Something kept him rooted to the spot.

There was a chance here, for redemption, for retribution, for rebirth. Salvation lay in the small, compact body of a sweet-faced four-year-old boy.

His boy.

Jameson dug deep for fortitude. “I need to be part of his life, Nina.”

She hugged herself tight. “No.”

“One way or another, Nina. I will be part of his life.”

Her brown gaze narrowed. “Meaning what?”

“You can’t keep him from me.” His stomach churned as he forced out the words. “I have rights.”

“No, you don’t. I’m his mother. You’re nothing to him.”

“I want to be something.” Desperation to make her understand moved Jameson nearer. He hated himself for the fear he saw in her face, but he couldn’t back down.

“Nina…” He touched her lightly on the shoulder and she shivered. “It doesn’t have to be…a conventional marriage. We can share a house, share a life, but not…”

Tears glistened in her eyes as understanding dawned on her. She could have Jameson’s name but his heart was strictly off-limits.

Dear Reader,

It’s that time of year again—back to school! And even if you’ve left your classroom days far behind you, if you’re like me, September brings with it the quest for everything new, especially books! We at Silhouette Special Edition are happy to fulfill that jones, beginning with Home on the Ranch by Allison Leigh, another in her bestselling MEN OF THE DOUBLE-C series. Though the Buchanans and the Days had been at odds for years, a single Buchanan rancher—Cage—would do anything to help his daughter learn to walk again, including hiring the only reliable physical therapist around. Even if her last name did happen to be Day….

Next, THE PARKS EMPIRE continues with Judy Duarte’s The Rich Man’s Son, in which a wealthy Parks scion, suffering from amnesia, winds up living the country life with a single mother and her baby boy. And a man passing through town notices more than the passing resemblance between himself and newly adopted infant of the local diner waitress, in The Baby They Both Loved by Nikki Benjamin. In A Father’s Sacrifice by Karen Sandler, a man determined to do the right thing insists that the mother of his child marry him, and finds love in the bargain. And a woman’s search for the truth about her late father leads her into the arms of a handsome cowboy determined to give her the life her dad had always wanted for her, in A Texas Tale by Judith Lyons. Last, a man with a new face revisits the ranch—and the woman—that used to be his. Only, the woman he’d always loved was no longer alone. Now she was accompanied by a five-year-old girl…with very familiar blue eyes….

Enjoy, and come back next month for six complex and satisfying romances, all from Silhouette Special Edition!

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

A Father’s Sacrifice
Karen Sandler

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my father, Sam, and for his many sacrifices—

not the least of which was surviving in a household

of three crazy teenage girls. I love you, Dad!

KAREN SANDLER

first caught the writing bug at age nine when, as a horse-crazy fourth grader, she wrote a poem about a pony named Tony. Many years of hard work later, she sold her first book (and she got that pony—although his name is Ben). She enjoys writing novels, short stories and screenplays and has produced two short films. She lives in Northern California with her husband of twenty-three years and two sons who are busy eating her out of house and home. You can reach Karen at karen@karensandler.net.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Jameson O’Connell stared out the window of his attorney’s BMW as the silver sedan wound down Prison Road toward freedom. Behind him the drab walls of Folsom Prison disappeared around a curve, vanishing from his sight.

But the memories wouldn’t vanish. Those images and raw experiences would stay with him forever.

“There’s a car for you,” John Evans said. “I left it parked at my law office.”

“A car?” Jameson glanced over at the man who had been his unexpected salvation. “Whose car?”

“Yours,” John said as he pulled to a stop at the terminus of Prison Road. “A gift from your grandmother.”

I don’t want it! The words rose, hot and angry, in his mind, but he swallowed them back. He’d taken her money already—it had paid for the attorney’s time at an astronomical hourly rate. His grandmother’s wealth had paid for court costs, expert testimony, even the crisp new Dockers slacks and pristine blue polo shirt he wore.

Guilt money, all of it. But for the moment Jameson had no choice but to take it. Just as he’d had no alternative but to accept his grandmother’s help in winning his release from prison.

They’d reached the Dam Road and now Folsom Lake lay to his right, green and turbulent with the scudding autumn wind. A sudden impulse sharpened within him to climb into a sailboat and ride across those choppy waters.

It hit him with as much force as a splash of Folsom’s icy water—he could do it. If he wanted, he could tell John Evans to turn the damn car around and let him out. He could scout out a sailboat to rent and with his grandmother’s largesse, he could climb on board and explore every one of Folsom’s myriad coves. He was free—to ride a sailboat, to skip rocks on the water, to do any other fool crazy thing he wanted.

As they took the last curve on the dam, Jameson braced in his seat against the car’s movement. His hands reflexively closed on the polished mahogany box in his lap.

Ridiculous really, to feel so protective of a box of ashes. But he’d never connected with his brother, Sean, while he was alive. He was loath to sever this connection with him in death.

“You have a destination in mind?” Evans asked.

Hart Valley. The answer slammed into his mind, although Jameson didn’t say it aloud. The softening inside him let him know just how dangerous it was to even think of that sanctuary.

But he didn’t want to think, and certainly didn’t want to make small talk with his lawyer. Evans had gotten his conviction overturned, had jumped through all the hoops on his behalf to get him set free. Jameson was grateful, truly he was. But he couldn’t risk thinking of Hart Valley, because then he would think of the Russos. And if he let himself think about the Russos, his mind would inevitably wander to Nina.

And he most definitely didn’t want to think about Nina.

“Not sure yet,” Jameson said curtly, then pointedly turned his head to stare out the window again. Evans took the hint and fell silent.

They exchanged only the most minimal pleasantries when Evans reached his posh Granite Bay office and handed Jameson the keys to a shiny new Camry. His grandmother could have sprung for a high ticket car—a BMW like Evans’s or a Mercedes. That she’d selected something more modest implied she’d given the choice some thought, had understood that he would have felt awkward and alien in a luxury vehicle.

He gripped the keys so tightly he felt them bite into his palm. Emotions gnawed at him—unwanted gratitude, a raging desire to fling the keys away, embarrassment and the overwhelming guilt that would never go away. His own, his grandmother’s, Sean’s.

Jameson unlocked the silver Camry and set the carved mahogany box carefully on the passenger seat. Evans handed him an envelope packed with papers laying out Sean’s trust and the small fortune that now belonged to Jameson. He slid inside the car, then tossed the envelope into the foot well of the passenger seat.

He would just as soon give all his grandmother’s money away. It was blood money, money with so many strings attached he couldn’t begin to undo the tangled snarl.

But as he meandered through the Sacramento streets searching for a place to go, he acknowledged that he could no more refuse his grandmother’s gift than he could restore those lost four years of his life. He was a man with a bad reputation and worse history. Despite the vocational training at the prison in cabinetry, he’d be a hard sell to a prospective employer. The trust would allow him to open his own business, to give him a margin of security other recently released inmates didn’t have.

He could even go up to Hart Valley, stay there if he wanted. Could make a home for himself on the scrappy five acres his late father had left him. Could set up a cabinet shop behind the derelict cabin he’d grown up in—if it was still standing after five years of neglect.

But could he face Nina?

The light at the intersection up ahead flashed from yellow to red and Jameson slammed on the brakes. The pickup in the lane behind him squealed to a halt, its front bumper nearly kissing the Camry’s rear. The young hot-head at the wheel of the truck shouted something profane and hit the horn the instant the light turned green again.

Jameson pulled through the intersection, regretting that he’d let Nina back inside his mind. He’d done everything he could to keep her out those four long years, reluctant to bring even her memory within those harsh gray walls of Folsom Prison. When he couldn’t resist the urging of his body’s heat, he blanked his mind, replaced the tempting images of Nina with one of the buxom, bland-faced pinups the other inmates plastered on their walls. He wouldn’t let himself remember so much as the scent of Nina’s perfume.

It all came rushing back now, though. The memories so intense, his hands shook. His grip on the Camry’s wheel grew slick with sweat and he knew he’d have to pull over or risk an even closer call than the one he’d had with the pickup.

He pulled into a strip mall driveway and parked the Camry outside a discount shoe store. Sagging in his seat, he threw his head back, let his gaze wander out the side window. His chest felt tight, sharp pain digging deep. If he hadn’t felt this same ache a hundred times while lying in his cell, he might have thought it was a heart attack.

You’re free. You can think of her now.

He felt tears burning, but he wouldn’t let them fall. Eyes squeezed shut, he released the constriction in his chest bit by bit, then let Nina in to the forbidden places.

It was dangerous, he knew, to think of her even now. But if he didn’t, he thought he’d die. He needed desperately, in these few minutes of fantasy, to pretend that Nina Russo would still be the idealized woman he had held in his arms nearly five years ago. The real Nina—the one who would certainly scorn and reject him—would see through his best intentions to the dark soul beneath. So, for now, he could pretend that Nina didn’t exist.

Chapter One

Nina Russo sank onto a seat at the café’s counter, her feet still throbbing from the rush of the noontime crowd. Nina’s Café, a Hart Valley watering hole and community meeting place, had nearly emptied as it usually did by three o’clock. The dinner rush wouldn’t start up until five, and by then the night cook would be in back, ready to put up orders of meat loaf with mashed potatoes and bowls of chili.

That’s if the night cook arrived on time—always a questionable proposition. Dale Zorn had not made punctuality his hallmark. In the unfortunate tradition of night cooks at Nina’s, Dale had distinguished himself as being the most undependable of them all.

All but Jameson O’Connell, that is.

An odd shiver tingled up Nina’s spine. What in the world had made her think of Jameson? He’d weighed heavily on her mind five years ago, both before and after that world-changing night. But since then, particularly when the town’s former bad boy took a powder and left Vincent and Pauline Russo in the lurch, Nina had made it a point to keep memories of him at bay.

She was tired, that was all. Dale had been a no-show three nights out of the last seven, leaving Nina to take his place. The teenage boy she’d hired as busboy/dishwasher caught a nasty flu that had been making the rounds in Hart Valley, so she was short even that pair of hands last night.

She rubbed at her eyes and leaned back in the swivel chair with a sigh. She’d grown up in this place. She’d done her homework in the front corner booth, had played jacks on the linoleum floor while her parents finished the closing up. She’d learned every aspect of the family business, from ringing out the register to ordering the best ground beef. Key among all those lessons was the small business owner’s edict—be ready to step in when someone doesn’t show.

As Jameson hadn’t. He’d never returned from that weekend trip to Sacramento.

Enough, she told herself. No more jaunts down memory lane. She had too much to do this afternoon to let past history haunt her.

When Lacey Mills came out from the kitchen, Nina smiled, grateful for the distraction. As willowy and tall as any fashion model, nineteen-year-old Lacey filled out her plain white waitress shirt and black slacks as if they’d been tailored for her. Nina felt the customary pang of envy that her own generous curves lacked Lacey’s elegance and grace.

Lacey claimed the seat next to Nina and pushed back blond bangs. “I can stay if Dale doesn’t show.”

Nina shook her head, feeling her own short dark hair brush her shoulders. It was definitely time for a cut. “You’ve been here since six this morning. And don’t you have class tonight?”

Lacey shrugged. “Yeah. But I could go straight to Marbleville from here.”

A jangle up front signaled a new arrival. Nina pushed herself to her feet as she turned toward the café’s door. The late autumn sunshine backlit the man entering, concealing his face with shadows. A tingle started up her back again, as if invisible fingertips grazed her spine. Nina shivered as a shred of memory teased her.

He stepped out of the shaft of sunlight, turning so it now lit his face. The harsh lines of the man’s cheek and jaw, sharpened and almost gaunt with time, danced elusively in her memory. His dark brown hair was cropped close now, but she could still recall the silky feel of it. The strength of those broad shoulders suggested a remembered heat.

Then his blue eyes were riveted onto her. Pain inhabited those depths that hadn’t been there five years ago, a hopelessness that made her heart ache. The hard edge to his mouth was new as well. Nina gasped as if sucker punched as full recognition burst inside her.

Lacey put a solicitous hand on her shoulder. “Nina? What’s the matter?”

Nina just shook her head, trying to deny the truth that stood twenty feet away. Jameson O’Connell. He was out of prison.

Had he expected her to greet him with a smile and open arms? Jameson would have thought that hope had shriveled away within those formidable gray walls. But a tiny seed of it had remained in his heart, had fluttered to life at his first glimpse of Nina.

The sight of her horrified 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 their taste, the exact degree of warmth when he’d pressed his mouth to hers. The curl of her breath against his cheek, the sound of her sighs as pleasure mounted. His 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 the night cook?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and took a quick step back. She hadn’t even heard his quiet footsteps into the kitchen. “He’s a little late.”

Jameson nodded, his intense blue gaze never leaving her face. “You can’t wait tables and put up orders by yourself.”

She wrapped her arms around her middle. “He’ll be here soon.”

Jameson nodded. “You’ll give my number to your folks?”

“Yes, I will.” Now go. Please.

He nodded again, then turned away. He’d nearly stepped from the kitchen when the café phone rang. Back in his alcove, Nate called out, “I’ll get it, Mommy!”

Jameson stopped, looking back over his shoulder as Nate raced for the old-fashioned dial phone on the kitchen wall. As Nate snatched up the receiver, Jameson turned to watch the tiny whirlwind.

“Nina’s Café,” Nate said importantly. “May I help you?” He listened a few moments, then held out the phone to Nina. “It’s Dale. He’s sick.”

Nina sent up a silent prayer that Dale was faking and could be bullied into coming into work. But she only had to hear the few raspy words the young man could muster to realize he was genuinely ill, victim to the latest strain of flu.

“Take care of yourself, Dale.” Nina hung up the phone, then looked out at the tables of hungry customers.

“Nina,” Jameson said.

She didn’t even think before she answered. “No.”

“Let me help you.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t think when he was here. If he would only leave she could come up with a solution to her dilemma.

Nate tugged her hand. “I can help, Mommy. I can fill all the sugar shakers and all the salt and peppers.”

“Lacey filled them already, sweetheart.” Nina put her arm around her son and led him back to his alcove. “I’ll bring you your cookies right now.”

She hurried to the dry store shelves and pulled out the plastic container of homemade cookies. She grabbed a handful and put them on a paper plate, then stopped in the walk-in refrigerator for a carton of milk. She brought cookies and milk to Nate, then found his cartoon cup.

“I’m going to call Grandma,” she told him. “She’ll take you to her house tonight.”

She couldn’t impose on her mother to come in to work, but Pauline would never pass up a chance for a visit from her grandson. Leaving Nate munching cookies and drawing on an art pad, Nina returned to the kitchen.

A glance out at the floor told her the crowd had grown, three new parties staking out their own territory in the café. As she watched the latest arrivals settle in, she remembered the item in the Sacramento Bee about a church convention in Reno this weekend. It seemed every congregation in the Central Valley had made the detour to her café on their way up Interstate 80.

When she didn’t see Jameson, she felt grateful and anxious all at once. So he’d left. That was just what she wanted, right? It was crazy to feel so abandoned.

Grabbing the phone, she dialed her parents’ house. She focused on her father when he answered, heard the tiredness in his usually hearty voice.

“It’s bingo night, honey,” Vincent Russo reminded her. “Mom won’t be home until ten.”

Nina rubbed at the tightness between her eyes. Thursday had been bingo night for her mother for at least a decade. Jameson’s presence had so scrambled her brain, she’d clean forgotten.

“She’s got her cell, hon,” her father said. “You can call her there.”

“That’s okay, Daddy. I’ll call her later.” The last thing she wanted was to deprive her mother of that small weekly pleasure.

Hanging up, she returned to Nate’s cubby. “Grandma’s busy tonight. You’ll have to stay here, sweetie.” She turned on the TV-DVD combo.

“Yay! A video!” Nate went down on hands and knees to search the DVDs on the bottom bookshelf. He pulled one out. “This one.”

Nina set up the Disney movie and gave Nate the remote. “Finish your snack first. Then you can start the movie.” She hurried back out to the kitchen.

She nearly stumbled when she saw Jameson at the prep counter, a white apron tied around his waist, his deft hands slicing tomatoes. “I think they’re ready to order.”

“What are you doing? You can’t be here.”

He speared her with his gaze. “You’ve got nearly thirty customers out there and you don’t have a cook.”

She looked out on the floor and saw three more families had arrived. “I’ll find someone else.”

“You don’t need to. I’m here.”

Panic flared inside her. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk that he might guess. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to protect Nate. “You need to leave.” She bit out the words, her fear making her harsh.

“I know you don’t want me around your boy.” His shoulders tensed, his hands stilled. “I’m the world’s lousiest role model, I know that. If he was my son…”

He’s not! He’s not your son! She wanted to shout the words.

“I just want to help.” He looked back at her. “I won’t talk to him, okay? I’ll keep my distance.”

A heaviness settled in Nina’s stomach. It felt wrong to let him believe she wanted him to go because he was an ex-con. Yet how could she tell him the truth when it left her so vulnerable?

The noise level out on the floor increased as another party entered. Jameson stared at her, waiting for her answer. She nodded. “I’d appreciate your help.”

She saw a flicker of gratitude in his eyes before he turned away and sliced the last of the tomato on the prep counter. “Anything new on the menu I should know about?”

“Blackened catfish. The spice is there.” She reached past him for a small shaker.

He should have stepped back out of her way, he knew that. But somehow, the temptation of being near her rooted him to the spot. When her shoulder brushed against his chest it took everything in him to keep from reaching for her.

The contact was obviously unwelcome. She jumped back, the plastic shaker slipping from her fingers into the aluminum square full of tomatoes. When she would have grabbed for it, he plucked it from the juicy red slices and set it aside.

He wiped the blade of the serrated knife on a paper towel and placed it out of the way. “Just the catfish, then?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

Her hands fluttered like birds as if she didn’t know what to do with them. He could come up with at least a dozen suggestions, most of them involving naked skin and hot passion.

She must have seen something in his face because she backed away from him and escaped the kitchen. He watched her through the pass-through as she snatched up an order pad and headed for the largest table of customers.

Jameson tore his gaze from her and focused on the prep counter. He quickly surveyed the familiar layout of makings for cold sandwiches, gravies and sauces for hot food, the griddle and grill behind him. He’d only worked here a year, yet that time stood out with greater clarity than any other in his life. Because of Nina, surely, and their incandescent night together. But also because of her parents, their kindness and trust in him.

Nina put up the first orders on five separate tickets, only pausing long enough to give him the briefest glance before she hurried back out to the next table. He didn’t have time to think then, unless it had to do with grilling a hamburger patty or dropping a basket of fries into the deep fryer. They were slammed hard with a steady stream of customers, and he was glad to have his hands and feet constantly busy.

But then the old rhythm settled in and it might have been five years ago, when he had worked the dinner hour nearly every night. His actions became automatic—a quick glance at the ticket, turn and toss a T-bone on the grill, pull the catfish from the broiler, slice open a foil-wrapped baker and toss it on the plate.

If he hadn’t let his mind drift a bit from the actions of his hands, he might have missed the flash of movement caught out of the corner of his eye. As it was, he was so occupied with moving the T-bone from the hottest part of the flame, he couldn’t turn to confirm what he thought he’d seen. There was a shuffle of feet next, then when Jameson glanced over toward the source of the noise, he saw a small form duck out of sight.

After four years constantly on edge, aware of the peril around every corner, it was a relief to have nothing more to fear than the spying eyes of a young boy. When Jameson heard another rattle, then a clang when a large metal spoon slipped from a counter to the floor, he sensed the child didn’t want to be seen so he kept his attention on his work.

He’d gotten only the briefest glimpse of the youngster before Nina had swept him away. He had Nina’s coloring—dark hair, lively dark eyes, a sweet smile. Thin as a whippet, unlike his mother’s generous body. Energy to spare, Jameson guessed from the way the boy had rocketed into the café.

So, who was the father? Jameson remembered Nina had had quite a thing for one of the local ranchers. That was part of the reason she’d been so vulnerable to him, he recalled with a twinge of guilt. Despite the passion blazing through him, he’d made certain that night she was willing, but even then, he’d known he wouldn’t have had a chance if her heart wasn’t aching for another man.

So, could the rancher be the father? Had he and Nina linked up after Jameson had disappeared from her life? If so, the rancher certainly wasn’t in the picture now, or he would have been the first one she called to stand in for the missing night cook.

Suddenly, there was Nina on the other side of the pass-through, her wary gaze on him. Jameson flushed, half wondering if she’d somehow guessed his thoughts. But she was only there to slap another order on the shelf.

Jameson reached for it, then when Nina made to pick up the slip of paper again, his fingers tangled with hers. She stared at him, startled, her hand tense against his. He had to pull away, shouldn’t be touching her, but she was too warm, too real. He couldn’t seem to break the contact.

She snatched back the meal check. “Sorry. Forgot to add fries.”

“No problem.” He turned away on the pretext of checking the steak on the grill. He flipped the T-bone, giving her time to drop the check and go. But when he returned to the prep counter, she still stood at the window, her brown eyes troubled.

“We always worked well together,” she said. Then she tipped her head down, set down the check and hurried out to the tables.

Emotion tugged at him, a shadow of what he’d felt years ago when the Russos had taken him into their lives. At the time, he would have jumped over the moon if it would have won their acceptance. And yet he’d betrayed them—once with their only daughter, a second time when he took the path that led to Folsom Prison.

He set his mind back to his work. Take the T-bone off the grill. Serve up mashed potatoes and gravy. Spoon up a dish of peas and put the order up.

He quickly finished the other plates for the ticket, rang the bell and stabbed the check onto the spindle with the other completed orders. When Nina arrived to take the plates out, he made sure he was on his way to the walk-in for more steaks.

As he passed what had once been the dry store pantry, he was surprised to see the space had been converted into a kind of playroom. His small spy had returned to home territory and was now bent over crayons and paper, toys scattered at his feet, a video playing on the TV. The name “Nathan” was stenciled on the wall. Jameson kept moving, his promise urging him on.

They’d reorganized the walk-in refrigerator, but it didn’t take long to orient himself and locate the steaks. He tugged a ten-pound box from the metal shelf and pushed open the walk-in door. As he rounded the heavy door, he nearly collided with a three-foot-tall dynamo in blue jeans and Harry Potter sweatshirt.

The boy jumped back, craning his neck to look up at Jameson. “Who are you?”

Something about the boy teased at Jameson, the stubborn line of his jaw, the pugnacious turned up nose. When he recognized the familiarity, pain stabbed at him. That childish face reminded him of his brother Sean when he was ten years old. Because his grandfather had forbidden any visits, it had been by sheer happenstance Jameson had seen Sean that day in San Francisco. Several years older than Nina’s son was now, he’d nevertheless had that same innocence in his face. It wasn’t until later the rebelliousness and anger engulfed him.

He forced a smile. “I’m Jameson.”

The coffee brown eyes narrowed on him. “Are you the new cook?”

“I’m just helping your mom tonight. Are you Nathan?” Jameson asked, remembering the name on the wall.

“Nate,” the boy corrected him. “Mommy needs lots of help. ’Cause some of the cooks really stink.”

Jameson stifled a laugh. “I’m sure they do their best.”

“Nope. They’re all flakes. That’s what Mommy says.”

The box of steaks was cold and clammy in his hands, and no doubt he had another order waiting, but he couldn’t resist the restless, wiry charm of Nina’s dark-haired son. He found himself trying to think of something to keep the conversation going. “I like your playroom.”

“Come look,” he said, snagging Jameson’s wrist. “Papa and Granny made it for me.”

Nate towed Jameson along toward the playroom. They’d nearly stepped inside when Nina appeared and blocked Jameson’s way.

Alarm burst inside Nina when she saw Nate’s small hand on Jameson’s arm. She couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. “What are you doing with him?”

Jameson backed away. “I’m sorry. I came back for steaks. He was just—”

“I like this one, Mommy.” Nate eyed Jameson from head to toe. “He doesn’t stink at all.”

She took a breath, tried to calm herself. “Go back to your cubby, Nate.”

Nate’s lower lip came out as he considered rebellion. Then he turned toward the alcove, feet dragging. Just before he slipped inside he looked back at Jameson. “Can you come say goodbye to me? Before you go?”

Jameson glanced over at her. How could she say no? She nodded.

“Sure,” Jameson said. “Before I go.”

Arms crossed, she returned to the kitchen, Jameson behind her. He dropped the box of steaks on the prep counter and ripped open the flaps. “I didn’t go looking for him.”

“I know.” Nina stepped back out of his way as he crossed the kitchen to the stainless steel refrigerator.

He yanked open one of the double doors and pulled out a plastic bin. “I would never hurt him, for God’s sake.” He grabbed steaks from the box and slapped them into the plastic bin. Pitching his voice lower he said, “I’m not a damn pervert.”

Guilt warred with her protective instincts. “I didn’t think you were.”

The bin refilled, he returned it to the refrigerator, then glanced out at the floor. “Any more orders?”

“No. I was just coming back to tell you we have a bit of a break.”

He pulled down the last ticket, scrutinized it as if it was the Rosetta stone. His dark brown hair, always such a startling contrast to the blue of his eyes, was cut too short to curl the way it had when he’d worn it longer. She remembered the night they’d been together, that it had started with her brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead.

She never should have touched him. But the loneliness she could usually keep at bay had swamped her that night. She’d seen Tom Jarret in the café, and the hopelessness of her love for him had hit her hard. She’d gone back into the kitchen for a quiet moment to collect herself and there was Jameson, his intense blue eyes reading her soul.

Nina shook off the old memories and hurried out to the register where a customer waited. She rang up the sale, then took out a bus tray to clear the dirty dishes. Once the tables were clean, she took the dishes back to wash. Sending the backlog of four bus trays through the sterilizing dishwasher took nearly twenty minutes. By then, Jameson had dinged the bell for the last order.

As she carried the plates out to the last table of customers, Nina’s conscience hounded her. You ought to tell him, an inner voice demanded. He has a right to know. But if Jameson knew the truth, Nina would no longer be in control. There was no telling what he would do and whether she could keep Nate safe.

Vehicular manslaughter. She didn’t know all the details of what had sent Jameson to prison, but she knew that much. He’d driven a car head-on into another and killed the driver and passenger. He’d pled guilty and been convicted.

The Hart Valley busybodies had had a field day when they’d heard. Jameson O’Connell was always such a wild boy, they said when word of the twelve-year sentence filtered down. He was always headed for trouble. He finally got what he deserved.

Could he be out on parole already? It had been only four years—not nearly a long enough sentence for killing two people.

Nina sorted flatware into a partitioned tray, then carried the tray back out front. When she returned to the kitchen, Jameson was scraping down the griddle with a pumice brick, the muscles of his forearms flexing and bulging as he worked. Nina stared in fascination, remembering how those muscles had felt against her palms as she’d run her hands along them.

When he looked up expectantly, she was tempted to run, and only just managed to stand her ground. “You can take off if you want. I can do the cleanup.”

He shook his head, using a scraper to clear the black mess from the griddle. “I like to finish what I start.”

Her secret weighed heavy on her conscience as she watched him labor. He’d made some huge mistakes, but wasn’t this something a man ought to be told? Did she have the right to keep it from him?

But if she just stayed quiet, let him go on his way, maybe he’d be happier never knowing. “So where are you headed to next?”

She could see the surprise in his face when he looked up at her again. “You mean after I’m done tonight?”

“No, in general. Where are going after you leave Hart Valley?”

He set down the scraper, wiped his hands on his apron. “I’m not leaving Hart Valley. I’m here to stay.”

Chapter Three

I’m here to stay.

Where the hell had that come from? Staying had never been part of the plan. There’d never even been a plan, just a vague notion that he’d stop in Hart Valley long enough to speak with the Russos and deal with Sean’s ashes. But somehow seeing Nina, working with her again in the café, had changed everything.

But who was he kidding? He couldn’t stay in Hart Valley. The town busybodies would chew him up and spit him out, just as they’d done all his misguided life. It would be even worse now, with him fresh from prison, with all the unanswered rumors flying through town like buckeye leaves scattered by a breeze.

Nina stared at him, shocked to the point of horror. “You can’t stay.”

He sensed something in her voice—simple worry? Or was that panic? His instincts sent a warning that settled as a knot of tension between his shoulders. “Why not?”

“Because I…because they won’t let you. Arlene and Frida and the others.”

“The busybodies.”

Nina had given the gossiping group that nickname, back when he’d worked at the café. The four old matrons would hold court in the corner booth by the front window, watch him work in the kitchen and whisper about him. When he would emerge to help bus a table or ring up a sale, they would fall into disapproving silence, their angry eyes trained on him every moment.

Jameson grabbed a towel and wiped down the griddle. “Let them talk.”

“Jameson, please.”

The desperation in her tone sent up warning flares again. “I don’t give a damn what the busybodies have to say about me.”

“I do.” She barely whispered the words.

He felt fingers crawl up his spine. Dropping the towel on the now clean griddle, Jameson rubbed his hands against his apron. “What’s going on, Nina?”

She stood frozen, looking trapped. “Nothing.” Her gaze flicked away.

His stomach a mass of snakes, Jameson stepped closer to her and grabbed her shoulders. “Tell me.”

The moment he felt the warmth of her against his palms he realized he never should have touched her. The thin fabric of her white blouse offered such a frail barrier, they might as well be skin to skin. Whatever self-control he might have once possessed was torn away by the long years of abstinence.

Gripping Nina tighter, he took in a long breath of air, waiting for her to move…praying she’d step away. Because if she didn’t, he’d kiss her. And if he kissed her, there was no telling what else he would do.

When she did move it was with excruciating slowness, her hands lifting, no doubt to nudge him away from her. But instead she rested her palms against his chest, and the contact was so unexpected it pulled the air from his lungs, released in a low fragment of a moan. Then her hands drifted higher, and Nina’s face lit with wonder.

She was perfect—skin the color of cream, brown eyes endlessly deep, full lips begging his to brush against them. Her mouth curving in a smile, one lock of ebony hair falling across her brow—everything about her invited him in. Her spirit flowed through him like a balm soothing the sharp edges of his soul. He shut his eyes, her beauty almost too painful to see.

Her voice sifted into his ears. “I’d forgotten how amazing it feels to touch you.”

His heartbeat thundered so violently he thought it might bring down the walls of the café. If he shifted even slightly he would lose the last scrap of will he possessed, and the result would be mortifying. “Nina,” he managed, parceling out just enough breath for her name.

He risked a glance down at her, then cursed his mistake. With her face lifted up to him, her lips moist and barely parted, he would die if he didn’t taste her just once.

Any thought that he might resist evaporated when she lifted her face to him. His hands left her shoulders and cradled her head as he touched her mouth with his. She arched against him, her full breasts grazing his chest, her fingers brushing against the sensitive nape of his neck.

He plunged his tongue into her mouth, a distant part of his mind knowing he was taking things too fast, too soon. With a step, he positioned Nina up against the prep counter, thrust one leg between hers. He knew she had to feel how hard he was, the length of him pressed against her hip. But she didn’t pull away, didn’t push him from her.

He ground against her, knowing he shouldn’t, helpless to resist. It felt far too good, impossibly pleasurable. But even as his tongue tangled with hers in her mouth, even as he imagined taking her here in the kitchen, a wrongness began to creep in.

He didn’t know where he found the strength, but he stopped, edged away from her. He couldn’t look at her, partly out of shame, partly out of fear that the sight of her tousled hair and flushed face would drive him to pull her back into his arms.

Half-blind with the need still burning through him, Jameson walked back toward the sink, took a water glass down from the shelf and filled it. He kept his back to her as he drained the glass.

He heard her light footsteps, sensed her moving closer. He felt the heat of her hand before she touched him, and choked out one word. “Don’t.”

“Jameson.”

Even his name on her lips was powerful temptation. “Don’t touch me. I can’t—” He didn’t finish the thought, hoping she’d understand.

A hesitation, then she said, “I’m sorry.” She moved away, putting space between them.

Jameson filled the glass again before he turned to her. She wouldn’t meet his gaze at first and when she did, he saw a trace of guilt in her expressive brown eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

“We both—”

“No, it was me. I took advantage.”

He laughed out loud at that, some of the tension in his body dissipating. “Believe me, sweetheart, the advantage was mine.”

She blushed, the faint pink an appealing lure. Then he saw the tears in her eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

He set aside the water glass, risking a few steps closer to her. “Tell me what, Nina?”

She searched his face. “I don’t want him hurt.”

Confused, he shook his head. “Who—”

He heard the shuffle of feet from the cook area and a small querulous voice. “Mommy? Where are you?”

“Right here, sweetie.” Nina turned to go to her son, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Jameson. He followed her, an elusive sense of precognition dancing just out of reach.

As Nina knelt beside her son, Jameson hung back. It was only because he’d promised to keep his distance, not because his intuition screamed at him. Still, as he leaned one hip against the prep counter, his flesh tingled with anticipation.

Nate rubbed at his eyes, then his face split in a wide yawn. Jameson felt his heart squeeze. The lines of Nate’s face, the slender body, even the way his head tilted to rest on his mother’s shoulder—it all spoke to him, tried to communicate a hidden message. Jameson tried to tell himself it was just that Nina’s son resembled Sean as a boy. But tapping at the back of his brain, another voice reminded him he’d only seen his brother that one time when Sean was young.

It wasn’t his brother Nate took after. And although Nina’s stamp was clear on the boy, the father had added something, too. The father…

A roar started up in his ears and his vision seemed to narrow to just those two people across the kitchen from him. Nate’s head resting in the crook of Nina’s neck, her gaze meeting his own unflinchingly. The challenge in Nina’s face giving way to acceptance as her arm curved protectively around her son.

Her nod was nearly imperceptible, but her words might as well have been a cannon shot. “He’s yours, Jameson.”

He didn’t realize he’d moved until he stumbled into the stove and felt the heat of the still warm griddle on his hand. He snatched his hand back, grateful in a distant part of his brain that the griddle had cooled enough he hadn’t burned himself. With an effort, he directed his mind back to the realization that now blared at him.

He’s yours, Jameson. Nate was his son. He’d fathered a child on that tempestuous night. He’d done so little in his life that was worthwhile, that had value. Yet somehow, without even meaning to, he’d done something right, helped to create something precious.

The roar in his ears grew louder and he couldn’t seem to stand still. Without volition, his feet moved, backing him away from Nina and Nate, sending him from the kitchen, through the café and out the door into the brisk autumn night. He kept moving until he’d reached the Camry, then pulled the keys from his pocket and climbed into the car. He started the engine, backed the car into Main Street, then headed off into the darkness.

He didn’t know why. He didn’t know where. But he had to get away, he had to run, to think, to find a way to get his mind around the enormity of what he’d just discovered. He didn’t know what would happen next, he only knew that for the first time in four years he could escape and that was exactly what he intended to do.

Nina knelt beside Nate, stunned. In all her imaginings of the trauma that might ensue if Jameson discovered Nate’s existence, she’d never guessed that he would have simply abandoned her, abandoned the son he’d help create.

Sitting back on her heels, she waited until Nate fell asleep slumped against her, until her legs cramped in the awkward position. Jameson couldn’t have left them entirely, disappeared without a word, without declaring he would or wouldn’t accept the responsibility and the reality of his son. She’d seen him drive up Main Street, but surely he’d cool off and return.

With Nate in her arms, Nina rose awkwardly. She’d have to take him upstairs to his bed, then come back to finish closing up. Nate would be fine for the half hour or so it would take to lock up, tidy the last table and ring out the register. He was a sound sleeper and once he went down, he was out for the night.

The cool autumn air seeped through her lightweight shirt, sending a chill up her spine as she carried Nate up the back stairs. Nate might be small for his age, but he was still an armful. Nina had to catch her breath on the landing outside the door to their tiny apartment before she pushed open the unlocked door.

She didn’t bother with the lights as she crossed the living room toward the minuscule space she’d made over into Nate’s bedroom. The apartment had been used as storage when her parents first bought the café. Ten years ago it had been converted into an apartment for Nina. She’d lived here ever since.

And Nate had been conceived up here.

Easing him onto his bed, she tugged off Nate’s shoes and jeans then pulled the San Francisco Giants comforter out from under him. After pulling up the covers and switching on the night-light by the bed, Nina brushed a quick kiss on Nate’s cheek and slipped out of his room.

As she hurried back down the stairs, she tried to keep her mind on closing up the café. But the turmoil of the last several hours intruded, images of Jameson battering at her mind’s eye. Every thought of him spiraled back to the most vivid memory—standing in his arms, his mouth hot against hers, the clear evidence of his arousal pressed against her leg.

She fumbled with the back door latch as echoes of sensation rippled through her. Mixed with her own sensual awareness of those moments, shame burned. She’d intentionally touched him, had invited his caresses, his kisses. It was the only thing she could think of to divert him.

She stepped into the quiet of the kitchen, quickly assessing the bus cart with its trays of dirty dishes, the dessert prep counter covered with cake crumbs, the open spice containers that needed to be put away. This at least would keep her busy, maybe keep her mind from straying back to the feel of Jameson’s fingers stroking her neck, his tongue sliding against hers.

Knock it off! She grabbed an empty dish rack and began filling it with rinsed plates and glasses. Blanking her mind as she worked, she kept all her focus on loading the dishwasher.

But she couldn’t let go of the tantalizing images. They’d insinuated themselves inside her, linking the more distant memories of that night five years ago with today’s brief encounter.

She worked faster, scraping off food, squirting the plates with the sprayer at the sink, jamming them into the rack. But thoughts of Jameson still nipped at her heels, chased deep into her mind. He seemed imprinted on her senses.

The crash of a shattering dinner plate shocked her back into awareness. She stared numbly down at the fragments of crockery, then sagged back against the work counter. With all her heart and soul, she wished Jameson O’Connell had never existed.

At the jangle of the front door Nina realized she’d never locked up, or flipped the sign over to Closed. Picking her way through the pieces of the broken dish, she made her way out to the floor so she could inform the would-be customers she was no longer serving dinner.

The sight of Jameson, lingering just inside the door, hit her hard. He’d taken off the apron and had it wadded in his hands. His face looked wild, as if in the hour since he’d left he’d crawled out of his own personal hell.

He edged away from the door and held the apron out to her. “I forgot to take it off.”

Nina moved just close enough to take it from him. “No problem. Thanks for bringing it back.”

The banality of their conversation seemed ludicrous. They had a mountain of issues to talk about, yet they were chatting about an apron.

Nina set it aside on the nearest table. “Do you want to sit?”

He shook his head. “I can’t.” His blue gaze burned into hers. “We have to talk.”

She knew that, yet her stomach clenched. “Okay.”

He looked down at his hands as if surprised they were empty, then lifted his gaze to her again. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs. Asleep.”

“How old…” He swallowed, his throat working. “When was he…” A glance away, then back at her. “Are you sure—”

“He’s yours, Jameson. I’m positive.”

An incautious joy lit his face for an instant before he squelched it again. “Tell me…tell me how…what happened? We used—”

“A condom. I know.” It had been the only flash of good sense in the whole encounter. She’d had condoms in her nightstand and they’d stopped their headlong passion long enough to put one on. “They were old. That’s my only guess as to why it didn’t work.”

He nodded, taking it in. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her hand gripped the edge of the table. “You know the answer to that, Jameson. You were gone. Vanished. By the time word filtered back to us about what had happened, you were convicted of manslaughter.”

The pain in his face was nearly unbearable to witness. “If I had known—”

“What could you have done? How would anything have been different?”

Something flickered in his wary blue gaze. “It might not have changed anything. But I might have—” He cut the words off, looking away briefly. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

“Water under the bridge,” she said, wondering if he would remember.

The taut line of his mouth eased fractionally into a faint smile. “Your mom forgave a lot with those four little words.”

“Mom figures everyone deserves a chance.”

His smile faded as his expression turned bleak. “And you? How much are you willing to forgive?”

She didn’t answer, but Jameson didn’t expect she would. The question was unfair, anyway. His transgressions had gone beyond the absolution of the most forgiving of hearts. And beyond those sins, the potential of his father’s legacy still lurked.

Rubbing at her arms, her gaze strayed to the lone table still filled with dirty dishes. “I have to finish closing up. I don’t like leaving Nate too long by himself.”

“Let me help.”

She wanted to say no; he could see it in her face. She forced a smile. “Yes, thank you.”

“I’ll get the dishes.”

She nodded, then stepped around the front counter behind the register. Producing a set of keys, she headed for the door and locked it. After flipping the sign in the window, she shut off the front lights. The whole time she kept her back to him, giving him the clear impression she wished him gone.

But they still had plenty to resolve and he wasn’t leaving until they’d talked everything out. Guilt dug at him that his first instinct had been to run, but he’d gotten his head on straight quick enough and he was determined to take responsibility. He welcomed it.

He quickly cleared the table, stacked the dishes efficiently and carried them back to the dishwasher. The stack filled the rest of the rack that Nina had started. He shoved the rack into the dishwasher, started the cycle, then dumped the dirty flatware into a rack for the next load.

He heard the beeps of the register as Nina rang out the day’s sales. He could see her shoulder and the curve of her hip through the kitchen doorway and he let himself relive the brief unforgettable moment of their kiss. Right then, he would have given another four years of his life to kiss her again.

Once he’d pulled the sterilized rack from the dishwasher and shut the doors on the flatware, he headed back out front. Nina was counting up the register, credit card slips in a neat pile next to currency of varying denomination.

He waited until she’d counted through the tens in her hands and noted the total on the daily receipts sheet, then he stepped into her line of sight. “We’re not finished.”

She compressed her lips and a dimple formed in the corner of her mouth. He remembered tasting that tiny depression, laving it with his tongue. He shut down his thoughts, focused on Nate, his future.

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Who knows I’m his father?”

“No one,” she told him flatly.

“You must have told your parents.”

She shook her head. “Not even them.”

A dull ache centered inside him. “What about Nate?”

She met his gaze. “I told him you lived somewhere else and you couldn’t come to visit.”

Nothing but the truth. Still, it cut deep. “And now that I’m here? What do we tell him?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had thirty seconds to even think about it.”

“We don’t have to tell him about prison. Not yet.”

Her dark brown eyes flashed. “We don’t have to tell him anything!”

“Fine. Other than that I’m his father—”

“I’m not telling him that.”

He thought he would explode with anger. “The hell you won’t!”

“He’s only four. He won’t understand.”

“He’ll understand that much.” Tamping down his ire, he took a step toward her, risked a hand on her shoulder. “Nina, please…”

He felt resistance, as if she wanted to shrug off his hand. She took a breath, let the contact remain. “What do you want, Jameson? To let the world know you’re his father, then head off down the road? You said you want to stay, but how long will that last?”

How could he answer that, when he hadn’t even worked it through in his own mind? “He needs to know who his father is.”

She nodded, a bare concession. “I think you’re right. But it will break his heart to meet his father, then be abandoned.”

“I won’t abandon him.”

The beginning of tears glimmered in her eyes. “How do I know that, Jameson?”

What could he say to her, what could he promise? His own father was such a sorry excuse for a man. He might not have followed in his father’s footsteps, but he had his own trail of failure. How could he prove to Nina he could change, that he could be the kind of dad Nate deserved?

What burst into his brain, half formed and half crazy, he should have rejected out of hand. Even if he had the courage to say it out loud, she’d never agree. It was a fantasy anyway, something that worked for people like the Russos, but for a man like him, happily ever after was a joke. Especially with the possibility he was more like his father than he wanted to believe.

But this wasn’t for him. This was for Nate. He’d discovered he had a son and he would damn well do everything he could to build him a better life than he’d had.

He swallowed against a desert-dry throat, taking a deep ragged breath. His gaze locked with Nina’s, he tightened his hand on her shoulder.

And forced the words out. “Marry me.”

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