This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Marliss Arruda
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Hachette Book Group
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Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: April 2008
ISBN: 978-0-446-53633-2
Contents
Rave Reviews for Marliss Melton and her Novels
Also by Marliss Melton
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
About the Author
The Dish
From the desk of Marliss Melton
From the desk of Elizabeth Jennings
RAVE REVIEWS FOR
MARLISS MELTON
AND HER NOVELS
NEXT TO DIE
“A romance that sizzles.” —Publishers Weekly
“There is a lot of action and suspense . . . a work that is as exciting as it is heartwarmingly riveting.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A fast and fulfilling read . . . filled with emotion and suspense. The characters are finely drawn and the plot well crafted.”—RomRevToday.com
“Riveting suspense.”—OnceUponARomance.com
“Fast-paced thrill and challenging romances make this a winning story.”—HuntressReviews.com
“Melton brings her considerable knowledge about the military and intelligence world to this Navy SEAL series. You’ll enjoy this peek into the world—and love the romance that develops between Joe and Penny.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Another pleasing chapter in Melton’s highly addictive Navy SEALs series . . . Joe and Penny are both very appealing characters and their romance is rich and involving.”
—BookLoons.com
TIME TO RUN
“Melton . . . doesn’t miss a beat in this involving story.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Melton’s compelling protagonists propel the gritty and realistic storytelling . . . Excellent!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“This book will twist all of your heartstrings . . . you won’t be able to put Time To Run down . . . a must-read.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Exceedingly riveting . . . enthralling . . . you’ll find yourself racing through it from one exciting scene to the next . . . my favorite.”—RomRevToday.com
“An exciting tale starring a fine lead couple . . . fans will enjoy this wonderful thriller.”—Midwest Book Review
“Exciting and emotionally moving . . . gripping.”
—Bookloons Reviews
“Edgy contemporary romantic suspense . . . emotional fireworks as well as some fancy sniper shooting.”
—Booklist
IN THE DARK
“Fantastic . . . keeps you riveted . . . will keep you guessing . . . Well done!”—OnceUponARomance.net
“A strong thriller . . . Action-packed . . . will keep the audience on the edge of their seats.”—Blether.com
“Hooked me from the first page . . . filled with romance, suspense, and characters who will pull you in and never let you go.” —Lisa Jackson, New York Times best-selling author of Absolute Fear
“Packed with action from the first page to the last . . . a must.”—Novel Talk
“[A] hard-charging romantic thriller as warm and heady as a Caribbean sun-soaked bay.”—Bookpage
“Picking up where Forget Me Not left off . . . danger, passion, and adventure.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
FORGET ME NOT
“Refreshing . . . fine writing, likable characters, and realistic emotions.”—Publishers Weekly
“An intriguing romantic suspense . . . Readers will take great delight.”—Midwest Book Review
“The gifted Melton does an excellent job building emotion, danger, and tension in her transfixing novel.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Entertaining . . . moving and passionate . . . with plenty of action and suspense . . . Forget Me Not is a winner; don’t miss it.”—RomRevToday.com
“A wonderful book, touching at all the right heartstrings. I highly recommend it!”
—Heather Graham, author of Dead on the Dance Floor
“Amazing . . . fantastic . . . a riveting plot, engaging characters, and unforgettable love story . . . not to be missed.”
—NewandUsedBooks.com
“A thrilling romance.” —TheBestReviews.com
“Riveting . . . you’ll definitely want to pick this one up.”
—RomanceJunkies.com
“Wonderful, thrilling . . . loved it!”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
Also by Marliss Melton
Forget Me Not
In the Dark
Time to Run
Next to Die
Honey, you’ve found your way into several of my characters before, but never as blatantly as this. Some women may be jealous that I’m married to my inspiration. Others will be glad you’re mine and not theirs. We’ve seen good times and bad. But you’re still the love of my life, and I’m ever so grateful that you didn’t let go when you could have.
Acknowledgments
As usual, the creation of this story is due to a wonderful group effort. Thank you again, Navy SEAL Commander Mark Divine, for editing and inspiring my action scenes. Your generosity and professionalism make you a credit to the Teams. Thank you, Sharon, for selflessly educating me on the Myers-Briggs Personality types and Socionics relationships, both of which continue to help me with characterization and conflict. Last but never least, a million times, “Thank You!” to Janie, for being with me every step of the way on this adventure that we dreamed up together.
Prologue
Five Years Ago
Despite the heat blowing out of the vents near the old Volkswagen’s floorboards, Chief Petty Officer Solomon McGuire shivered in his woolen peacoat. He’d grown up in Camden, Maine, where the winters were ruthless. The milder weather in Virginia Beach seldom troubled him, but the memories of the mission he’d just come from sat in his chest like a block of ice, freezing him from the inside out.
Petty Officer Blaine Koontz from Kentucky had been one of those younger guys that made older SEALs feel tired and used-up. He was five and a half feet of boundless energy. His freckled face and grinning countenance made every deadly objective seem like kid’s play.
Hooyah! We get to parachute with a low open into enemy territory; run four miles with sixty-pound rucksacks over the d
unes; set a perimeter around the oil well guarded by Iraqi National Guards and take it. No problem! We can do it!
And they had. Only, as they’d scurried across the open sand toward the oil well, a bullet had caught Koontz in the side of the head. It hadn’t killed him right away. He was still alive and rambling when Solomon held him still so the corpsman could tape his fractured skull.
After sixteen years of being a SEAL, Solomon thought he’d heard and seen everything. He was wrong. The exclamations tumbling out of Koontz’s mouth had raised the hairs on the back of his neck. It seemed that Koontz hadn’t been so happy-go-lucky after all. The twenty-two-year-old had flirted boldly with the Grim Reaper for a reason: Death couldn’t be a fate any worse than Koontz’s sadistic father.
Koontz hadn’t died until a NightStalker dropped into hostile airspace, dodging rocket-propelled grenades to pick him up and whisk him away. Though his death had shaken Solomon, time for grief was a luxury he and his men could ill afford, so they had pressed on to finish the mission—a mission that had lasted seventy-two sleepless hours. Not only had the SEALs commandeered the oil well, but they’d had to defend it from counterattack, until the Army’s Seventh Infantry Battalion arrived to relieve them.
Solomon, known for his relentless pursuit of an objective, was beyond exhausted. The memory of Koontz’s childhood horrors abraded his frayed nerves as he increased his speed through the suburban sprawl under a cold, January moon.
The entrance to his neighborhood came into view, and he downshifted, turning the corner without touching the brakes. He ached for relief. Relief that would come the instant he scooped his infant son into his arms and gazed down at the innocent contours of his cherubic face. Relief that would be complete once he found release in his wife’s soft arms.
His son was Silas. And he was Solomon’s joy.
His wife was Candace. At one time, he’d fancied her the center of his universe, and his every thought had revolved around her. But that was before he came to realize that her beauty was as shallow as her conscience. She was the mother of his son, however. It had been his choice to marry her, and he stood stubbornly by his decision.
His brick two-story home stood at the end of a cul-de-sac. Every month, the mortgage sucked away half of his paycheck, but Candace had wanted it, so he’d bought it for her. The windows were dark at this late hour, his little family sleeping. Solomon cut the engine and glided into the driveway.
Dragging his rucksack behind him, he got out and followed the granite walkway that cut across the frost-covered lawn. With stiff fingers, he unlocked his front door, his heart beating faster to know that one-year-old Silas was upstairs, tucked into his crib. He could almost feel the warmth of his sturdy little frame against his chest, smell his sweet, baby scent.
As he pushed his way inside, the warmth he anticipated failed to greet him. The air inside was cold and undisturbed; the silence tomblike; the smells faded.
With a stab of fear, Solomon flicked the light switch. Glaring light confirmed what his other senses were telling him. “Candace!” His anxious voice echoed off the empty walls and high ceilings. “No!” he breathed, dropping his rucksack.
He took the stairs three at a time, raced down the wide hall, and threw open the door to the nursery. The relentless moon displayed a room as empty as the rest of the house. There wasn’t any need to turn on the lights. The bear-on-the-rocking-chair border was all that remained.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, lurching back into the hallway and stalking to the master bedroom. He barreled through the double doors and stared. Gone. Everything was gone.
With a shiver, he pivoted, going back to the nursery. “Silas,” he moaned, feeling as if his very bowels had been ripped from him. He fell onto his knees where the baby’s crib had stood, bowed his face into his hands, and wept.
Chapter One
Las Amazonas, Venezuela
The double doors of the chapel at La Misión de la Paz slammed open, startling the occupants within. The interloper raced out of the hazy sunlight, his brown limbs coated in sweat, breath coming in gasps that punctuated his announcement. “Guerillas se acercan. ¡Hay por lo menos cincuenta y llevan armas!”
Guerillas are coming. There are at least fifty of them and they’re carrying weapons. Translating the message, Jordan Bliss straightened from the pupil she was instructing and looked at Father Benedict to gauge his response.
The priest’s benign countenance hardened with concern. “You should have left two weeks ago,” he said to her, catching her eye. “Now you’ll have to hide with us.”
“My choice, Father,” she gently reminded him, her gaze sliding toward the reason for her stay, four-year-old Miguel, who sat clutching his slate. She could not have left him, regardless of the political turmoil in Venezuela and the growing threat toward Americans.
“Come,” urged Father Benedict, who was British and only slightly less at risk. “Bring the children. We’ll all hide in the wine cellar. Pedro, run and fetch Sister Madeline,” he added in Spanish. “Hurry.”
Jordan gathered the children, instructing them to leave their slates beneath the pews. She scooped Miguel into her arms. Thin as a rail, he scarcely weighed her down, especially when he coiled his limbs around her.
“This way,” indicated the priest, hurrying toward the sacristy, which was separated from the sanctuary by a curtain. Once within, he kicked aside the worn rug that covered the stone floor. A wooden hatch was nestled in the flagging, providing access to the cellar below. He lifted it, exposing steps that disappeared into darkness, releasing a musty smell.
Jordan’s fear of closed spaces made her balk. The children bunched up behind her, instinctively silent.
“Take these candles,” the priest instructed, thrusting several waxen pillars at her. “Matches,” he added, his voice remarkably steady. She stuck them into the deep pockets of her cargo shorts. Lifting a cloth off a basket, he withdrew a loaf of bread meant for services that night. “We’ll need this.”
God knew how long they would be down there. Or whether the guerillas headed in their direction would avidly hunt them down or simply move on.
“Go ahead,” said the priest, with a nod at the steps.
With panic threatening to close off her airways, Jordan instructed her little troop to hold the rickety banister and follow her. She took her first step into the bowels of the earth and then another.
A spider’s web brushed her cheek as a dank coolness swallowed her. Shivering, she clutched Miguel closer while shaking off her fear for his sake, and for the others. Down, down into the black hole they went until coming to a floor of hard-packed dirt.
As she gazed up at the light, tremors rippled through her. What if she never saw the sun again? A scurry of footfalls heralded the approach of Sister Madeline.
“I caught sight of them,” the nun divulged, in her no-nonsense voice. “They’re a horde,” she added, with typical British understatement.
An angry horde, Jordan thought, a cold sweat matting her shirt to her back.
Sister Madeline bustled down the steps. “Whom do we have with us?” she inquired.
“The orphans,” Jordan murmured.
“We should let them go,” Sister Madeline suggested, glancing up at the priest.
“No,” whispered Jordan, clutching Miguel more fiercely.
“Their cries might betray us,” the nun argued.
“It’s too late to send them up,” Father Benedict pointed out as he, too, descended. “Besides, who would care for them? They would end up on the streets again. Pedro,” he called to the hovering teen, a youth hoping to join the priesthood, “close the door and lock it. Put the rug over the hatch and hide the key. Tell no one where we are. When the guerillas leave, let us out again.”
“Sí, padre,” answered the boy. With reluctance and apology wreathed upon his indigenous features, he gently lowered the door. It wasn’t so dark, not with rays of sunlight slipping through the cracks. But then the rug was tossed over the hat
ch, dousing them in blackness so deep and thick that it paralyzed every muscle in Jordan’s body.
“Let us light a candle and pray,” recommended Father Benedict, his voice swimming out of the darkness. It unlocked Jordan’s frozen joints.
She stiffly put Miguel down, eager to drive back the void. But the task, given her shaking hands, proved virtually impossible. The flare of her trembling match revealed the pale faces of her adult companions and the gleam of four sets of children’s eyes. They feasted their gazes on the wick, then looked around once the candle was lit.
Their hiding space was perhaps ten by seven paces, laced in cobwebs and peppered with holes that housed bottles of sacramental wine. We have plenty to drink, Jordan thought, swallowing a hysterical giggle.
The priest sat, folding his long limbs to make more space. Jordan hunted for a place to put the candle, out of reach of the children. Finding a crack in the wall, she wedged it in like a torch. “Sit down,” she instructed the children, doing the same.
Miguel scrambled into his customary seat—her lap, his hair tickling her nose. Jordan’s eyes stung with regret that she couldn’t shield him from harm any better than this.
“Beloved Father,” began the priest, his voice quiet and grim yet amazingly calm, “look down upon us and cast your mantle of protection over us, we pray you . . .”
As his sonorous voice droned on, Jordan’s thoughts wandered. She hushed Fatima, who whimpered in fear as she burrowed into Jordan’s side. Prayers couldn’t hurt, Jordan acknowledged, but neither would they necessarily help. God knew she’d expended many a prayer to keep from losing her pregnancy and then her marriage.
Unlike the priest and the nun, Jordan wasn’t in Venezuela to save souls. She was here to continue a healing process that had begun last summer, only to be cut short when her teaching job necessitated a return trip home.
This summer, she’d come back—not for healing but to complete the adoption process she’d begun nine months before. In doing so, she’d turned a deaf ear to government warnings that the political environment was unstable. Her refusal to acknowledge the dangers could well end up getting her killed.
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