Don't Let Go (14 page)

Oh, Solomon,
she thought with a heavy heart,
maybe you were right. I should have let Lucy handle this all along.

Lucy Donovan lived in a high-security, high-rise apartment building. A keycard and a code punched into the alarm system admitted them into the parking garage. An elevator bore then to the very top floor, where Lucy entered a second code that released the door to the penthouse suite. There, a panoramic view of the city of Caracas filled the wall of windows.

Jordan wasn’t as enthralled with the view as she was with the realization that Miguel was somewhere inside this modern, impersonalized apartment.

“
Gracias,
Julieta,” Lucy said, dismissing the maid who slept on the couch, awaiting her return.

With a bob and a good night murmur, the maid left the apartment. Lucy slipped off her muddy boots, leaving them beside the door. “Are you hungry?” she asked, striding in socks to the kitchen and flooding it with lights. Jordan glanced at the modern amenities and graphite counters. “I have beer and pizza,” said Lucy, opening the refrigerator.

Jordan took stock of her. Wearing a black halter and leggings over her trim, athletic frame, Lucy Donovan looked like Lara Croft from
Tomb Raider
.

“No thank you. I’m not hungry. Where’s Miguel?” she asked, dying to reunite with him.

“In the guest room down the hall,” said Lucy, glancing at her with light green eyes. “It has its own bathroom,” she added. “Help yourself to anything you need.”

“Thank you so much,” Jordan answered, turning and hurrying down the short hallway.

As she pushed through the closed door, her gaze flew to the small lump huddled under the blanket on the king-size bed. She turned on the bedside lamp, needing to see him, to reassure herself that Miguel was really here.

As she pulled the edge of the sheet from his cheek, he startled awake and drew back with a cry.

“Miguel,” she said, removing her baseball cap. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

For one awful second, he didn’t seem to recognize her, but then his big, dark eyes filled with tears, and he launched himself at her, clinging so tightly that she could barely breathe.

“I missed you, too, baby,” she choked, as tears of exhaustion and happiness flooded her eyes. “I came a long way to get you back,” she crooned, rocking him as he continued to hold on. Running a hand up and down his narrow back, she could tell that he’d been fed, but he clearly hadn’t had much of an appetite.

“Do you remember your English words?” she asked, when he didn’t speak. She held her breath, hoping he would speak for her, as he had in the past.

“Yes,” he said with hesitation.

“I’m going to take you home with me,” she told him. “This time I won’t let you go. Do you understand?”

He searched her face, his eyes wide and filled with far too much sorrow for a boy of four years. He didn’t answer. She suffered the feeling that he didn’t believe her, though he should. Nothing short of hell and high water could separate them ever again.

Ah, here she is,
Jillian thought, hearing the crush of gravel under the tires of an approaching car. She secured her second earring, stepped into sandals too tight for her swollen feet, and reached for her matching handbag. She hadn’t even been sure that Jordan would show up tonight. She’d been trying to reach her sister for two days now to firm up their plans.

“Graham,” Jillian called at the top of the stairs. “Aunt Jordan’s here. I’m leaving now.”

“Okay,” said Graham, who was in his bedroom.

“That means you need to get off the computer and play with Agatha,” Jillian reminded him. “Make her a ham and cheese sandwich and don’t let her out of your sight.”

Graham appeared suddenly at his bedroom door with a sneer on his face. “If Aunt Jordan is taking you out, then why is that FBI guy coming to the door?” he demanded.

“He is?” Jillian hadn’t even thought to look out the window; she’d just assumed it was Jordan. “Oh, dear.”

Beset with suspicions and fears, Jillian hurried down the steps. The heel of her right sandal wobbled, and she stumbled suddenly, clattering down several steps before catching herself with one hand on the rail, the other on a step behind her.

“Mom!” Graham called, thundering down the steps in her wake. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Jillian, though her ankle and one wrist were now both tender. She felt a tightening in her womb that she attributed to a Braxton Hicks contraction. They happened regularly, now. “Get the door, honey.”

With a returning scowl, Graham brushed past her to open the door. Jillian stood up, feeling flustered and ungainly. As the door swung open, Rafe’s midnight gaze impaled her. “Did you just fall down the stairs?” he asked, looking impossibly handsome in a black suit and crisp, white shirt, though his complexion seemed pale.

“I just slipped a few steps. I’m fine. What’s going on?” she asked, descending more carefully to approach the door.

He looked her over, his gaze still worried. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Why are you here?”

He drew a deep breath. “Jordan sent me here tonight to take you out to dinner. She’s out of the country,” he announced.

“Oh, my God.” Jillian wilted against the door, beset by shock. “I had a bad feeling when I couldn’t get in touch with her,” she admitted.

“I warned her not to go,” Rafe added somberly. “There’s a coup occurring in Caracas as we speak.”

Jillian couldn’t speak. She closed her eyes and shook her head. The news left her cold and weak. “Graham, go find Agatha.” She could sense Graham hovering right behind her. He turned and stalked away.

“You look pale, Jillian,” said Rafael, who still stood on the welcome mat. “Come sit with me out here.” With a warm, gentle grasp, he drew her outside and helped her ease onto the porch swing. He sat gracefully beside her, his sidelong gaze like a blanket. “I’m sure she has the sense to retreat to the American embassy,” he comforted.

“Does she?” Jillian tossed back. “Does she have any sense whatsoever returning to that country? It took a platoon of Navy SEALs to get her out the last time, Rafael. What’s it going to take now?”

“She’s living her life,” he pointed out gently. “The little boy she’s trying to adopt must mean the world to her.”

“I hope she doesn’t get killed trying to get him out,” Jillian retorted. She tried to cling to her anger, but guilt and fear won out, and her eyes filled abruptly with tears. She looked away, not wanting Rafael to see them.

He started to rock the swing, ever so gently, while she blinked back her tears and briskly wiped the corner of her eye. “It’s your birthday,” he pointed out, kindly.

With a sniff, she glanced at him and mustered a smile. “Yes, it is.”

His gaze drifted downward, over the cream-colored crocheted sundress she wore, the matching sandals, and the handbag in her lap. “You look beautiful.”

She’d twisted her long, gold hair into a French knot, dabbed on perfume, a little makeup. She had thought, looking critically into the mirror earlier, that she looked fat, overly ripe, but his appreciative gaze didn’t make her feel that way.

“I’ll understand if you don’t wish to go out still,” he continued, a little self-consciously.

“Oh, I do.” She cut him off before he had the chance to back out. “Yes, I realize Jordan’s in a very dangerous place right now, and something terrible could happen to her. But until and unless something does, I’m going to enjoy my birthday because it’s the last time I’ll ever be this age.”

Rafael eyed her with what was clearly mixed respect and wariness. “Very well,” he conceded with his self-mocking smile. “We have reservations for seven-fifteen at Waterside.”

“Let me say good-bye to Graham and Agatha, and I’ll be ready.”

She didn’t invite Rafael inside for a reason. Graham stood over two halves of a ham and cheese sandwich, mutilating the bread with his vicious strokes as he slathered on the condiments.

“But I don’t like mustard,” Agatha whined, watching him.

“Tough,” he retorted. “You don’t always get what you want.”

“Graham, Agatha, I’ll be home around ten o’clock,” Jillian casually announced. “Rafael is going to take me out in Jordan’s place.”

Graham froze and glared up at her. “You’re dating already?” he accused.

“I’m going out to dinner for my birthday,” Jillian answered, meeting his glare. “I think I deserve a couple of hours to enjoy my life, don’t you?”

Graham was the first to look away. He screwed the lid down without answering the question.

“Can I come?” Agatha pleaded. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“Not tonight, honey,” said Jillian, giving her a hug. “You and Graham are going to watch
Flicka
on DVD, remember?”

She brightened considerably. “Oh, yay!”

“Call my cell phone if there’s an emergency,” Jillian said to Graham, kissing his cheek. “And you can still go to Cameron’s when I get back.” That was how she’d bribed him to babysit. “See you soon.” She headed for the door.

“Mom.”

She paused and looked back. “Yes, honey.”

“Have fun,” he said, grudgingly.

“Thank you,” she said, recognizing the effort it took for him to say that. “I hope you’ll have fun with Agatha, too.”

“Yeah, right.” He slid the sandwich toward his sister.

Chapter Fourteen

With a groan for her aching feet and a little laugh at the recollection of Rafael’s disco-era moves on the dance floor, Jillian eased back the leather seat of his sleek black Lexus and sighed. “That was so much fun,” she admitted, chuckling again. “I had no idea you could dance like that.”

“Neither did I,” he replied drolly, as he sped her back to her home.

They were more than an hour late. To give Graham credit, he hadn’t called to complain yet. “Oh, come on. Tell the truth, now. You were a party animal in your youth, living it up in the city that never sleeps.”

A reflective silence filled the sedan. “No, actually,” he refuted.

Jillian slit her eyes and turned her head to admire his Mediterranean profile. “What were you like?” she asked, utterly drawn to who he was, both then and now.

He sighed. “Studious,” he admitted. “Diligent. In high school I had dreams of going to college and graduate school, but—” He shrugged.

“But what?” she pressed gently.

“I got my girlfriend pregnant. So I married her.”

Jillian regarded him in surprise. She’d assumed he’d married Teresa out of love, the way she’d married Gary. “You never told me that,” she accused. During his recovery at St. John’s two years ago, they’d talked about almost everything.

“By day, I beat the streets as a rookie cop. At night I went to school,” he confessed. “It took me eight years to earn a B.S.”

He fell suddenly quiet, and the only sound in the car was a haunting aria sung by a lyrical soprano. Jillian sensed a sudden darkening of Rafe’s mood. Earlier that evening he’d gone to great lengths to keep her thoughts off Jordan and her spirits lifted. He’d treated her to dinner at one of Waterside’s finest restaurants, distracted her with stimulating conversation, and taken her on a stroll along the river, afterward, her arm in his.

It had been Jillian’s idea to slip into the dance club that pulsed with an enticing beat. She’d known a devilish urge to loosen Rafe’s tightly bound self-control by drawing him onto the dance floor. If she could dance in her third trimester, he could take his jacket off and join her.

He’d done more than that. For one wild and wonderful moment, he’d become spontaneous, fun-loving, happy. Earlier he’d apologized for not buying her a gift. He didn’t even realize that his kindness, his companionship, and his playfulness were gifts in themselves.

But now, with conversation turning back the hands of time, she could feel him retreating into his shell. She turned onto her left hip and placed a hand on his arm, a friendly and affectionate gesture. She felt him flex, and her pulse leapt. He’d mentioned once that he worked out at the gym at FBI Headquarters. Given the rock-hard bulge beneath her palm, he worked out religiously. The woman in her delighted in her discovery.

“Did you love her, Rafael?” she heard herself ask. She longed to know him even better than before—intimately, soul to soul. He had mentioned Teresa only fleetingly in the past, preferring to dwell on memories of his children, Tito, Serena, and the baby, Emanuel.

“Of course,” he said, vaguely.

“As a lover, as a soul mate?” she pressed. “Or as the mother of your children?” Why, she wondered, was it suddenly so important for her to know?

He was quiet so long that she could feel heat building in her cheeks. The last thing she wanted was to compromise their friendship.

“As the mother of my children,” he finally replied, his voice more ragged than ever. He stared dead ahead, two hands on the wheel.

Her heart felt curiously buoyant. At the same time, she felt sad, sad that he’d never truly been in love, never truly real. No wonder he was content to work day after day in a relentless pursuit for justice, putting aside his own needs and desires, scarcely even alive.

“You deserve so much more than that,” she lamented.

“I’ve gotten what I deserve,” he countered flatly.

“Oh, no you haven’t,” she insisted. She lifted her hand from his shoulder to his cheek, where she breathlessly stroked the hint of stubble and the hard line of his jaw, pleased to hear his indrawn breath, to see the rise and fall of his chest. “You deserve joy, Rafael. Joy and passion,” she added, savoring the heightening of her senses as desire flooded her, as intoxicating as it was unexpected. “I wish . . .” She caught herself, measuring the words that teetered on the tip of her tongue. “I wish you trusted me to show you what you’ve missed.”

“Jillian,” he said, with as much reluctance as doubt, “I can’t be what you need.”

His words were meant to push her away, but she refused to hear them because his body was telling her a different message. She could feel the tension in him as she drew her hand slowly down his arm to his thigh. It wasn’t self-doubt that made his muscles flex. He was as aroused by the possibility of a connection between them as she was.

“You already are,” she told him, unperturbed, but drawing back before she took her discovery too far. “You’re exactly what I need,” she said, turning her gaze out the window as they crossed a high, arched bridge. Stars winked in the sky as if privy to her personal satisfaction. “Thank you for a wonderful night,” she added. “I almost forgot all about Jordan.”

Her stomach clenched with renewed dread as she thought of her sister so very far away.

To her deep gratification, Rafe placed his hand over hers, and their fingers twined together. Desire rose up again, just as abruptly, and Jillian opened her hand to draw him closer. Their bond became fervent, almost desperate. Jillian’s heart pounded, her ears rang. “Would you stay with me tonight?” she heard herself beg.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said, shakily.

“If it’s my pregnancy that disturbs you, then I understand,” she began, wetting lips that felt suddenly dry. Was she really going to say this? “But if it’s because you’re afraid to really live, to feel things the way other human beings feel them, then I think it’s time you forgave yourself for what happened to your family.”

The silence following her words was deafening. Rafael slowly removed his hand from hers. She turned her head to look at him, and the cold mask he’d donned made her heart sink. But she would not apologize for telling the truth. She gazed out the window at the cars they passed as Rafe sped along the freeway.

Not another word was spoken. Jillian’s cell phone rang, and she spent a moment drawing answers out of Graham about his and Agatha’s evening. “I’ll be home in about five minutes,” she promised, hanging up.

She slipped the phone in her bag and sighed. “I know you don’t like what I said,” she told Rafael, “but please think about it.”

His only acknowledgment was a brief nod. With a despairing sigh, Jillian looked out the window again as he peeled off the highway on the exit to her ranch.

Short moments later, they were crawling up the long gravel driveway. Jillian dug deep for the courage to end the evening on a positive note. As he threw the car into park, she seized his arm to prevent him from getting out. “I’ll get my own door,” she told him. “Good night, Rafael. Thank you for the dinner and the company. But the best gift was seeing you dance.” He sat in stoic silence as she rolled up on one hip to kiss his cheek. He didn’t take advantage, but when she drew back, she saw that he’d closed his eyes.

“Good night, Jillian,” he rasped as she pushed her door open and got out.

She headed toward her house. A horse nickered, reminding her that tomorrow would bring her first patients, one paraplegic and two amputees, all looking to regain their grace and balance.

Aren’t we all?
she thought with a wistful smile.

She stepped onto the porch that sagged worse than ever, put her key into a door that needed painting. The pressures of single parenthood nudged aside the pleasantness that had enveloped her until now. Her belly contracted fiercely, almost painfully, as she pushed her way inside.

Jordan awoke to a small hand stroking her face. Her first thought was of Silas, but then she cracked her eyes and recognized Miguel, his blue-black hair reflecting the sunlight that framed the heavily curtained windows. It was morning.

Pulling him into her arms with a happy cry, she savored the familiar feel of his body pressed to hers.
My child,
she thought, eyes stinging with emotion and lingering exhaustion. Oddly, though, thoughts of Silas and Solomon pressed closer, and her heart ached with loss.

Pulling back, she inspected him. Balling up a hand, she asked, “Remember the game we played? Rock, paper, scissors.” She spread two fingers to represent scissors, and he tapped them with his fist. “Rock beats scissors, that’s right.” It thrilled her that he remembered, though they hadn’t played that game since before they’d hidden in the cellar. “I love you,” she said, stroking his cheek. “
Te amo mucho
.”

He hugged her again, as sweetly affectionate as she remembered. She wished he could articulate his experiences and fears. For now, they remained locked within his mind until his fluency developed enough to share them.

A distant rumbling followed by the clatter of gunfire snatched Jordan’s thoughts to the situation outside. She rolled from the bed, hefting Miguel in her arms as she crossed to the window and drew the curtain back.

The bright morning haze made her blink. Plumes of smoke billowed in the distance, in the direction of the airport at Maiquetía. Squinting down at the crush of smaller buildings, she caught sight of people running, carrying guns and throwing rocks. The sound of gunfire came again, then again and again, drawing nearer.

There was fighting in the streets! How was she supposed to get Miguel out of the country in this mess?

“Help me, Solomon,” she heard herself whisper. He’d thrown her a lifeline in the form of Lucy Donovan. Perhaps that was all he could or would do for her; he’d told her not to come here.

A knock at the door preceded its abrupt opening. “We need to leave here in five minutes,” said her hostess, her tone calm but grave. “Come grab a bite to eat.”

Jordan stuffed Miguel’s change of clothes into her backpack, then led him into the kitchen, where she set him on a stool and tempted him with bread and goat cheese. When he would only take a token nibble, she wrapped the rest in a napkin and jammed it into her backpack.

Lucy Donovan reappeared in camouflage slacks, a gray T-shirt, with a handgun holstered under her left arm. Miguel reached mistrustfully for Jordan.

“Don’t worry, Little Guy, I’m on your side,” Lucy reassured him, even as she strapped a webbed belt loaded with paraphernalia to her waist. Dragging a rucksack from a closet, she swung it onto her back. “Ready to go?” she asked Jordan.

“Yes,” said Jordan. The bread she’d just swallowed felt like it was stuck in her throat.

She would have to trust GI Jane, here, to get her to the embassy alive. But what would happen to her and Miguel after that?

“Damn,” swore Lucy Donovan, braking to a halt. They’d driven straight into a mass riot outside the walls of what had to be the U.S. embassy.

Lucy threw the SUV into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. Jordan, who clung to Miguel in the backseat, lurched forward as the tires squealed. Lucy backed up into an alley, flinging the occupants of her vehicle forward as she sped away from the crowd.

“There’s another way in, right?” Jordan asked, swallowing down her sudden queasiness.

The mirror on the passenger’s side shattered with a loud pop. Lucy gunned the engine. The Hummer roared and flew. Jordan shrank lower in her seat, shielding Miguel with her body. “Was that a bullet?” she squeaked.

Lucy didn’t answer. She swung a sharp right up a road that appeared deserted. She whipped into an open gate to park on someone’s driveway, hidden behind their walls, and whipped out her cell phone.

Jordan watched and waited, her heart thumping. Miguel twisted in her lap and pushed his face against her breasts. “Hush, sweetheart. I’ll protect you,” she whispered.

“Hey, Tommy,” Lucy said in a voice that didn’t even waver. “It’s Lucy. Are you inside the embassy?”

“Yes”—Jordan could discern the faint thread of his voice on the other end—“hell are you?”

“Six blocks away. When are you planning to exfiltrate?”

“We can’t,” said Tommy. “The insurgents . . . every major road in the city blocked. We’ve locked ourselves in . . . burning the files.”

“Damn,” Lucy swore again, and this time, Jordon could hear the stress in her voice. “I’ve got an American woman with me and her adopted son, a small boy.”

Tommy presumably chastised Lucy for not reporting in last night.

“I was busy picking up the woman and kid,” Lucy replied.

Actually, thought Jordan, she’d been out digging a hole somewhere with the shovel still under her feet.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Tommy, his voice suddenly audible as Lucy switched ears. “Go back to your apartment and lock your doors. Try to stay safe, and when we’re evac’ed out of here, I’ll make sure someone comes for you.”

“Will do,” said Lucy, but Jordan could tell by her voice that she had no intention of waiting out the coup in her high-rise apartment. “’Bye, Tommy.”

“Take care, Hot Shot.”

Lucy grimaced as she severed the call. She put an elbow on the back of her seat, preparing to back out. Meeting Jordan’s gaze, she hesitated. “Listen,” she said, with resolution in her light green eyes, “I’m going to get you out of the city and head for the coast. But I have something important to do along the way, and you two are just going to have to sit tight and wait.”

“You’re not really an embassy worker, are you?” Jordan replied, her limbs filmed in cold sweat.

Lucy didn’t answer. Instead, she floored the Hummer, ejecting it from its hiding space. In the next instant, they were roaring down streets that seemed too narrow for the broad, American SUV to navigate. They came upon a wave of protesters, ordinary citizens of Caracas, pouring out of their shops and hovels to welcome the ex-president back into the city.

Venezuela’s poorest were convinced that the bones the Populists tossed them would change their lives for the better. From their perspective, it meant nothing that the Populists opened their doors to terrorists.