Don't Let Go (8 page)

The morning sunrise burnished the marsh grass surrounding Solomon’s houseboat. Birds twittered in the trees. A pungent odor hanging in the cool air made Jordan think of how the jungle smelled at dawn when she awakened and peered lovingly down at Miguel, asleep on his pallet beside her.

But then she spied Solomon, lounging on his deck, and memories of Miguel took a backseat to present circumstances. As he eyed her approach over the rim of a coffee mug, every muscle in her body tensed with awareness, resentment, and self-blame.

If it weren’t for the money he was going to pay her, she wouldn’t have returned at all today. Yet seeing him now, his powerful shoulders gilded by sunlight, that small confident smile on his face, a secret part of her thrilled to see him again while her pride insisted Silas was the only reason she returned.

As she put her first foot on the pier, Solomon glanced at his watch. She dared him to say that she was late. It was only a quarter till eight.

“Eager to earn your money, are you?” he called, instead.

She drew up short, gritting her teeth against his jibe. “I have plans this afternoon. I need to get an early start.”

His gaze narrowed at the word
plans
. “Silas is still sleeping,” he pointed out.

“Then I’ll wake him up,” she said, heading for the gangplank.

“Grab some coffee and join me first,” he countered. “We need to talk.”

She stopped again, thoroughly annoyed by his heavy-handedness. “I’ve told you this before,
Mako
. I am not one of your soldiers. Try again.”

A full thirty seconds elapsed before he said, tersely, “Would you like a cup of coffee first?”

“Yes, I would,” she said, baring her teeth in a smile. “Thank you.” Continuing across the gangplank, she let herself in.

Minutes later, she eased stiffly down on a chair across from his, took a quick sip of the mug she’d brought up, and shuddered. “How can you drink this?” she asked, steeling herself against his frank inspection and the warmth of his eyes as they rested on her bare legs. “Your coffee could be used as paint stripper.”

“I like my drinks to have a kick,” he replied.

“Me, too, but I’d prefer my kick with cream and sugar.” She put her mug aside. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I wanted to explain that I’m going to leave you and Silas alone this morning.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised and privately disappointed that he was obeying her ultimatum. “Thank you.”

“I also bought a cell phone like you said I should. Take this number down,” he suggested, rattling it off.

Jordan jotted the number down in the notebook taken from her tote bag. “You’ll be glad you got a phone,” she predicted.

“I doubt it. So, tell me, what methods are you planning to use today?” he asked, and she just knew he was remembering the whipped cream and how it tasted on her lips.

Squashing the memory of his kiss, Jordan traded the notebook for a workbook. “Well, if Silas can stand to sit still for three hours, we’ll continue on through phonics,” she explained, handing it to Solomon for his approval. “He’s a dominantly visual learner, so he may do better with whole language, in which case, I’ve brought some reading material suitable for his age.” She kept
that
in the bag, knowing instinctively that he shouldn’t see it.

“I’ll see you at noon, then,” he replied, handing the workbook back. “Would you like me to bring you lunch?”

She shrugged. “Sure. Thank you. That would be nice.” It would save her from having to grab fast food on the way to her sister’s.

“What do you like to eat, Jordan?” he inquired. His silvery eyes seemed to darken as he focused intently on her mouth.

A blush heated Jordan’s face at the shockingly lascivious image that flashed through her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she gritted, clinging to her forced politeness. “Whatever’s easiest.”

“And how would you like to be paid, Jordan?”

He had to know that it rattled her to hear her name rolled on his tongue like that.

“Day by day or week by week?” he added, helpfully.

“Every other day would be best,” she answered tightly. She refused to squirm like a worm on the end of his hook. He was just a man, she told herself, a man with a secret talent for sentimental verse who, for whatever reason, made her think about sex for the first time in years, even though she hated him.

Okay, she didn’t hate him, she just found him irksome.

“Well, then,” he murmured, drawing her gaze to his taut abdomen as he stood up and stretched. “I’ll go wake up Silas.” And then he was gone, bearing his coffee mug with him.

Jordan exhaled a shaky breath. Perhaps she could handle a relationship based on physical attraction. She was human, after all, with normal human impulses. At least, he posed no threat whatsoever to her heart. He couldn’t devastate her as Doug had.

With that comforting thought, she grabbed her bag and followed him inside.

As promised, Solomon returned at noon. Jordan and Silas sat in the breakfast nook, engrossed in the comic strip of Dragon Ball Z, when the front door of the houseboat opened and closed on the barest whisper of sound.

She didn’t have time to shove the comic book out of sight before Solomon strode into the kitchen. He tossed a folded newspaper on top of the comic book, and demanded, “Read it.”

His sudden presence was as unsettling as the agitation crackling in him. “Read what?” she asked, braced for bad news.

“This.” He stabbed a finger at the article filling up the bottom of the page.
Coup in Venezuela Leads to Revolution.
He tossed a bag of Subway sandwiches onto the counter and turned to rummage in the fridge.

With Silas trying to sneak the comic book out from under the newspaper, Jordan skimmed the article, her heart frozen in fear. She’d watched the reports of fighting in southern Venezuela every night this past week. It seemed the Populists had won in the southern states, pushing the Moderate Army out of both Las Amazonas and Apure.

Her scalp prickled with apprehension. What did that mean for her? Would she have access to Puerto Ayacucho at all, or would the entire state of Las Amazonas be closed to foreigners?

“If this doesn’t persuade you to stay in the States, then I don’t know what will,” Solomon growled, popping the top off a beer bottle.

Jordan’s pulse tapped against her right temple, but she kept her own counsel.

Solomon tossed back a swig and pinned her with a narrow-eyed glare. “Surely you’re not naive enough to think that you can just waltz back into the country, and no one will take notice.”

Jordan squeezed Silas’s wrist in a silent message to keep the comic book hidden. “If you’re trying to scare me, Mako, it isn’t going to work,” she retorted.

He put his beer bottle down abruptly, splayed his hands upon the table, and leaned closer, his eyes like hot steel. “What would it take to scare you, I wonder?” he mused quietly, his gaze sliding downward.

Jordan looked at him sharply. “Are you threatening me?” she demanded, with growing outrage.

“I can read,” Silas piped up, shattering the tense moment and wresting Solomon’s gaze from hers.

“Can he?” he demanded. He looked back at Jordan for corroboration.

“He’s making progress,” Jordan hedged, halting Silas as he tried again to free the comic book.

“What are you reading?” his father predictably demanded.

“We’ll demonstrate when he’s proficient.”

“Dragon Ball Z!” Silas shouted with enthusiasm.

Solomon frowned. “What is that?” he asked Jordan.

“It’s a children’s book.”

“Cartoons!” explained Silas, with a gappy grin. “Just like on TV.”

With a perceptive glance at their joined hands, Solomon snatched the newspaper off the table. There in all of its colorful glory was the comic book, depicting a battle between Gohan and Friesa. Solomon’s eyes widened in horrific disbelief. “This is how you’re teaching him to read?” he demanded in a soft but intimidating rumble.

“Well, how else do you expect a six-year-old to keep still for hours at a stretch?” Jordan retorted. “You do what he loves, and it just so happens that Silas loved watching Dragon Ball Z with Christopher and Caleb. Look, he read these three words by himself.” She pointed to the onomatopoeic words.
Bam, Kaboom,
and
Zap
. “And he also found and circled these eight sight words—see?—so he can read them with me.”

Solomon scowled down at the page, saying nothing.

“He’s six years old,” Jordan continued, appealing to his reason. “Even with periodic breaks, you can’t expect him to work at one hundred percent for three hours straight!”

Solomon crossed his arms, still frowning as if called upon to make a life-and-death decision. Jordan was just warming up to her role as Silas’s defender. “And while we’re on the subject,” she added, “who’s going to watch Silas when I go back to Venezuela? You need to enroll him in a child-care program. You can’t keep him cooped up on this boat forever.” What she really meant was
I’m not going to be here forever.

A secret gleam entered Solomon’s eyes. “Who says he’s cooped up?” he demanded softly. “That’s the beauty of living on a houseboat. You’re never tied down. Eat your sandwiches,” he added tersely, turning away. “There’s milk in the refrigerator.”

With that, he let himself out.

“He’s mad,” said Silas, looking worried.

Yes, he is,
Jordan thought—mad in the British sense of the word: crazy. “He’ll get over it,” she comforted. “Just think how proud he’ll be when you can read this book out loud to him. Let’s eat, and then we can finish this story.”

They were halfway through their meal when the boat gave a throaty rumble, and the seat beneath her vibrated. “What’s that?” Jordan jerked her head up to peer out the window. She caught sight of Solomon hauling in the gangplank.
Oh, no,
she thought.
Oh, no, no, no!

Chapter Eight

In alarm, Jordan dropped her sandwich and scooted out of the booth to race to the door. She snatched it open. With a loud revving noise, the houseboat started backing out of its berth. “Stop!” she called in panic, her voice bouncing off the water.

Solomon didn’t answer. Where was he? She had to reason with him. He didn’t know what this would do to her.

The boat started turning. He had to be steering from somewhere, but where?

There were metal steps that appeared to lead up to a canopied pilot room. She edged toward them, catching sight of him, at last. “What are you doing?” she yelled up, clutching the siding on the houseboat, terrified to approach the rail.

“Showing you that Silas is definitely not cooped up, as you suggested.”

The boat was gliding over dancing little waves, like a skater over ice. Her stomach cramped in protest. “You can’t do this! We’re not wearing life vests!”

In the next instant, two orange vests came sailing down on her head. One for her; the little one for Silas. “I get seasick!” she tried again.

“Just don’t puke on deck,” he shouted back, pulling on the throttle to move them forward.

“Oh, God!” Jordan cried, breaking out into a cold sweat. She eyed the brackish water in panic, unable even to bend over and pick up the life vests.

Silas stepped through the door. “Wow!” he cried in delight. “We’re going out on the water!”

“S-Silas, put on a life vest,” Jordan stammered, overcoming her terror long enough to snatch up the smaller life vest and thread his arms through the holes.

“Why? I can swim.”

“It’s the law,” she insisted, at the same time wanting to slap that little smirk she just knew was on Solomon’s face. No doubt he was having a grand time proving his point. She snapped her own life vest closed with fingers that shook. “Let’s go back inside.”

“No,” cried Silas, darting under her arm to run to the back of the boat. He ran right up to the rail and looked over.

“Oh, God!” Jordan cried, following him on wobbly legs. She could feel the roll of the water beneath her feet. It wreaked havoc on her queasy stomach. “Silas, please!” she cried, collapsing on a padded box. “Sit down.”

“Go faster!” Silas called, ignoring her to shout up encouragement at his father. To her horror, he ran for the front of the boat to watch the bow cut through the water as they moved forward now, heading for the mouth of the inlet toward the Chesapeake Bay.

“Silas!” Jordan tried to get up and follow him, but her legs gave out. They were tingling now, as were her hands and feet. Little black spots obstructed her vision. To her horror, she could feel the bile rising inexorably toward her esophagus.

Oh, help
. The waves were getting bigger, and Silas was riding the swells, grinning like a pirate, his hair ruffling in the breeze. He had no idea that he could slip on the deck that was wet from the spray and crack his head open. He was small enough to slide right under the railing, into the swells.

The instinct to go after him battled her phobia. How big would the waves get? How long could Silas hang on before he was tossed off? With sweating, white-knuckled hands, she clung to her tenuous seat. To her horror, the black spots in her vision spread. Her mouth watered in advance warning that she was going to lose her lunch.

She had just enough time to lean out over the railing, risking death by drowning, to avoid the humility of having to clean up the deck—or worse, watch Solomon do it.

With her stomach empty, she prayed for the nausea to pass, but it didn’t. Jordan collapsed back on the box, feeling like a puddle in a life vest, too weak to move or even open her eyes, bathed in a clammy sweat.

Solomon heard Silas patter up the metal steps to the pilot room. “Careful,” he warned. “Hold the railing.”

“Mith Jordan is pukin’ her gutths out,” Silas reported.

Solomon wrested his gaze from the channel markings to Silas’s expectant gaze. He immediately shifted into neutral, sending the houseboat into a gliding standstill. There were no other boats in the inlet to worry about. He left the wheel to assess Jordan’s condition for himself.

He found her pale-faced, eyes closed, clutching the rail behind her like she would slip bonelessly to the deck if she let go. “Jordan,” he called, patting her clammy cheek.

Her indigo eyes fluttered open, a colorful contrast to her green complexion. “Bend over and put your head between your knees,” he instructed, recognizing her symptoms. “Silas, go inside and fetch a wet cloth. Walk!” he added, as Silas took off at a run.

Jordan’s reddish brown hair hid her profile as it hung to the deck. Solomon gathered it in his hands, enjoying the cool, silky glide of it through his fingers as he hunkered down to assess her recovery. “Breathe through your nose, slow and steady.”

“Why?” she choked out after a minute of steady breathing. “Why did you do this to me? I told you I get seasick!”

Feeling bad, he delayed an answer as he took the sodden paper towel Silas brought back and wrung it out. “Sit up,” he said, patting her face with it, relieved to see some pink return to her cheeks. “I wanted to prove a point, Jordan,” he admitted, causing her head to jerk back and her eyes to flash.

“What, that Silas isn’t cooped up? You didn’t have to be so heavy-handed about it.”

“That wasn’t my only point. I wanted you to know what it means to be helpless because, if my instincts are right, then you still plan to return to Venezuela, regardless of the dangers.”

She could only stare at him, rigid with outrage, her stomach still roiling.

“You might reign supreme in your classroom, Miss Bliss,” he continued grimly, “but the real world is a hell of a lot bigger and a hell of a lot scarier than an elementary school. You can’t control it, any more than you can control this body of water.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes, not wanting to hear it. “You’re wasting your time.”

“You can’t go back,” he repeated, desperate to convey what dangers awaited her. “The Populists are arresting Americans left and right,” he added, pitching his voice lower so that Silas couldn’t hear him. “If you disappear into a Venezuelan prison, you may never see the light of day again. You have no idea what hell an American woman might have to endure before she’s blessed with the luxury of death,” he added, shaken by the images he’d conjured.

She fixed him with an obstinate look he’d seen on the faces of junior SEALs. “It doesn’t matter!” she whispered fiercely. “I still have to
try
. Because if I don’t, and the Populists take over, then I will
never
see Miguel again. I’d rather die than lose another child!” she added, her voice cracking.

Another
child? Solomon rolled back on his heels. Understanding ran him through, like a knife through his heart. Along with understanding came compassion and concern. His lips firmed with resolve. “Come on,” he said, pushing to his feet and holding a hand out to her.

She stared at it mistrustfully. “Where are we going?”

“Up to the pilothouse. You’re going to take us back.”

“What?” she gasped.

“You want to venture into the real world, Jordan?” he demanded, showing her no more mercy than he showed his men. “Then you need to know how to think through your fear. The only way we’re returning to the pier is if you take us there.”

She just looked at him, her face draining of color. “I can’t.”

“I’ll be with you this time,” he promised, feeling for her. “Let’s go.” He held his hand out, insisting she take it.

It was her desire to get on dry land that no doubt persuaded her. Jordan slipped a clammy hand into his, and he pulled her to her feet. “You, too, Silas,” he called, shepherding the two of them up the steps to the highest part of the boat, where the bobbing was most evident.

“I’m going to get sick,” Jordan protested, her knees giving out at the view awaiting them.

He caught her, coiling an arm around her midsection as he positioned her before the ship’s wheel. “No you’re not. Think, Jordan. Think through your panic. You can trust me,” he added, inhaling the fruity scent of her shampoo as he murmured into her ear. His junior SEALs didn’t get that kind of sweet-talking from him. But she wasn’t a SEAL. She was just your average, thirtysomething female with no survival training whatsoever, who wanted to venture into a war-torn country to wrest a little boy out of the cross fire.

And now he understood why. Because Miguel was the second child she’d loved and lost. He’d had no idea. Had the loss of that child been the reason for her failed marriage?

“Here,” he said, unfurling her clenched fists to place them on the steering wheel. “Silas, sit down,” he warned, shifting the throttle into gear.

With a lurch that brought Jordan’s backside flush against his front, the boat started moving.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered, sinking against him as her legs gave out again.

“Stand up,” he urged, pulling her upright. He wished she weren’t wearing the life vest, wished he could enjoy the weight of her breasts on his arm. He put his free hand over one of hers and ordered her to turn the boat around.

Her breath came in panicky little gasps; nonetheless, she steered them back the way they came.

They were headed straight toward a crab pot buoy. “Go around it,” he warned. She overcorrected and the boat swung too far, prompting a squeal of fear from her.

“Relax,” he murmured, bringing
Camelot
back under control. He reduced their speed to give her more reaction time. “Think with your head and your gut. Don’t listen to your fear, Jordan. Fear is your enemy.”

All the while that he spoke to her, encouraging in his instructions, his mind raced with deep concern. This was not a false alarm. Jordan was
hell-bent
on returning to Venezuela, more so than he’d realized. If he interfered in any way, he knew she’d never forgive him.

He would have to think of something else—some other way to snatch Miguel out of the country. If only he’d brought the boy with them the first time! It was going to take everything in his power to make up for that mistake.

“If I can do that,” exclaimed Jordan, throwing herself down on the cushion next to Silas while Solomon disappeared to secure the boat to its moorings, “then you can learn to read.”

Silas shot her a gamine grin. “Let’s go out again.”

“Oh, no, not today,” said Jordan weakly. “I have to go help my sister. She’s getting five new horses this afternoon for her therapy ranch.”

“Real horses?”

“Really real. Would you like to come out to the ranch and see them next week?” she asked. “You could play with my niece. She’s six, just like you.”

“A girl?” he scoffed, wrinkling his nose.

A vibration under her feet drew Jordan’s gaze toward the stairs. Solomon reappeared to press a few more buttons and extract the key from the ignition. “Well, shipmate Bliss,” he said, eyeing her thoughtfully, “you’re not exactly Captain Bligh, but you found your sea legs.”

“I’d just as soon use them to walk on dry land, thanks,” she retorted, trying to remember who Captain Bligh was. She pushed to her feet, unbuckling her life vest with hands that still shook. “You’re lucky that I’m a forgiving person, Solomon,” she warned, saying his name for the first time, enjoying how it felt on her lips and tongue. “You came pretty darn close to having to look for a new tutor.”

Tossing the life vest at him, she descended the steps calling, “See you, Silas.”

“Jordan.”

She rolled her eyes at Solomon’s peremptory tone and turned around inquiringly. “Yes, Solomon?”

The grave expression on his face made his eyes seem more gray than silver. “Give me time,” he exhorted, “and I will find a way to get Miguel for you.”

The offer took her aback. For a moment, she could only stare up at him, nonplussed. How thoughtful of him to make an offer like that! How gallant. How . . . unexpected. But she’d already bought her tickets; her money was spent. Besides, she didn’t have the luxury of time, not with her visa expiring, with Miguel losing ground on his emotional recovery.

“Will you tutor Silas this weekend?” he added, his tone compelling.

“Do you want me to?” She could always stand to make more money.

“Aye,” he said softly, and his sex appeal shot through her like a harpoon.

Slowly, surely, he was reeling her in. She wasn’t sure whether to fight the tug of attraction or revel in it. After all, he wasn’t a threat to her emotions. And having sexual urges just meant she was whole again, the pain of her divorce truly over. “Well, in that case, I’ll see you in the afternoon on both days. I have to help my sister in the mornings.”

She didn’t miss the glint of curiosity in his eyes. He wanted to know what she was up to, but she just left him wondering. Their lives might have intersected at this critical time of her life, but in the long run, she’d remain independent—safe from any potential for heartache or crushing disillusionment.

So long as Miguel was in her life, she’d never be alone.

Rafe assessed Jillian’s front stoop in the twilight, trying to determine the cause of its sagging as Jillian walked Jordan to her car. The quiet country air was disturbed only by the buzz of insects and the call of a whip-poor-will. The sisters’ conversation came to him distinctly as he bent to examine the foundation on the side of the listing structure.

“Thank you, Jordan. You still have that special touch with animals. We couldn’t have done it without you, today.”

“Well, give the horses some credit. They’re remarkably docile.”

“That’s how therapy horses are supposed to be. Still, thank you. I know you’re busy tutoring that little boy.”

“Family comes first,” said Jordan. “I’ll be back tomorrow and again on Sunday.”

From the corner of his eye, Rafe watched the sisters embrace. “Boy, this baby’s growing,” Jordan laughed, laying a hand on Jillian’s belly. “Have you picked out names yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“You’re, what, seven months along? When are you going to pick out names?”

“When I have the
time,
” Jillian answered with strain in her voice.

To Rafe’s relief, Jordan offered her sister a second hug. “I’m right here to help,” she comforted. “At least for a little while.”