A Father's Sacrifice. Karen Sandler

face should have ground hope back into oblivion, but somehow it still breathed. And that ticked him off royally, because he couldn’t seem to control even that tiny speck of emotion.

      He closed the distance between them, stopping just outside of arm’s length, and the reality of Nina collided violently with his suppressed memories. He’d been certain he’d idealized her—given her a goddess’s face, a body too lush and sensual to be real. But seeing the satiny arc of her cheek, the thick fall of black hair, her delicate chin, he could barely take a breath.

      He allowed himself the briefest glance at her breasts. They were even more full than he remembered, her nipped-in waist more achingly feminine, her generous hips begging to be cupped. For just a heartbeat, he let himself recall how good it felt to draw his hands along her body, to explore each hidden curve.

      Then he slammed the lid on his over-fertile imagination. Damned if he’d give temptation any more ammunition. He would have closed his eyes if he could, blocked her face from view. But if he did, he was pretty certain his heart would just stop beating.

      So he kept his gaze locked with Nina’s, fixed on those wide brown eyes. Briefly, he flicked a glance at her mouth, at her lips, parted slightly, then returned his focus to less perilous territory before the memory of her kiss crystallized in his mind. As he did so, a voice tugged at his attention.

      “Can I help you? Would you like a table?”

      Only half comprehending her query, Jameson turned to the skinny blonde sitting next to Nina. “What?”

      “Can I get you a—”

      Nina put one hand on the blonde’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of it, Lacey.”

      Take care of it. As if he was a chore, an unpleasant one at that. But of course he was. If Nina had a list of people she’d rather die than see again, he’d damn well top it. But that didn’t change the burning in his gut.

      The skinny blonde stood, hovered beside Nina. “Do you want me to—”

      “Go ahead and take off,” Nina said. “I’ve got this handled.”

      Her expression uncertain, the blond girl rounded the counter and grabbed a tip cup from behind it. Her gaze on Jameson, she dumped the change and bills into the pocket of her apron. “I really could—”

      “Go,” Nina said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      The blonde replaced her empty tip cup, then headed for the back. The quiet of the empty café seemed to close in.

      Nina crossed her arms over her middle, the defensive posture framing her lush breasts in the white shirt she wore. He was grateful she hadn’t starved herself into some perverse fleshless ideal, that she still possessed the soft sensuality of a woman. Then he realized the direction his thoughts had strayed and he stepped back, putting more distance between them.

      She tipped her chin up. “What do you want?”

      It was more challenge than question. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and matched her tone with a question of his own. “Where are your parents?”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Why the hell would I tell you that?”

      He didn’t like her hard edge, despaired that he had been the one to put it there. “I want to talk to them.”

      “About what?”

      He let out an impatient puff of air, squelched the urge to tell her it was none of her damn business. “I want to thank them.” The words sounded so inane verbalized.

      Her mouth tightened, tugging his gaze there. “You’ll have to apologize first.”

      The motion of her lips as she spoke mesmerized him. For an instant, his mind slid off in another direction entirely, and he had a sudden, blazingly clear memory of how her soft lips had felt pressed against the pulse at his throat.

      He felt himself grow hard with just that fragment of a memory. He backed away another step, afraid that if he didn’t, he’d have his hands on her in another moment.

      “Nina—” He swallowed, his throat bone dry. Her name felt foreign on his tongue. “I didn’t come back to cause trouble. I just want a word with your folks.”

      She stared at him, silent. Then she reached behind her for an order pad on the counter. “Give me your number. I’ll let them know you came in.”

      “I don’t—” he began, then remembered the cell phone Evans had given him. “Just a minute.” He headed back outside to the car.

      When he pulled the phone from its leather case, he was relieved to see the number printed on an adhesive tag on the back. He brought the phone into the café, and saw Nina standing exactly as he’d left her.

      He read off the number and she wrote it on the pad. She tore the top sheet off the pad and stuffed it into the pocket of her black slacks. “Excuse me, I have work to do.” She started for the kitchen.

      Jameson’s stomach rumbled and he felt suddenly ravenous. Reflexively, he counted the hours until six o’clock, when they would have served dinner if he’d still been behind Folsom’s gray walls. He’d been out three weeks, but it still hit him with the power of a revelation when he realized he didn’t have to wait. He could eat now, immediately. He could order anything he wanted. He had cash in his wallet from the Prison Authority and a fistful of credit cards from the manila envelope Evans had handed him.

      “I want something to eat.” His words stopped her just before she disappeared into the kitchen. “Do you still have the meat loaf?”

      She looked back at him, her shoulders taut with reluctance. “Yes.”

      “I’d like the meat loaf, then.”

      Resignation settled in her face. “Mashed or baked?”

      His choice. The ridiculously small freedom of it swamped him. “Mashed. Extra gravy.”

      He didn’t know what she heard in his voice, but she turned toward him and he saw something he never would have expected—sympathy and compassion. He deserved neither, but that didn’t stop him from wanting them.

      “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll bring it out.”

      She continued on to the kitchen. He took a seat at the nearest booth, picked up the flatware bundled in a paper napkin. As he unwrapped the knife, fork and spoon, a sharp memory intruded—of prison meals, of the noise, the smell of bodies crowding in on him.

      Before he could stop it, a familiar panic hit and along with it an overpowering urgency to escape. But he hadn’t been able to escape, not with prison walls surrounding him, armed guards watching his every move. His heart thundered, the pounding in his ears a deafening cadence.

      “Are you okay?”

      The soft voice jolted him. He looked up to see Nina at the table, her worried gaze roaming over his face. Her kindness washed over him like a balm.

      He fussed with the flatware, arranging it precisely on the table. “I’m fine.”

      She hesitated a moment more, her gaze searching, then hurried back into the kitchen. He couldn’t resist a quick glance down at her hips, provocative temptation as they swayed side to side. He wrenched his gaze away.

      The Sacramento Bee sat in a messy stack on the end of the counter, interspersed with sections of the Reno Gazette. He rose and ambled over to the counter and looked through the folded newsprint. He separated the two newspapers into neat piles, ordered by section. Then he picked up the front page of the Bee and turned to take it back to his table.

      Suddenly, there was Nina, with a steaming plate in her hands. Letting go of the newspaper, he reached out to steady her when she nearly stumbled with surprise. His hands lingered on her shoulders, the contact impossible to sever, inconceivably sweet.

      Her face tipped up, she locked her gaze with his, her lips parting. He clearly remembered