Don't Let Go (3 page)

“Hold her down!” Solomon yelled, closing the hatch.

With the noise of the rotors muffled, the woman’s anguished cries seemed to come from inside his own head.

“You son of a bitch!” she screamed, directing her fury at Solomon, even as both Vinny and Gus struggled to keep her from attacking him. “Make them go back!” she ordered, with hoarse desperation. “Make them go back!”

Solomon set aside his gear and helmet. “Let her go,” he said, tired of watching her useless struggles.

The instant the two men released her, Jordan dropped to her hands and knees, obviously spent. She pinned Solomon with eyes that brimmed with tears. “Please, take me back,” she pleaded, groveling now.

“I can’t,” he said, hating the words coming out of his mouth. “It’s not up to me.”

With a moan of despair, she lowered her head onto the grooved, metal floor, drew her knees up in a ball, and sobbed—deep, rasping sobs that drove Solomon to the cockpit to share a word with the crew.

By the time he rejoined his men, Jordan was strapped into the bench, her head lolling, limbs splayed and limp. Sunlight streamed into the cabin’s windows, sparking red highlights in the hair that hung over her pale, fatigued face.

“I gave her a shot of Lorazepam,” Vinny confessed, seeing Solomon’s startled look. “I couldn’t take it anymore, Senior Chief.”

Solomon nodded. He didn’t blame Vinny one bit.

He eased down onto the bench between Jordan and the praying nun. Gus flipped through a manual in the corner seat. Haiku and Teddy took inventory of their arsenal. Harley, who manned the mounted M15 machine gun, looked up from his position on the floor.

“What?” Solomon demanded, reading disapproval in the bald chief’s stern expression. “You would have done that differently?”

“Yes, I would have,” said the sniper, disdain in his eyes and voice.

“Then you would have had to turn right around and dump the kid off again,” Solomon predicted.

“Maybe not,” said Harley, with a challenging glare. “What do you think, sir?” he asked Gus, who glanced up from the manual he was reading.

“It’s the senior chief’s call,” said Gus, taking a neutral position. “Life’s not all black-and-white.”

Solomon glowered out the window. He didn’t need Harley’s disapproval or Gus’s philosophizing. He’d made a decision based on regulation, expectation, and discipline. At the same time, he knew how it felt to have a child ripped out of his life, out of his future. He hated what he’d done.

Chapter Three

Jordan burrowed deeper into the cozy cocoon she floated in, resisting the pull of consciousness. There were reasons why she didn’t want to waken; oblivion was so much sweeter than reality.

Her head rested on a densely muscled shoulder, her face buried against a manly-smelling neck. Was it Doug who was holding her so tenderly? Her ex-husband was a big, strong, high-school football coach. Sweeping a hand up the rock-hard chest, she remembered his infidelities, and with a cry of protest, lifted her lolling head to demand he let her go.

The painted face glancing down at her brought it all back. Navy SEAL Senior Chief McGuire was carrying her across a hot and windy tarmac toward an airport terminal. The helicopter’s rotors descended a musical scale behind them. Two SEALs preceded him; three more followed behind, escorting Sister Madeline.

“Put me down,” Jordan croaked. The last thing she remembered was one of the SEALs sticking a needle in her thigh. It was this man—this bastard—that had prevented her from bringing Miguel. She started to struggle.

“You won’t be able to stand,” he warned.

“Let go of me!” she raged, her fury swelling to think that she may have lost Miguel forever, just as she’d lost her baby.

He stopped in his tracks. “You want me to put you down?” he asked, with an arctic glare.

“Yes!”

“Fine then.” He dropped an arm, releasing her legs. Her boots touched the sun-warmed cement. She twisted her upper body free and—to her astonishment—kept right on going. Quick as lightning, he looped an arm around her, catching her in middescent. He set her on her feet again.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, prying free of his hold, determined to stand on her own.

He put his hands up to signify surrender and watched her keel right over. This time he didn’t move to catch her.

“Oooph!” Jordan landed on her hip, pain radiating from her pelvis.

With a shake of his head, the senior chief just turned and walked away.

Two more SEALs hurried over to scoop her up. “You okay, ma’am?” asked the dark-haired, brown-eyed one who’d stuck her with a syringe full of God-knew-what. He was all concern now.

Jordan couldn’t answer. Okay? She’d never be okay again.

The bald SEAL’s blue eyes flashed with disapproval at the now-retreating senior chief. But his gentle touch conveyed concern.

“Up you go,” said the first SEAL, and together they hoisted her between them. She moved her legs automatically, amazed not to feel the pavement under her feet. How odd.

The African-American SEAL held the door for them, ushering the trio and Sister Madeline inside, out of the windy heat.

Air-conditioning,
marveled the part of Jordan’s brain that functioned autonomously. It’d been months since she’d experienced that luxury. The smell of coffee and maple syrup wafted from a food court at the rear.

The SEALs lowered her onto one of a half dozen sofas in what was obviously a gate at the airport. The bald SEAL stalked away; the younger one crouched in front of her, checking Jordan’s vital signs and her pupils. “You’ll feel better in a couple a’ hours,” he reassured her. “How ’bout a cup of orange juice?” he asked, like he was offering her the elixir of youth.

She just looked at him. How could she eat anything, knowing Miguel was probably hungry and thirsty and terrified without her?

With a commiserating grimace, he stood up and followed the others.

Jordan keeled over on the cloth-covered couch and closed her eyes. A patch of sunlight fell warmly across her face.

Miguel.
She’d played with him and held him and watched him flower for two summers in a row. He’d become as much a part of her as the baby who’d been attached by an umbilical cord. Now that he was gone she felt just as incomplete as when she’d miscarried.

Hot tears welled up under her closed eyelids and seeped between her lashes, wetting the cushion beneath her head. A shadow robbed her face of warmth.

She cracked an eye and discovered Senior Chief McGuire standing over her with a cup in one hand and a half-wrapped breakfast biscuit in the other. She closed her eyes again. “Go away.”

“Sit up,” he said, ignoring her.

“Leave me alone.”

Instead of leaving, he cupped her shoulders and pulled her up into a sitting position. “You need to eat,” he said, lowering himself into the sunny patch she’d lain in. He plucked the food items off the floor.

“Says who?”

“Says me.” He shoved the cup at her.

She realized suddenly that her mouth was parched. Her fingers shook as she accepted the cup. She had to close her eyes at the sensation of citrus juice gliding over her tongue, sliding coolly down her throat.

She took a tentative bite of the biscuit that was thrust into her hand. Hunger, revived by the smell of food, made her suddenly ravenous. “Where are we?” she demanded around a mouthful. The stunted cactus visible through the window told her nothing.

“The Dutch Antilles,” he said, curtly.

An ocean lay between her and the child of her heart. The realization robbed her of her appetite. She started to wrap up the rest of the biscuit.

“Finish it,” said the SEAL.

She glared at him, her eyes stinging. “I am not one of your soldiers,” she retorted. As their gazes clashed and held, she was hit by how unrelentingly male he was. The breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his upper arms, summoned an annoying awareness of herself as a woman, filthy and in bad need of a shower, while he, sometime in the last few minutes, had managed to wipe the paint off his face.

“A representative of the FBI is coming to collect you,” he said, in a gruff, resonant voice. “And escort you home.”

“Whatever.” Her home was wherever Miguel was.

“You need to get cleaned up,” he added.

His own scrubbed face was strangely arresting. Patrician features, a dark moustache, and neat black eyebrows combined to make him ruthlessly handsome. His silvery eyes were nothing short of hypnotic. She wrested her gaze upward, noting the silver hair above his forehead that streaked back into darker hair like a fin.

Mako.
The name popped into her head. No wonder the others called him that. He looked just like a shark.

“Where’s the bathroom?” She struggled to rise.

“Over there.” He stood up also, watchful, but not touching as he nodded toward a door. “I tossed a flight uniform inside so you’d have something to change into.” The words
there
and
uniform
betrayed New England roots.

As Jordan shuffled toward the ladies’ room, her legs tingled and revived. She could feel Mako’s gaze on her as she fumbled with the handle and pushed her way inside.

She winced to see her reflection in the mirror—bedraggled hair, puffy face, and disillusioned eyes. Her life was supposed to be getting better, not worse.

With a fresh onslaught of tears, she twisted the faucet on and set about washing up. She would get through this, she promised herself. No matter who or what tried to get in her way, she wouldn’t rest until Miguel was back in her arms, where he belonged.

Rafael Valentino had to take Senior Chief McGuire’s word that Jordan Bliss was in the restroom. “Good luck,” the SEAL had said, seeming all too happy to foist the woman off on someone else.

Rafe eased into a chair and waited. This wing of Curaçao’s Hato International was used exclusively by U.S. and NATO forces. At the moment, it stood deserted. He didn’t know what to expect as the restroom door squeaked open. He drew a startled breath as a darker-haired version of Jillian edged through the opening. Her pale, exhausted countenance brought him quickly to his feet.

She looked like she’d been to hell and back.

“Jordan Bliss?” he asked, approaching her.

Indigo-blue eyes reflected confusion. “Who are you?”

“Special Agent Valentino, FBI.”

“Where did the SEALs go?” The plastic sack she held sagged to the floor, as if too heavy to hold.

“Back to Venezuela. They have orders awaiting them.”

The freckles on her nose stood starkly against her pasty complexion. “They went back?” Abandoning the sack, she stumbled to the exit and feebly thrust it open.

With a cry of disbelief, she beheld the spot where the helicopter had sat. She let the door fall shut, slumping wearily against it.

“I’m a friend of your sister’s,” said Rafe, with an urge to take her into his arms before she collapsed. Her vulnerability reminded him of Jillian’s.

“Jillian?” She turned her head to look at him.

“Yes, Jillian. She’s been worried sick about you.”

“Is she okay? The baby!” she cried.

“She’s fine,” he reassured her. “And very pregnant. She’s looking forward to having you home.”

“Of course,” Jordan agreed, without enthusiasm.

“I have a plane waiting,” he added, indicating the private jet outside. “Is there anything you need before we go?”

“Just my clothes.” Pushing off the door, she went to retrieve the sack.

As the tiny twin engine sliced through the thin atmosphere over the Gulf of Mexico, Jordan felt the effects of the tranquilizer waning. It might have been the sugar in the powdered donuts Valentino set before her at the start of their flight, but as they entered U.S. airspace, with the Mississippi River snaking far below them, she felt revived enough to ask, “So, how did my big sister get six Navy SEALs and the FBI to yank me out of Venezuela?”

The darkly handsome agent cast her a ghost of a smile. “The SEALs were my idea,” he admitted, in his peculiar, gravelly voice. “But your sister gets points for persistence. She called the Bureau thirty-one times.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Jordan, dryly. “How do you know Jillian? Through Gary?” Her sister had never mentioned a friend at the Bureau, certainly not a distinguished gentleman who didn’t wear a wedding ring.

“She was a nurse in the ER in Fairfax when I was treated for shrapnel in my neck.” He touched the scar just above his collar.

Jordan realized the injury was the reason for his rusty voice. “Oh. So . . .” She pushed back thoughts of Miguel that made conversation so difficult. “How’s Jillie doing? Is the barn up yet?”

“The barn is up.” He turned down the corner of the page and closed the magazine, giving her his full attention.

A gentleman, thought Jordan—unlike a certain Navy SEAL she’d encountered lately.

“Has she bought those therapy horses yet?”

“She has just one horse that I know of.”

“That’s our old horse Molly,” said Jordon, locking her cold hands together. “You must think I’m an awful sister, leaving her at a time like this,” she added, betraying her private guilt.

“It’s not for me to think anything,” he answered tactfully.

“I had to go back to Venezuela,” she explained. “I was supposed to bring Miguel home with me. Did Jillie tell you about Miguel?”

“No.”

“He’s four years old. An orphan. I met him last summer doing my mission work there, and I . . .” How could she possibly convey her immediate and overwhelming attachment for the boy? “I knew back then that I wanted to be his mother.” Her voice wobbled. “So I got all the documents signed and sent off, but it takes so much time for the Venezuelan courts to respond. And with the new government struggling to stay in power . . .” She swallowed the lump filling her throat. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get to adopt him. Or if I’ll even be able to find him again.”

She had to look out the window to subdue her overwhelming despair. “Still,” she added, huskily, “maybe I should’ve stayed near Jillian this summer. It’s got to be hard without Gary there to help.”

A long silence followed her lament.

“What happened to Gary?” Valentino finally inquired, his tone remote.

She turned and looked at him, realizing at the same instant that he hadn’t known. “Jillie didn’t tell you?”

“No.” He calmly slipped his magazine into the pocket of his black leather briefcase.

“He was killed in a drug sting. You knew he was a policeman, right?”

“Yes. When was this?”

“It was January, so—seven months ago. She didn’t even know she was pregnant. She sold the house in Fairfax and moved into the house we grew up in. That was something she and Gary’d always planned to do, to have a hippotherapy ranch.”

A taut silence followed her words. Jordan sensed that she’d caught the agent by surprise, though it was hard to tell by his serene expression.

“Excuse me,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I need to have a word with the pilot. Can I get you anything? More milk?”

“No thanks. I still have some.” His polite retreat made her wonder if he had feelings for Jillian. Jillie was a beautiful, capable woman, but what bachelor wanted to take on another man’s family?

Thoughts of Miguel impaled her again, and she turned her stricken face to the window, grappling with the awful feeling that she’d lost him forever.

Solomon stared at the patina of moonlight shining on the ceiling. The fact that he couldn’t sleep had nothing to do with the whirring of insects outside the barracks or the occasional volley of gunfire as soldiers of the Moderate government drilled in anticipation of a coup. It was Jordan Bliss. He couldn’t get the damn woman out of his head.

The memory of her haunted him. Even with her hair matted, her eyes swollen, her nose running, he’d been struck by something ferociously beautiful in her. Physically, she was pleasing, with autumnal coloring, deep violet eyes, and full lips. But beyond the physical, he sensed a wealth of devotion and commitment for a child she hadn’t even given birth to.

Had Candace ever loved Silas like that?

He had. With a groan, he realized that the pain of losing a child never really went away. It just got buried under everyday issues and details. But beneath those issues, it remained, a bleeding wound.

And now he lay here, wondering what his son looked like at six years of age; where he was, that not a single private investigator over the course of five years could find so much as a trace of him. From that fateful night Solomon had returned home to an empty house, Candace and Silas hadn’t once resurfaced.

Since then, he’d taken life one day at a time, seizing comfort wherever he could find it—in a book, between a woman’s thighs, on the wide expanse of the ocean. He never looked beyond the day’s end for happiness.