Читать книгу A Father's Sacrifice - Karen Sandler - Страница 10

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?