After a charged silence she didn’t attempt to break, he turned, his face wrapped tighter than one of his birthday gifts, dark hair hanging over his eyes, partly shielding his expression. “When I thought Celia was close to giving me custody of Kit, my cousin Justin and I drew up plans for this place—Promise Cotton. Condos, workspace, retail. I was going to keep the rent as low as I could, do all the photography, manage the design. Good for my family, good for the town. Good forme, not having this place decay, losing money every second. A pretty novel concept, if I do say so myself. Not being done many places.Yet.”
He glanced down at his camera, made a few more adjustments,then the shutter clicked. Moving in a slow circle, he took more shots, the process calming him, she could see. Because it was probably too dark for anything to come out.
“My cousins and I are the perfect team. Justin’s an architect with vast experience in restoration, and for some Godawful reason, he keeps dancing around moving home. Ransom’s a builder, always wanted to get his hands on this place, even if he’s managing the project from his office in New York. Dallas is a journalist—war correspondent, he calls it. Right now, he’s in the middle of some conflict, getting his ass blown off—another worry—but he was in as an investor. Promised to write all the marketing copy, too. That sorta thing.”
“Ransom, Dallas? Tell me those are nicknames.”
Campbell sputtered a laugh, looking like the sound had surprised him. “Dallas’ mom lovedThe Outsiders.” He shrugged a broad shoulder, cotton molding to muscle in a way he couldn’t possibly know lit her up inside like a match put to kindling. “She and my uncle were never married. Their affair was a bit of a scandal, and then, when he was twelve, Dallas showed up on our doorstep. Long story. His mom was a headcase—what can I say? The only type of parent the True boys seem to get. Though, if you ask me, the name fits the hazardous lifestyle he keeps. Remember what happened to Dallas in the book?”
“And Ransom?”
“That oneisa story,” he said, grinning, his dimples cutting into his cheeks. He had an amazingly unaffected smile when he let it have free rein. “William—everyone called him Will back then. Anyway, we helped him compose this ransom note when he was like, eight, so I was nine, I guess. Cut out letters from a magazine. It was pretty simple. Imagine elementary school vocabulary here. The basics: he’d been taken and was never coming back.”
He lifted his camera, adjusting the settings with an absent touch, the motion second nature. “Then Will, aka Ransom, went and hid in the field behind the old barn with enough Twinkies to last a week. His mom found the note, called his dad, and made him come home from wherever it was he always ran off to. Hell, maybe with Dallas’ mom. In very short order, the cops were involved. The mayor. We were a prominent family, you know?Jesus, imagine that.” He huffed a laugh. “Well, my father got his hands on me, wasn’t too nice, and the gig was up. Much to William Edward True’s dismay, he’s been Ransom ever since. At least below the Mason-Dixon.” Campbell shrugged, smiling softly. “I can’t vouch for what they call him in New York.”
“You love them,” she whispered. “I can hear it in your voice.”
He flicked the comment away, like his relationship with his family was lost…or forgotten.
“What happened to the plan? Promise Cotton?” she whispered, afraid she already knew.
He returned to the wall of windows and placed his hand against a glass pane, fingers spread. Did he ever talk to anyone about his past? From his reaction, she guessed he didn’t.
“This place was supposed to bring my family together, and that includes Kit. My asinine inheritance used for something good. I like to think my mother would have approved.”
“Come on.” Fontana didn’t thinktenderwas the right approach with a man who looked this tortured. “Spill.”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. Tapped his camera lens against his hip, debating. His gaze darted to her, golden eyes wide in a pale face. “I don’t want to tell you anything that’ll change your mind about me. Go with your gut. It’s correct.”
Pressing her knuckles to the floor, she pushed up onto her knees. “I’m sorry for thethings?—”
“Stop,” Campbell said, waving her off. “Just stop.”
He paced the room, lifted his camera, looked through the viewfinder at least ten times. The current between them was shifting, like sands through a narrow inlet—base attraction deepening into something more. Low tide to high, treacherous enough to pull you under, sweep you away. Every story he told revealed more of his soul. Every word, and she understood him better. Liked him more.
She felt raw and bet he did, too.
It was disconcerting, frightening, exhilarating.
With a sigh, he threw himself down beside her—closer than before, but not close enough to touch. She didn’t try to stop him when he grabbed the wine and drank straight from the bottle.
“The looks started when I was fifteen. The comments, maybe a year later. I almost thought I’d imagined it until she started talking.”
Fontana held out her cup and he poured. Her hand trembled, but she got it to her lips without missing a beat. “Celia?”
Campbell’s gaze cut through her, sharp enough to injure. He took another drink, his throat working. “Who else?” She shivered, and he leaned in, brow creasing. “Are you cold? I forgot my jacket. Drafty damned place.”
“No,” she whispered. “No, I’mangry. How old was she?”
He rolled to his side, propped an elbow on the floor, and dropped his chin into his hand. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he gave it some thought. “I guess about twenty-five then.”
“Cam, that’s horrible. You were just a boy.”
He stilled, his gaze meeting hers.
Cam.
She’d called him Cam.
