go inside, retrieve your shirt from beneath her lovely body, thank her for giving you the best sex of your life, and be on your merry way.
It was a standard approach, and with the exception of thebest sexpart, one he’d utilized before. Why he was tempted to sit on the steps of her gazebo and take photographs until the sun rose high in the sky—until she’d had enough sleep to warrant being woken by a man who had made love to her three times since midnight and wanted to again before breakfast—he couldn’t say.
Just past six, he decided, throwing a calculated glance at the sky. Didn’t have to get back quite yet.
Tucking another cigarette between his lips, he struck thematch, then sighed and let the wind extinguish it. For comfort, he kept it there, deciding he’d earned the small, albeit unhealthy, indulgence.
The smell of tobacco drifting into his nostrils was enough.
He could leave at seven and still make it home to cook pancakes like he’d promised; John Nelson and Kit were late sleepers.
Was Fontana?
He would probably never find out.
The morning light was nearly perfect, no mist to cloud his lenses or diminish the scene. A hint of crimson mixed with gold, maybe even a back-edge of blue, streaked the horizon. No filter required, he determined, and raised his camera, the click of the shutter calming him.
At least once a week, he shot at dawn, wherever in the world he happened to be, when the variance between highlight and shadow was minimal. Pure radiance, supple edges. Fontana’s gazebo added great perspective, surrounded by benches, thick bursts of azalea, and beds of ivy. Twining vines of clematis. Enchanting, this slice of his family’s property, every bit the fairy tale it had seemed the first time he’d seen it. A little selective masking, manipulating the exposure, and these shots would be amazing. Perfect for the greeting card company that had a standing request for new images.
He started shooting with nothing but his art—and the desire to touch his Hellcat again—running through his mind.
FONTANA
He was too engrossed to notice her approach.
Fontana leaned against a towering oak at least a hundred years old as Campbell worked his magic. Her feelings about waking in a panic to an empty bed, until she realized a man’s shirt was wrapped around her ankle, weren’t something she wanted to analyze. Observing him, morning light a hazy, bright burst around him, was enough for now. Kneeling on the ground to get a shot of an abandoned bird’s nest, his focus steady, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he adjusted his camera, disheveled hair she’d tangled her fingers in hanging low over his brow, he was simply…beautiful.
Quite artlessly and without argument, beautiful.
Somehow, he suited the fanciful façade she’d created, theonlyplace he fit in her life. Men like Campbell dated models and actresses, married lawyers and doctors. Not landscapers with dirt beneath their nails, two-year degrees from a junior college, and a rather dark, baggage-filled past.
He stretched, pulling the frayed seat of his jeans tight over his gorgeous ass. If he’d had his T-shirt—the one she’d thrown on the second her feet hit the floor—he would’ve left before she had the chance to touch him again. Lifting her shoulder to her nose, Fontana breathed him in, telling herself ithadto end.
“They’re on the gazebo steps,” she said after watching him search unsuccessfully for Jaime’s cigarettes, the muscles in his stomach doing a dance with each twist and bend.
He stumbled, his camera falling. The strap wrapped around his wrist yanked taut before it hit the ground.
His gaze traveled the length of her, thoroughly, as it always did. Once there and back.
He gestured weakly, his eyes going hot. “My shirt.”
“It was the first thing I grabbed, and I didn’t realize…” Rationale shot, she hunched her shoulders, wishing she’d put on a bra. The cold had her nipples standing at attention.
Or perhaps it was him.
Grumbling under his breath, he snatched the pack off the steps and turned his back to her. A match struck, then smoke wafted over his head, startlingly white against his disheveled chestnut hair. A charming cowlick protruded below his left ear, a stray curl standing high on top. The sunlight made it shine like polished leather, needing only a tuck here and a smooth there to govern it.
A little too aware of how much she wanted to wrap her hands around those shiny strands and tug him into her, she trapped her hands between her lower back and the tree.
“You must be freezing,” she finally said, even though she wasn’t wearing much herself.
