Don't Let Go (7 page)

Murmuring her thanks, Ellie pocketed the money Mrs. Halliday doled out. If the Impala made it from Mississippi to Virginia, if they could subsist on the gas and food that two hundred dollars provided, it’d be nothing short of a miracle.

The sun was nearing its zenith, shining warmly on Jordan’s shoulders as she strolled down the hill from the big house toward Solomon’s houseboat. Catching sight of the SEAL, shirtless, with his back to her, she drew up short. Desire shimmered warmly through her veins and her extremities tingled.

I’m not here to see Solomon McGuire,
she told herself.

But last night’s kiss replayed itself in her head, as it had all night long, keeping her tossing fitfully, as she seethed with anger and shame.

How could she have let him kiss her like that? Worse yet, how could she have responded so passionately? He’d wrested her from Miguel. He’d toyed with her, letting her think that he was willing to pay her for sex. He was blunt and rude. Yet just thinking of that kiss made her thighs quiver, made her want more of the same, in spite of herself.

The jackass. Oh, yes, she’d decided that was the perfect word to describe him. It didn’t help to discover now that beneath his clothing, he had a torso of highly defined muscles that rippled and flexed as he lowered his butt onto the dock. His shoulders were made to hang on. Not an ounce of fat padded his waist. His smooth-looking skin glowed with a healthy tan.

Her gaze slid to Silas, who stood beside his father, equally shirtless, equally tan, wearing tattered shorts. He was the reason she’d finally overcome the ambivalence that made her several hours late. The motherless boy needed her as much as he needed to learn to read. She could just imagine how lost he felt having been abandoned by a mother, only to be handed off to a gruff and surly stranger.

She watched him nod his head at whatever Solomon was telling him.

Hefting her picnic basket, Jordan continued toward the pair, curious to discover what they were up to. In that same instant, Solomon pushed off the dock and, with scarcely a splash, disappeared.

Leaving Silas all alone.

Jordan picked up her pace, sandals slapping her soles as she hastened toward the boy. The past flashed before her eyes, and she was eight years old again, playing by the cow pond. She remembered the horror of falling into water, feeling it fill her nose and ears as she tried to claw to the surface. In alarm, she cried out a warning to Silas who’d sidled up to the edge as if preparing to jump. “Silas, no! You need a life vest.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, but a firm command had him looking back at the water. In the next instant, he launched himself off the dock, splashing loudly.

Jordan dropped her basket and ran. Nearing the end of the pier, she spied Solomon, treading water a few yards out, but Silas was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” she cried with worry, scanning the tea-colored water for any sign of him. “Silas!”

Just then, Solomon ducked under the water. He was gone for several seconds, long enough for Jordan to wring her hands together and utter a heartfelt prayer. But then he crested the surface bearing a sputtering and frightened Silas with him. The little boy coiled his sturdy arms around his father and hung on for dear life as he gasped and coughed and wiped his eyes.

“What,” Jordan railed, dizzy with relief, “are you doing? You almost let him drown!” She flung her arms wide to encompass the magnitude of his crime.

“I’m teaching him how to swim,” he retorted with an icy glare, “which is a job I happen to have great experience in. I do not, however, have experience in teaching a child to read. That is your job, and you’re late!”

“You’re teaching him to swim by letting him drown? What is that,” she cried, “the Navy SEAL way?”

“It’s called drown-proofing. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t understand the point of drowning a child. Obviously, you have no idea what kind of psychological impact that could have on him!” Hearing herself shout, she abruptly shut her mouth.

Silas, who witnessed their fight with increasing concern, put his face into Solomon’s neck and burst into tears.

“You see?” Jordan pointed out. “You’ve traumatized him.”

“The only thing,” Solomon grated, that V-shaped vein appearing on his forehead, “that is traumatizing him is us!” he thundered quietly.

With a feeling that he’d tossed cold water at her, Jordan went quiet. He was right, damn him. The boy hadn’t seemed too shaken when his father pulled him out of the water. Her righteousness subsided, replaced by humiliation for having exposed her private fears.

“You have a point,” she conceded, taking a belated step from the dock’s edge. “Silas, honey, we’re not fighting. We just have different ideas about teaching you to swim. Your father
believes
he’s an expert on the subject,” she forced herself to add, “so I will leave it to him to teach you.”

The little waves tossing all around her were starting to wreak havoc on her stomach. “Can I wait for you inside?” she pleaded, feeling herself pale.

“Go on in,” said Solomon with a perceptive eye.

“I brought lunch for a picnic, for Silas and me,” she added, excluding the SEAL. “And the food won’t keep,” she warned.

Turning her back on Solomon’s scowl, she marched on board the boat to wait out the swimming lesson.

Carrying her basket to the kitchen, she found it neatly wiped down, dishes washed and put away. She peeked in the refrigerator, relieved to find food in the fridge and a gallon of milk beside a six-pack of beer. At least Silas wouldn’t starve.

Curious to see the rest of
Camelot
, she peeked into a tiny bathroom across the hall, not surprised that even the toilet-seat lid was hand carved to resemble a bald eagle. There were cabinets and drawers everywhere she looked, even down the hallway. She opened several, finding a shell collection, a drawerful of medals and plaques, a closet of uniforms draped in plastic, even a pull-down ironing board.

The SEAL’s unique scent grew stronger as she inched toward the master cabin at the bow of the boat. Three steps higher than the hallway, it took up the forward portion of the boat, with a huge captain’s bed built in, more storage underneath, and four hexagonal windows. It was impossible not to be charmed.

The bed was still unmade. Rumpled sheets and two dented pillows had her picturing the SEAL and his son, sharing the space together. Her heart melted, then flooded with sorrowful envy.

Did he know how lucky he was to have his son back? She’d give anything to watch Miguel sleeping peacefully at her side.
I will soon
, she promised herself.

The thud of a door had her retreating guiltily toward the living area.

“I did it! I swam to the dock!” Silas exclaimed breathlessly as he ran in ahead of his father, towel in hand, dripping wet.

“Really!” Jordan exclaimed. “Good for you.”

“In the shower,” his father ordered, stepping in after him. “Go on.” He nudged Silas toward the bathroom. The door thudded shut, leaving Jordan and Solomon alone. “So what do you think about my bed?” he asked, proving he’d caught her snooping. As he toweled his back, his powerful chest muscles flexed rhythmically.

She tried not to notice the black hair under his arms and between his taut, male nipples. Damp swim trunks stuck to his thighs like second skin, leaving little to the imagination. Not that Jordan’s imagination needed encouragement. With her mouth gone dry, she wasn’t able to answer his question.

“Thirty an hour wouldn’t come close to enough, eh?” Solomon added, goading her further, a wicked glint in his eyes.

Jordan’s temper helped unhinge her jaw. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she snapped, propping her hands on her hips. “I am here for Silas, not for you.”

His slow, wolfish smile was most maddening. “Now if you could just convince yourself of that,” he mocked.

“You really are a jackass,” she informed him.

“And what does that make you?” he countered, lifting a black eyebrow. “A desperate divorcée?”

Stunned by his unexpectedly hurtful words, Jordan pushed past him. “I think I’ll wait out on the lawn for Silas.” She snatched up the basket and was headed to the door when Solomon swung her around, a firm grip on her elbow. “Release me,” she said, horrified to hear her voice wobble.

“That was a low blow, even for me,” he admitted, soberly. “I apologize.”

Lifting her stinging eyes, she found his expression grave, honest, humble . . . Perhaps he was human after all.

“I’ll consider accepting it,” she retorted, stiffly, annoyingly aware that he was nearly naked. She was here for Silas.

A thump and the sound of running water had Solomon stepping away to check on his son.

“I’ll wait on the hill,” Jordan decided, fleeing through the door, not trusting herself another moment in his presence.

Chapter Seven

Solomon squinted down the pier and across the expanse of the lawn he used to mow toward the woman and child sitting on a blanket. He felt left out. Yes, there was plenty to do within the houseboat—laundry to wash, sheets to change, a deck to sweep, and an engine to prime and lube, but he’d rather watch Jordan Bliss do her thing.

There was something about her that he found immensely pleasing. Not only was she nicely put together, with full breasts and slim thighs, but beneath her prickly exterior she was as explosive as dried timber.

He had to guess from that kiss yesterday, plus the information he’d uncovered about her divorced status, that she hadn’t had sex in months if not years. That telltale blush that highlighted her cheekbones when he looked at her a certain way told him she could be his with just a bit of persuasion. While an inner voice cautioned him that she was different from the women he normally pursued—sweeter, softer—he was confident his heart was safe from ever being lured toward love again.

He had to have her. That was the only way to overcome his growing obsession.

He watched for several minutes, waiting for Silas’s instruction to begin. His twenty/twenty vision took inventory of the picnic she’d brought: a canteen of pink lemonade, a plastic container of tiny sandwiches, another of vegetables and diced fruit, and a can of whipped cream?

Solomon searched for a workbook or instructional slate and saw neither. He watched Silas devour four sandwiches as Jordan toyed with the carrot sticks and celery stalks, laying them in various positions on the lid of a plastic container. This went on for some time, with Silas an avid observer.

Impatient with the child’s play and desiring more serious instruction, Solomon was preparing to intervene when Jordan pulled the top off the can of whipped cream. He immediately considered ways to use that can to its fullest potential.

Jordan squirted a frothy white shape onto a red paper plate, then let Silas dip his fruit in it. She then squirted out another shape—oh, wait, it was the letter B—and then a third and started pairing them together.

Perplexed, Solomon delayed his intervention. Out came several more paper plates, and Silas got to spray letters on them, his efforts far less proficient. Solomon had seen enough. Abandoning the lounge chair, he leapt over one railing and then another, and with a bound onto the pier, he stalked up the hill for a word with Miss Bliss.

“Jordan,” he called, not bothering to mask his disapproval.

The engrossed pair looked up from plates that appeared to read C and L.

“Clap!” Silas piped up, still caught up in the game.

“That’s right,” Jordan answered warmly. She lifted a wary glare at Solomon as he cast his shadow over them. “What do you want?” she demanded.

Spying a worried crease on Silas’s brow, Solomon caught himself. “Silas, I think the mailman came. Run to the head of the driveway and fetch the mail, would you? Ours is the box on the bottom.”

“Okay!” said Silas, scrambling to his feet. With a toothless grin he added, “Wanna see how fast I can run?”

“I’ll time you,” said Solomon, glancing at his watch. And the boy took off, sprinting like a deer.

Solomon didn’t have but a minute. “What is this?” he demanded, gesturing at the plates. “I’m not paying you to play with him. I want him to learn to read.”

“I’m evaluating what he knows, in a format that keeps him interested,” she answered frostily.

“Well, this had better not be an indication of your instructional methods,” he warned.

Her eyes flashed with affront. “If this is the sort of interference I am going to have to deal with, you can find another tutor.” She started stacking the cream-filled paper plates, one on top of the other, and shoved them in a white garbage bag. “I should have known you’d meddle.”

“Hold on,” Solomon ordered. “I’m the one paying you, remember?”

“Look,” said Jordan fiercely, rolling to her feet. He took a cautionary step back as she confronted him, going nose to nose. “You were the expert at swimming lessons, right? Well, I’m the expert in my field, which is teaching children to read. Either you allow me to do this my way, or I’m out of here. Now, which is it?”

Beholding her flushed face, the defiant thrust of her chin, he completely forgot his quarrel. His gaze slid to the creamy length of her neck and the swell of her breasts beneath her peach-colored tank top. “You do have a point,” he acceded.
Two of them, actually.

“Yes, I do. I backed away on the swimming lessons. You can back away now and every lesson from here on. Do we have a deal?”

He couldn’t wait to see her naked from the waist up. “Deal,” he finally agreed. “Maybe you could show me a trick or two with that can of whipped cream,” he added.

“Maybe I could,” she agreed, with a gleam in her eye. She swiveled suddenly and snatched it up, shaking the can threateningly.

He didn’t know if she would actually spray the stuff on him, but the idea was so enticing that he snared her hand under his and turned the can against her, shooting a ribbon of cream across her lips.

She gasped in shock, and with a chuckle, he took advantage of her open mouth to steal a kiss, the way he’d stolen one last night, anticipating the same explosive reaction he’d gotten then. To his delight, her mouth tasted even sweeter.

Calling him a blistering name against his lips, she gave in with a shudder, put her slender weight into him, and opened her mouth to his devouring.

Ah, yes!
The grass under his feet was tipping, the world was reeling. The blood roared in his veins so loudly that he was barely cognizant of Silas tearing toward him with envelopes flapping in one hand, shouting, “How fast am I?”

He had to tear his lips from Jordan’s to confer with his watch. “One minute ten seconds,” he rasped.

She wanted him, there wasn’t any question.

But then she stiffened and thrust herself out of his arms. He watched her totter and push a strand of reddish hair from her face. “Silas, I have to go now,” she announced, disappointing him. “But I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Solomon’s confidence returned.

“You did very well today,” she added, addressing only the boy, avoiding Solomon’s gaze. “I can tell you’re a smart big boy.”

With a proud grin, Silas thrust the mail at Solomon while Jordan hurriedly jammed her Tupperware and canteen back into the basket.

“Can I climb that tree?” Silas asked, pointing to a live oak growing near the shore.

Distracted, Solomon nodded. “Go ahead.” As the boy scampered off, Jordan hefted the basket with one hand and snatched up the garbage bag with the other. “I’ll take that,” said Solomon, wresting it from her. He fell into step as she turned and hurried up the hill. He waited for her to say something about their obvious, sizzling chemistry.

But she said nothing, marching up the hill like he wasn’t even there.

He fell back on their mutual concern for Silas. “Is he really smart, or were you just saying that?” he asked.

She cast him a harried glance. “I only had an hour with him, but I can tell he’s very bright.”

“Good,” said Solomon, pleased to have his own opinion confirmed.

“But I can’t guarantee he’ll be reading before school,” Jordan repeated. “Look,” she added, pausing beside him as he dropped the garbage in a receptacle at the back of the big house. “I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, but I think it’s best if I meet with Silas in a public place, like a library or something.”

He gently lowered the lid of the garbage bin. Those were not the words he’d expected. “Why?” he asked.

She colored fiercely, having difficulty holding his gaze. “I don’t need to be distracted from my professional duties by your shenanigans,” she replied.

“Shenanigans?” He couldn’t help but appreciate her choice of words, though he resented the implication that he was solely to blame. “I didn’t hear you ask me to stop kissing you, Jordan. If I remember correctly, you were the one with your tongue down my throat,” he needled.

She gasped in outrage, just as he’d known she would. “I did not have my tongue—oh! You are such a pompous, swaggering oaf! I will tell you right now that unless you leave the houseboat while I’m here, I am not going to tutor Silas any longer!”

“Why don’t you just admit you’re tempted,” he taunted, his own temper igniting.

“Tempted?” she sneered, her fist clenching as she no doubt suffered the urge to punch him. “I don’t even like you!” she bit out.

Oddly, her retort hurt his feelings. He kept quiet as she yanked open her car door, tossed the basket inside, and slipped in. She started up the engine, glaring up at him. “You took my son away from me,” she added with a quaver in her voice and a sheen of tears in her indigo eyes. “I don’t know if I can forgive you for that.”

Her honesty left him speechless. He watched her back up, executing a quick, tight turn.

As she pulled away, he read her personalized license plate: 4 miguel. A knot of uncertainty twisted slowly in Solomon’s gut. He had to concede that Jordan was far more complicated than any woman he’d ever pursued before. Her burning love for an orphaned street child captivated him. Lust ached dully in his groin. Maybe he should give up this compulsion to have her. Forget he’d ever laid eyes on her or tossed her into a helicopter screaming invectives at him.

Heaving a dissatisfied sigh, he turned to plod down the hill toward Silas, who waved at him from high up in the live oak tree, crying, “Look at me!”

Miguel heard a noise on the street that he had never heard before, a rumbling that shook the earth beneath his hands and knees. Wide-eyed, he glanced up from the circle that was drawn into the dirt, holding back the marble he was supposed to toss. The high cement walls that enclosed the churchyard prevented him from seeing anything. He glanced at Raúl with a question in his eyes.
¿Qué es?

Raúl shook his head and dropped his own marble. “
No sé
,” he said, leaping to his feet with excitement. “
¡Ven!
”

Come,
thought Miguel. That was the word Jordan would have used.

He trailed the older boy to the wall, and the rumbling grew louder. He could feel it through the thin soles of his shoes. It reminded him of the big bird that had taken his Jordan away,
el hélicopter.

“
Sube el árbol,
” Raúl commanded.

Climb the tree.

Miguel was the best at climbing, but he was afraid. He shook his head.

Raúl nudged him forward, commanding him impatiently.

Fear made Miguel weak. Still, he could grip the banana tree with his knees and haul himself, bit by bit, up its slippery trunk. The rumbling grew louder. He was afraid to peer over the top of the wall, daunted by the broken shards of glass cemented there to keep bad men out.

But what if the noise was Jordan’s bird bringing her back?

Craning his neck, Miguel peered over the glittering glass shards. His eyes flew wide. Through the dust rising into the air he watched enormous green vehicles roll past him, crossing in front of the cathedral where they stayed with Padre.

He froze as he watched them, mesmerized by their ominous thunder. He didn’t know what it meant that they were here. He only had a feeling that they would keep his Jordan away.

“
¡Niños!
” Padre’s worried voice called to them across the yard. “Come inside now. Hurry!” the priest called.

Miguel obediently loosed his grip, slid down the trunk, and crashed into the hard earth to land on his bottom. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to.

The priest hurried over, clucking under his breath, and lifted him into his arms.

Burrowing into the comfort of Padre’s arms, Miguel hid his face against the man’s crisp white collar. With a wave of longing, he remembered Jordan’s sweet, nurturing scent.

His heart ached anew, and tears flooded his eyes. What if she never came back?

Rafe awoke, as was his custom, when the first ray of sunlight struck the wall beside his bed. He kept his curtains open to invite it in, which it did quite early, given that he lived in a penthouse apartment overlooking the Elizabeth River. The sunrise was a reminder to him that life went on whether he wanted it to or not.

Opening his eyes to the red-washed wall, the first thought to hit him was:
Today Jillian’s horses arrive.

She had her son Graham and his friend, Cameron, to help off-load them from the trailer, to lead them to their new stalls, to brush and soothe their distress at finding themselves in an unfamiliar environment.

But what happened if an animal balked? Rafe drew a troubled breath at an image of Jillian wrestling down a beast that threatened to rear. She could seriously injure herself, not to mention the baby she carried.

The thought propelled him out of bed to the bathroom, where he stood under a scalding shower, unable to stop thinking about her.

She weighed on his conscience as he shaved his cheeks smooth. He considered what needed to be done at the office, whether it was absolutely critical.

Wearing a towel on his hips, he stepped into his walk-in closet and eyed the suits hanging very precisely on the rod, several still in dry-cleaning bags. He reached for the light gray Christian Dior he wore on Fridays, touched the silk and linen blend of the sleeve and let go. He couldn’t go to work today.

Jillian needed him. That didn’t mean he had to overhaul his life, but he did have to come up with a pair of jeans and work shoes.

Turning to the storage drawers at the back of his closet, he rummaged, dragging out a pair of soft jeans from Abercrombie & Fitch that he’d worn only once. On his shoe rack, he found a pair of penny loafers he’d kept, thinking he could use them as house slippers, they were so soft and broken-in.

Not owning a single T-shirt aside from those he wore beneath his dress shirts, he opted for the royal blue button-up Polo that his sister had given him two Christmases ago.

Eyeing himself in his full-length mirror, he scarcely recognized himself. His reflection made him look vulnerable, painfully human.

Today is not about me,
he told himself, running his hands over the soft material of his shirt and jeans.
It’s about a friend.
He turned quickly toward his efficiency kitchen so as not to see how eager he looked to be spending the day in her company.