Читать книгу: «A Father's Sacrifice»

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?