Debra Salonen - His Daddy's Eyes

Bo’s mouth dropped open. “Bullshit,” he sputtered. “I don’t believe you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Well, she is.”

Before he could reply, Sara poked her head out the door and motioned to him. “I need him, Claudie. The group’s starting. Besides, this is your night off.”

Bo’s face heated up, even though he could tell by her tone, Sara was teasing. His only satisfaction came from seeing Claudie’s face flush with color, too.

SARA TUNED OUT the low rumble of masculine voices emanating from the far corner of the bookstore. Years earlier, before Hank had died, she’d hauled in a couple of old couches Julia was throwing out and some funky pole lamps to create a “reading room.” Hank had called it a waste of space, but had let her have her way. Although he never admitted it, sales went up—and the reading room stayed.

Closing her eyes, Sara gently rocked Brady back and forth. If she let herself, she could drift off to sleep, too. She’d been up since five, trying to figure out how to pay for the repairs needed on Julia’s house.

“Can I put him down for you?” a voice asked softly.

Sara opened her own eyes to a pair of remarkable blue ones, as deep a hue as the pair she played peek-a-boo with every morning—only this pair was attached to a stranger. A very handsome stranger, who seemed full of concern for her.

That by itself was odd, but the sudden, shocking quickening of her senses left her speechless. In answer to his question, all she could do was shake her head.

“He looks heavy. Are you sure?” His voice was cultured, rich as honey and faintly melodic. Its basic vibration caught her somewhere between her breast-bone and her belly button and radiated outward in the strangest way.

She rocked forward, intending to rise, but her knees felt insubstantial, as if they might crumple if she put any weight on them. He seemed to sense this, and plucked Brady from her arms as if by magic. He didn’t hesitate for a second but smoothly transferred the sleeping child to the playpen with such fluidity that Brady didn’t even stir.

Sara put her hand to her chest as if to capture Brady’s warmth a second longer. Tears rushed to her eyes for absolutely no reason.

“He’s a handsome boy,” the stranger said.

“Thank you.” Sara looked at him as he stood a few steps back from the crib. Suddenly she felt a deep primal urge to push him away. She rushed to cover Brady with a knitted throw that Keneesha had made for him.

Sara straightened, forcing herself not to be intimidated by the man’s size or beauty. And he was gorgeous. His thick, wavy autumn-brown hair had a carefree quality that made her want to touch it. His skin was a healthy tan, not too dark, not too pale.

“Are you here for the group?” The inanity of her question struck her the second she took in his fine, navy pinstriped trousers, perfectly creased above Italian leather shoes. Even without a tie and unbuttoned at the collar, his smoke-gray shirt made a fashion statement: wealthy.

He shook his head. “No, I’m supposed to meet a friend, but I got here a little early. Do you mind if I look around?”

The bookstore owner in her wanted to offer him free reign, but some other part of her remained uneasy. She tried attributing her qualms to his proximity and his maleness, but somehow that wasn’t enough. She had a store full of males, and none of them made her senses peak like this man.

“Be my guest,” she said, faking a smile.

When he stepped away, she let out a long, silent sigh and turned to her desk. She had a hundred things to keep her occupied while the men talked, but couldn’t for the life of her recall a single one. She was about to sit down, when the stranger called to her, “Have you read this one?”

His soft, husky tone made tingles run up her skin. Rubbing her bare arms—Sara told herself it was rude to ignore him—she walked to the cardboard display case holding the latest release from a popular, prolific writer.

“No, I’m not really a fan of horror genre.”

He seemed surprised by her frankness. A blush warmed her cheeks. Smart move. Knock a potential sale to a potential customer.

“I once heard a fifty-eight-year-old man accused of killing his eighty-year-old parents say the reason he hacked them to death with a butcher knife was that they wanted to move into a rest home and he would have had to get a job.” His serious, contemplative tone took her by surprise.

“Are you a psychologist?” Her first guess would have been politician.

A smile tugged at the corner of his thin, masculine lips, suggesting a dimple in his left cheek. “It sometimes feels that way. I’m a judge.”

Sara reflexively took a step back. A judge. The word conjured up memories of a time she wanted to be excommunicated from her consciousness.

She started to turn away, but his next words stopped her.

“In law school they tried to prepare us for some negativity.” He flashed her a beguiling, boyish grin. “Do you know the difference between a catfish and a lawyer?”

Sara shook her head, intrigued by the humor in his tone and the oh-so-human crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“One’s a scum-sucking bottom feeder. The other’s a fish.”

Sara tried not to smile, but did, anyway.

Oddly, his smile faded. “The antipathy changes when you become a judge,” he said. “It doesn’t go away—it just becomes more…judicious.”

The wistfulness of his tone caught Sara off guard. The only judge she’d ever met stood out in her memory as a Wizard of Oz kind of character. A big head and commanding voice, passing judgment on things he didn’t understand.

“I’m sure it’s not an easy job, in fact, I can’t imagine one I’d want less.”

Instead of being put off by her opinion, the man stepped around the display, bringing himself closer to Sara. It made sense since they were speaking in library-level whispers, but crazy alarms went off in her head, obscuring his reply.

“It wasn’t high on my list, either, but when the governor asked me to fill a vacant slot, I felt I had to accept.”

Normally, Sara might have credited his amiability to good manners and responded accordingly, but for some reason her long-simmering resentment over the justice system chose that moment to erupt. “You’re talking politics. I’m talking human lives. What makes you—or anyone for that matter—think you’re capable of deciding someone else’s fate? Doesn’t that constitute supreme ego?”

His brows sank together in a more attractive way than Sara wanted to admit. “No, I don’t think so. Law limits a judge’s powers. Any judgment is based on evidence, and the law as it applies to that individual case.”

“But how can you read a few lines on a sheet of paper or listen to two over-priced lawyers talk for ten minutes, then decide a person’s fate? Not everyone who breaks the law is a bad person,” she added in an even softer voice.

His blue eyes were tempered with compassion, as if he knew she was speaking of herself. “I believe a person who breaks the law and pays his or her debt to society is a better person for it. The ones who break the law—from shoplifters to congressmen—and go unpunished are the losers. They have nothing to build on but guilt. What kind of legacy is that?” he asked.

His words touched her, as did his tone and some elusive nuance in his manner, something that made her think he might actually be capable of knowing her without judging her. How crazy was that?

“Ren?” a voice croaked.

Sara blinked, dissolving the mesmerizing connection between them.

The stranger straightened with such unexpected hauteur that Sara had to work at keeping her mouth from hanging open. He suddenly looked like a judge, not just some handsome man lending a sympathetic and understanding ear to her old grievances. Sara’s heart boomed in her chest—what had come over her?

“Hello, Bo,” he said, turning to face Sara’s newest recruit. Bo hurried forward, displaying considerable shock at seeing his friend.

“What are you doing here?” Bo demanded.

“I had to work late and I remembered you were going to be here. I thought we could grab a drink when it’s over.”

Sounds plausible, Sara thought, but it’s not the truth.

Bo squinted at his friend a moment longer, then looked at Sara. She read something sad in his eyes. Anxious to help, she reached out to pat his hand, which gripped his book like a buoy. “It’s a very informal group, Bo. You can leave anytime. Besides, there’s always next week,” she said. “Did they tell you they’re switching to weekly meetings? What do you think? Do you want me to get you the next book?”

His gaze flickered to his friend, whose grin provoked a snarling “Sure.”

Confused by the antipathy between the two, Sara pulled back her hand. “Well…um, great. Stay put, and I’ll be right back.” She tossed a semi-smile in the judge’s direction, then dashed to her storeroom. She didn’t understand what was going on any more than she could explain what had come over her, but Sara cultivated new readers like flowers in a garden; she wasn’t about to let this one wither on the vine. Not without a fight.

REN EYED THE BOOK in his friend’s hand, damn glad it wasn’t a gun. Prudently, he backed up a step, which also afforded a better view of Sara as she hurried toward a doorway marked Employees Only. His gaze followed the lithe form in the pale green dress. She moved quickly but with grace, back straight. Bo’s last photos showed her to possess a very shapely body with sleek calves and a trim derriere, but her business dress was of Shaker simplicity.

“What the hell is this about?” Bo growled, taking a step closer.

Ren raised his hand defensively—not that it would have done any good if Bo Lester took it in his head to beat him senseless. Ren had seen him in action more than once during Bo’s drinking years. “Pure impulse. I can’t explain it. I guess I needed to get it over with.”

“You could have warned me.”

Ren shook his head. “I didn’t know myself. I was supposed to meet Eve for dinner—she took the day off to drive her agent to the San Francisco airport, but she called from her car. Some big toxic spill up near Lake Shasta. I started home, then changed my mind.”

Ren had only intended to peek inside the store, but something had come over him the instant he saw Sara Carsten—eyes closed, lips whispering a lullaby, rocking the sleeping child. The image was so ecumenical, so Madonna-like, that he felt drawn inside as if propelled by a force outside his body.

And then Ren took the biggest leap of faith in his life. He’d picked up the baby. A child that could be his own flesh and blood. It was an idea so staggering and life-altering that he should have run in the other direction, but holding that compact little body seemed the most natural thing in the world.

“Let’s get one thing straight. You hurt her and you’ll regret it.” The threat was so serious, so unexpected, all Ren could do was nod, as Sara hurried to join them, a cardboard box in her arms.

“Sorry ’bout the wait. I’ve been hoarding these so long I couldn’t remember where I put them.” As she neared, she faltered a step as if sensing the primitive, masculine energy between them.

She set the carton on a display table and picked up one small paperback. “The title is A.P.B. It’s a little police procedural—the first in a series. The rest of the group voted for something light this time.”

Bo put out his hand. “I like crime novels. The good guys always win. The bad guys either end up dead or in jail. Right?” He shot a pointed look at Ren.