So, she had eaten lunch with that prick.Andtaken his jacket.
Lucille at the QuickStop hadn’t wasted a second cluing him in on the latest turn of events while he paid for gas andmint toothpicks. As if there was going to be a tug-of-war over Fontana Quinn. He hadn’t fought Henry for the girl when he was sixteen, and he damn sure wasn’t going to now.
Campbell realized what he was doing while he was doing it, and by then, it was too late. “Here,” he snapped, shrugging out of his favorite jacket—tan, suede, Italian—and thrusting it at her.
Fontana glanced at the jacket, then at him. Her eyes were as blue as the sky today, wild and so damned beautiful it hurt to stare into them. “I don’t wantthat. I want my home. At least until January. We had a deal!”
“Guess I missed the real estate agent’s call,” he muttered, plucking a piece of pine straw from her hair—which, instead of being knotted in an ugly twist, hung in a blunt, sexy swing over her shoulders. He lingered, caressing the dark, silken strands when he knew he should back off. “I’m not trying to make this more difficult. I just have so many balls in the air. I’m doing the best I can here, okay? Trying to raise a kid, run a business, take care of my grandfather.”
Figure out what to do about youhe left unsaid.
“You’re still doing this.” She jerked the jacket from his hand but made no move to take off the oversized one she was wearing. “Selling your family’s home. Taking mine when you have no idea what it means to me—and you’ve never asked. Turning your back on your past.”
“No way I’m going there again, Quinn. You got enough out of me at the mill.”
Six strides and Campbell reached the students clustered around a rusted tractor, wondering why John Nelson had left it outside to rot. A classic McCormick Farmall, it would make a fantastic photograph. And it looked about as forsaken as he felt.
Fontana followed, the sound of her boots stomping through tall grass churning him up inside.Too close.
He drew in a steadying breath, laced with the scent of woodsmoke, and tried to calm his racing heartbeat. “This,” he said, pointing to the Farmall, “is what you’re looking for. A unique subject. Tighten the shot, zero in. Don’t be afraid to go rightthere. Simplify the main theme before hitting the shutter.”
“It’s like a ghost,” Kit whispered, participating in the class more to be around his new friend than out of any real interest in photography. “Creepy.”
Luca shook his head. “Man, you’re missing it.”
“Just like you are,” Fontana murmured, for his ears alone.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, Campbell tunneled his hand through his hair.
They’d taken this too far, gotten in deeper in one night than he could have imagined going with anyone. He couldn’t think straight. Did not, in all honesty, know what to do. About her. About Kit. John Nelson. The Rise. The goddamned mill he loved and hated in turn.
Hecouldn’tstay here, pitch his plans to the wind.
But for some sadistic reason, as he stood there wondering if he could, he looked over—searching until he found it. That sweet spot beneath her ear where her pulse tapped just beneath her skin.
He remembered pressing his lips there and sucking until she moaned.
He remembered sitting in a darkened mill, drinking wine, revealing secrets.
Sex and secrets.Killers.
Campbell pointed the camera at her. “Don’t you need to give Bowman his jacket back?”
“No, but I can sure give you yours.”
His jacket smacked his chest.
Then she was gone, striding across the field before he could think of a reply—an apology, anything to cool the fire inthose gorgeous baby blues. Her gait was a little off because of her weak ankle, which made him feel like shit all over again.
He turned to find the kids looking on with wide eyes; only his brother’s held any trace of amusement. Kit was used to the Quinn temper. And used to Campbell screwing things up. He jerked his head toward the house. “Kit, take them up. Mary Francis has sweet tea and cookies. I’ll be there soon.”
He went after her, he did.
Slung his camera strap over his neck, pressed the lens into his side, and started to run. Campbell could catch her, no doubt. He’d run track for two years in high school, in addition to football and baseball, God help him.
But if he caught her, then what?
Oh, yeah. Thenthat.
