A Father's Sacrifice. Karen Sandler

body had stored every touch, every sensation, the images burning under his skin in erotic detail.

      He had to pull away. He tried to lift his foot, to take a step back, but he felt as immobile and unyielding as the cold gray stone of Folsom Prison. Yet if he didn’t get his hands off her, he’d be pulling her close in another moment, pushing his way into her life just as he had five years ago.

      She took the step back, thank God. Took a breath, which lifted her breasts and drew his gaze again. But at least that step took his hands from her shoulders, forced him to drop them back at his sides.

      Hands shaking, he bent to pick up the paper he’d dropped. By the time he straightened, she’d set down the plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes and retreated behind the counter.

      Resolutely, he returned to the booth, setting the front page of the Bee next to his plate. He risked a glance over at her, but that was enough to chase Nina back into the kitchen. He could see her framed by the pass-through window, her dark brown eyes huge in her face.

      “Let me know if you need anything else,” she called out from the kitchen.

      There was something he needed, with a heat so intense it would incinerate them both. But that wasn’t what she meant.

      So instead, he tried to think of something he could ask her for, a way to bring her back out of the kitchen. There was ketchup on the table and plenty of gravy on the potatoes. The vegetable was peas; not one of his favorites, but he’d learned to eat everything offered to him at Folsom. He would like some bread to sop up the gravy, but out of reflex, he squelched the request.

      “I forgot your roll,” she said, startling Jameson, making him wonder if she’d read his mind. As he’d hoped, she left the kitchen, pulled out the steamer drawer behind the counter and dropped a roll on a bread plate.

      She brought it to him, setting it on the table. Her gaze was wary.

      He breathed in the yeasty fragrance of the whole wheat roll. “Does your mother still do the baking?”

      “I do,” Nina said, then she added grudgingly, “I own the place now.”

      “Your folks—”

      “They’re retired.” She gestured to his plate. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

      She backed away, looking a bit edgy now. She glanced back over her shoulder at the clock above the kitchen, then at him, then at the door to the café. His instincts made preternaturally sharp by four years of confinement, unease roiled within Jameson.

      He pushed aside his discomfort and took a bite of meat loaf, then the potatoes and gravy. He thought he’d never tasted anything so delicious. He sighed and leaned back with his eyes shut for a moment, savoring the flavor.

      “I have work to do,” she said again, but she didn’t step away from his table.

      “Go ahead,” he told her. “I’m fine.”

      Behind him, he heard the bell jangle as the door opened. Nina’s edginess gave way to fear as she glanced from the door to his face. What the hell?

      “Mommy!” The childish shout cut through the quiet of the empty café.

      Now Nina moved away from Jameson, quickly intercepting a young boy wending his way through the tables toward her. She picked up the boy and held him close, then hurried past Jameson toward the kitchen.

      It didn’t take a genius to figure out why Nina was so determined to keep her son away from Jameson. What mother in her right mind would want her child exposed to a loser ex-con like him?

      Chapter Two

      Her heart hammering in her ears, Nina stood in the kitchen just out of sight of Jameson, clutching her son Nate close to her chest. She trembled all over, her knees so weak she had to lean against the prep counter. Her arms tightened reflexively, the drive to keep her son safe pounding through her.

      Angling herself a bit, she peeked through the kitchen pass-through. As if he sensed her focus on him, Jameson lifted his gaze to hers. Trapped by his scrutiny, she couldn’t move.

      Had his eyes always been so impossibly blue? Had his arms always rippled with taut muscle or had prison laid down those striations of tension? It had only been one night, yet she could still remember the feel of his hair-roughened flesh against her palms.

      “Mommy, let go,” Nate said, his mouth mashed against her collarbone. “I want down.”

      Finally she tore her gaze from Jameson’s and stepped out of view. As she dragged in a shaky breath, she had to quell the urge to run, to make a dash for the café’s rear door. She could carry Nate up the back stairs to their apartment above the café, keeping him out of sight until Jameson left.

      Nate wriggled in her arms and Nina realized the futility of that escape. This four-year-old bundle of energy wouldn’t stand for that much motherly protection. With a sigh, she loosened her arms and let her son slip from them.

      “Stay back here,” she told him. “Go find your crayons and paper.”

      He tipped his sweet face up to her, his brown eyes earnest. “I made a picture for you at day care. Got it in my backpack.” He twisted to free his arms from the pint-sized red and purple backpack.

      “Take it back to your cubby. I’ll come look at it when I bring your snack.”

      He gave her a winning smile. “Can I have chocka chip cookies?”

      “And milk. I’ll bring them in a minute.”

      He dashed off to the back of the kitchen where her parents had carved out a place for him when he was an infant. In an alcove that had once been a well-stocked pantry, they’d set up a portable crib, windup mobile and baby monitor. Those essentials had given way to a play-pen and toy shelf during the toddler years. Now Nate’s place boasted a child-sized table, shelves full of toys and a bookcase overflowing with books. A TV-DVD combo provided emergency entertainment on nights when the café was unexpectedly busy.

      Once Nate finished his snack and his interest in coloring waned, he would appear in the kitchen, ready to be her helper. On most Thursday nights, business was slow enough that Nina could keep an eye on Nate as he busied himself with the small tasks she gave him. Tonight, she’d just have to make sure she kept her son occupied in the back until Jameson was safely gone.

      The door bells jangled and Nina looked up, hoping the night cook had arrived for his shift. She welcomed any distraction to defuse the tension that crackled through her. But it wasn’t Dale, just an out-of-towner couple with two young children. No doubt they were on their way to Tahoe or Reno, making an early weekend of it.

      As she stepped from the kitchen to bring them menus, another family entered, this one with grandma and four children in tow. Nina grabbed seven more menus as the two groups joined forces and started rearranging tables in the middle of the café. She waited at Jameson’s table as parents helped their children with their jackets before seating themselves.

      Jameson wiped up the last of his gravy with his roll. “Early dinner crowd. Especially for a Thursday.”

      She didn’t want to respond, didn’t even want to acknowledge that he was there. Why wouldn’t he leave? “It’s a church group from Sacramento. They’ve been in before.”

      A third family jangled through the door, this one led by the church pastor. Their arrival brought the count up to nearly twenty. Nina added several children’s menus to her stack and left them on the row of tables the group had put together.

      In the kitchen, Nina ran through the possibilities in her mind. She could call Lacey back. She could phone her mother, but Pauline Russo needed to be home with her husband, not cooking at the café. Nina’s father was still recovering from a mild heart attack.

      Or, she could ask…no, she wouldn’t even consider it. She wanted him gone, the sooner the better. She shut her eyes, trying to think.

      “Where’s