Page 77 of Craving

They stared at each other for a beat. Camilla’s mind whirled. Frankie was punishing her because her father had hurt him somehow. What…how…when…?

“You have no idea, do you?” Frankie said quietly.

“I moved out of my parents’ place when I was seventeen, Frankie,” Camilla said, helpless. “All I know is he sold cars and made a fortune. Franchised the company. Sold it.” That was the gospel they preached at the dinner table. Dean Fox was a business genius, and no one would hear otherwise.

Except Frankie, who watched her, rocking back on his heels. “I brought him the first dozen cars he sold,” Frankie said quietly, his voice a low rumble. “They were hot, but your daddy didn’t care.”

“Hot as in…”

“Stolen, yes.”

The ground tilted, and Camilla’s worldview had to quickly recalibrate. She frowned at Frankie, then whispered, “My father sold stolen cars?”

“Your father promised me a cut of the sales. He paid me pennies for the cars, told me he’d pay me fifty percent of the final profit when all was said and done. He used those first few sales to start his dealership. Then he went back on his word, paid me nothing, and threatened to turn me in to the cops if I ever came near him again. He ran a respectable business, he told me. He’d never touch stolen goods.”

Her father had always boasted about the six-figure profits he’d obtained in his first year of business. He’d used that to beat Camilla down, to make her feel unworthy. And now she was discovering that he’d achieved that through illegal means?

Not only that, but she was at risk of losing her business for her father’s crimes?

Outrage and anger and betrayal tore her to shreds from the inside out. She stood motionless, breathing heavily, trying to figure out how she could get out of this.

Frankie watched her with dead, blank eyes. “Sign the papers and you can go home,” he told her. “Don’t be a hero, Ms. Fox.” Then he turned around and walked out of the room. The door slammed, and Camilla was alone.

An indeterminate amount of time passed. Camilla stewed in anger and self-hatred and despair. The past few years had been spent flogging herself every month by going to her family dinner. Her entire adult life had been underpinned by a vague sense of unworthiness, of failure. She wasn’t living up to her family name, even though she was being true to herself.

But now, she discovered that her father’s success had been built on a lie? On theft? On the back of a scummy car thief named Frankie Smith?

When she wasn’t busy grappling with the news about her father’s past, Camilla couldn’t keep her thoughts from turning to Marlon. Was he at home? Had he wondered where she was? Did he think she was ignoring him again? Was he angry? What had he wanted to say in the hallway before his phone buzzed?

The room took four steps to cross. Camilla counted up to four hundred steps as she walked over and back, then lost count and started back at zero. Then she did it again.

She needed to get out. If she signed those papers, she’d never be free of Frankie. She’d seen the hatred in his eyes; he wouldn’t be satisfied to own her business. He’d use the opportunity to exact his long-awaited revenge on her father.

All these years, she’d thought her loan was a stupid mistake, but a fixable one. Now she wasn’t so sure. What if she couldn’t get out of this? What if she’d doomed her business ten years ago when she first signed the papers?

She did know one thing for certain: No one was coming to save her. Camilla was on her own. Just like she’d always been. She’d gotten herself into this situation, and she’d have to get herself out.

It was like her first, awful ex-boyfriend. She’d accepted his advances and his invitations, not knowing any better, and she’d had to gather the courage to ask for help and get herself out. She’d had to apply for loans and make her own way in the world to get through culinary school. She’d had to find a way to start her bakery by herself.

So many mistakes peppered her past. She’d had to claw herself out of holes of her own making—but she could do it. Camilla had done it before.

There was no white knight riding to her rescue, but that was okay. Camilla had never been a damsel in distress. She could save herself from this mess.

She just needed an opportunity.

Finally, scraping footsteps outside her door slowed down her manic pacing. She stood a few feet away from the door and waited, hands clenched.

In the marrow of her bones, Camilla could feel the importance of the moment. This would be her only opportunity. She knew, somehow, that no other chance would come. If she didn’t save herself now, she’d be under Frankie’s thumb forever.

Vibrating with tension, Camilla stood in front of the door and waited as the lock slid open, the knob turned, and light spilled through the open frame.

One of Frankie’s men stood there, holding another soggy-looking tuna sandwich from the gas station and a new bottle of water.

Camilla played the only card she could: she squeezed her legs together and said, “I have to pee.”

The man regarded her from under his heavy brow. “Fine.” He jerked his head, dropping the food just inside the door. The bottle rolled toward the corner of the room; the tuna sandwich fell with a wet slap and stayed where it landed.

Camilla’s heart thumped heavy and hard as she was led down the hall and around a corner. The walls were lined with wire shelves, and a few locked rooms remained closed as they passed. Camilla looked around for an exit, an escape, but nothing appeared.

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