“Ah, my boy,” Timothy crooned with frustration and lament as Miguel threw skinny arms about his thighs and clung to him for dear life. “Now, you can’t come with me,” he explained, lowering himself on the topmost step to reason with the mute child. It was then that he felt Miguel quaking.
He pulled him to his chest, knowing he took comfort in the sound of a beating heart. He sighed as he stroked Miguel’s silky, black hair. “Well, why not?” he added, knowing full well the boy would shriek and scream and eventually waken the others if he were left behind.
Timothy stood, lifting Miguel into his arms. The home where he’d left Fatima stood less than two blocks away. The sun had set hours ago, and with a curfew imposed after sunset, it was imperative for the priest to keep out of sight.
He unlocked the gate from within, peeked out upon a deserted street, and ventured forth warily, keeping to the shadows that shrouded the walled residences, many of which had been abandoned, some now occupied by Populists.
In the terrifying days following their invasion, they’d slaughtered Moderate supporters and left bodies rotting in the streets as examples of what others could expect.
Timothy was a servant of God; he trusted the Lord to keep him safe. At the same time, he was practical enough to keep his footfalls quiet on the cracked cement. As he stole along the cinder-block and stucco walls, he cocked his ears to noises other than the buzzing of insects and the ever-rushing waters of the Orinoco River. Miguel’s head lolled drowsily upon his shoulder.
A volley of gunfire lent speed to his gait as he hastened across a narrow street. He rounded the corner with only one block to go when two young men thrust themselves out of the alcove, drawing Timothy to a stop. “Alto,” cried the first, aiming his pistol straight at Timothy’s chest. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
Miguel startled awake.
“To the house of a sick girl,” Timothy explained, patting the boy, hushing him in his ear.
His accent betrayed him. “You’re North American,” the second one accused. “Show us your passport.”
“I’m British,” Timothy corrected him. He put Miguel on his feet, putting him at arm’s distance as he fished for identification. “Let’s see here,” he stalled, his heartbeat swift but steady. He’d been taught in seminary to turn the other cheek, to remain passive in a violent confrontation. But if something were to happen to him, what would become of Miguel?
Only one of the two men had a gun.
And Timothy had been a mercenary long before he’d converted to the Faith.
Pulling his passport from his pocket, he made to hand it over, then tossed it instead. Both men turned, following its flight. Timothy kicked the pistol, which flew into the darkness, clattered and rolled.
The young men bared their teeth and attacked him with bare hands. Within seconds, both of them lay on the street, moaning and injured.
Timothy bent to retrieve his passport. Slipping it into his pocket, he held a hand out for Miguel, who stood with his back to the wall, gaping down at the soldiers in disbelief.
“Come, my boy,” Timothy urged, holding out a hand insistently. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” But he was heartened by the flash of approval in Miguel’s eyes before the boy launched himself into his arms.
With the child clinging to him, he took off at a run. This night’s business was likely to be unpleasant enough without having to worry about reprisal.
He was the only white priest in the city. It wouldn’t take the Populists long to find him.
Jordan sipped her strawberry smoothie through a straw and eyed Silas thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Silas?” she asked on impulse. They sat outside the entrance to the ice-cream parlor under the protection of a patio umbrella, enjoying a well-deserved reprieve from morning lessons.
“Yep,” he said, making loud sucking noises with his straw.
“You don’t mind sleeping with me instead of your father?”
“Nope. I used to sleep with Chris’pher an’ Caleb,” he added. Almost immediately, his little face clouded over.
“You really miss them, huh?” she prompted.
“An’ baby Colton, too,” he admitted thickly. “Aun’ Ellie, too.” As he stared down the inside of his straw, his brow wrinkled in a way that reminded her of Solomon. “I can’t even ’member her face.”
Jordan felt for him. “Maybe they could come visit you,” she suggested.
He shook his head. “Naw. Her ol’ car would never make it.”
She loved his backwater drawl. “Tell you what,” she said, wanting to stroke the cowlick that stuck out on the top of his head but knowing he wouldn’t appreciate it. “Tomorrow I’ll take you out to my sister’s ranch so you can play with Agatha and see the horses.”
He lifted a considering look at her. “How big are them horses?” he wanted to know. “Bigger’n my daddy?”
With a start, Jordan realized this was the first she’d ever heard Silas call his father Daddy. “Even bigger,” she replied, happy for Solomon, who would melt the first time he heard it. But then with a stab of longing, she thought of Miguel. “Just wait and see.”
Silas’s sorrow gave way to a grin of anticipation.
Jordan smiled back but then her smile faded. Oh, dear, who was going to care for Silas when she left for Venezuela?
She supposed he’d have to go to day care at four in the morning, after all.
Solomon was relieved not to find Jordan and Silas at the houseboat when he returned from work. The last thing he wanted was for them to see him in such a shitty mood.
He popped the top off a beer bottle and drained it in five swigs.
The Elite Guard whom he and his platoon had trained on behalf of the Moderate government of Venezuela had just switched allegiance to the Populists. It was all the talk at Spec Ops today.
Solomon seethed with resentment every time he thought about it. He’d worked one-on-one with dozens of those young, Venezuelan men, believing all the while that they were committed soldiers of Democracy. And now they were backing the fucking rebels!
And Jordan thought she was going to waltz back into that country to pluck little Miguel out of the fray. Over his dead body.
Too frustrated to eat, with enough testosterone in him to fuel a tanker truck, Solomon paced the circumference of his boat, thinking. He went up on his deck, to nurse a second beer and settle his agitation.
Half an hour later, he spied Jordan and Silas moving jauntily down the hill, chased by their shadows, and a familiar tingling centered at his loins. Her slender thighs, the way her hair swung around her shoulders, the watchful quality in her eyes as she looked up at him, elevated his desire to nearly unmanageable proportions.
If she didn’t come to him soon of her own will there was no telling what he might do.
“I rode on a horse!” Silas shouted as he galloped onto the pier, imaginary gelding between his legs. “Agatha let me ride with her.”
“Who’s Agatha?” Solomon called down, as Jordan approached the gangplank.
“My niece. She’s six, like Silas.”
“You put two six-year-olds on the back of a horse?” he asked, wanting clarification.
“I knew you’d have something sarcastic to say,” she snapped, glaring up at him. “How about, thank you, Jordan, for giving my son a unique experience? I’m sure he wouldn’t get that much sitting in a day-care facility.” Her spark of temper made him realize she’d probably slept as little as he had last night. They were both stewing for a fight. Lovely.
“Thank you,” he growled.
She remained stiffly where she stood. At last she showed him the plastic bag in her hands. “We ate at my sister’s, but she sent home leftovers for you. Fried catfish.”
His stomach rumbled. “I’ll be right down.”
After wolfing down his dinner, Solomon felt moderately less savage. He joined the twosome in the living room, throwing himself down on the sofa to watch their game of checkers. Jordan lay on her s
tomach on the rug. Solomon’s gaze settled on the lush curve of her bottom and remained there.
Silas trounced Jordan three times in a row. It was entirely possible that she let him win, although she stifled several enormous yawns. Her heavy-lidded gaze, when she finally deigned to look up at him, snatched his attention from her backside.
“What has gotten into you?” she finally demanded. “You’re brooding like a bear.”
Silas giggled.
Solomon considered whether to tell her or not. Maybe the news was daunting enough to give her a reality check. “The soldiers I trained in Venezuela have transferred their loyalty to the Populists,” he announced, watching her face carefully.
Her expression didn’t change, although some secret thought seemed to scurry behind the indigo-blue of her eyes. “Are you being called upon to do something about that?” she asked carefully.
“No,” he answered. “Not yet, anyway. But this will make it harder for me to find someone to get Miguel out.”
“I see,” she said, not sounding terribly disappointed.
He eyed her more closely. Her creased brow reflected concern, and concern was certainly merited, but he expected something more.
“I hope you’re not still thinking of going back, yourself,” he warned, speaking softly so as not to alarm Silas. The boy watched them worriedly, dividing his attention between them.
Jordan didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t even look at him.
Solomon’s concern spiked to new heights. “Jordan,” he said firmly. “With the Elite Guard backing the ex-president, there’s no stopping the Populists. Do you understand?”
She finally looked at him, her eyes flashing with hurt and outrage. “I’m not stupid, Solomon,” she replied. Color suffused her face and her eyes grew bright.
“I wasn’t implying that you were,” he said, gentling his tone. “I just want you to realize that you can’t do this by yourself. I’m going to help you. I just need time.”
“I don’t have time!” she cried, startling all of them. She leapt to her feet. “I’m sorry, Silas, I can’t play anymore,” she apologized hoarsely. She walked quickly into the bathroom, shut and locked the door.
“Damn it,” Solomon growled, aware that Silas was looking at him with big, wide eyes. He drew a steadying breath and, with forced pleasantness, asked his son, “Would you like me to play with you?”
Silas’s dismay evaporated. “Sure,” he answered with delight.
Solomon went down on the rug, which was still warm from Jordan’s skin. He arranged his checker pieces with one ear cocked to the sounds in the bathroom. Other than the shower running, he couldn’t hear a thing, and yet he knew she was in there, pining for Miguel. Her heart ached, and there was nothing he could do about it—except move mountains to make her smile again.
That thought brought him up short. He postponed his move on the checkerboard, pretending to ponder the results of his actions as he asked himself why Jordan’s emotional state meant anything to him.
Was it merely that his conscience bothered him, since he was the reason she’d become separated from Miguel in the first place?
Or was it more than that? Something that had to do with who she was, how she made him feel?
He swallowed heavily, thrusting aside the terrifying thought that Jordan was carrying his heart out to sea, and he could no longer even see the shoreline.
With four days to go before her scheduled flight, Jordan swung by her condominium to check her mailbox. If Miguel’s dossier did not arrive on time, all her plans would have to be scrapped.
Licking tiny beads of sweat off her upper lip, she inserted her key into one of the many cubicles, whispered a prayer, and slowly opened it.
A thick envelope took up most of the space inside.
With a cry of relief, she pulled it out and glanced at the return address. Then she clutched it to her heart and let tears of both joy and regret fill her closed eyes, careful not to let Silas see them as he sat in her air-conditioned car.
She’d waited a year for this packet to be ready. And now that it was in her hands, she savored the possibility that soon Miguel would be in her arms, also, where he belonged—if she could actually pull his adoption off the way she planned.
With trembling fingers, she tore the envelope open and riffled through the contents. At the top were Señora Muñoz’s instructions, carefully typed in less-than-proper English for her to follow. As she skimmed them, her mouth went dry.
Once in the country, make your way to Puerto Ayacucho using any means of transportation available. They will be limited. She’d typed the number of a lawyer by the name of Lorenzo. He lives in Puerto Ayacucho and has agreed to meet you at La Catedral Maria Auxiliadora. Once he has received your check and signed his portion of the paperwork, you must make your way with the boy to Caracas, where the immigration office at the U.S. embassy will sign the immigration forms. Only then will the airlines allow Miguel to leave the country with you.
This might have been easy a year ago, considered Jordan. But Solomon’s disheartening news the other night filled her with cold foreboding. Bringing home Miguel in the limited time allowed by her visa was going to be a serious test of her resolve.
Sliding the dossier back in its envelope, she carried her mail to the car and slipped it under the driver’s seat, so that Silas, who sat in back on a booster, didn’t see it.
What would Solomon do if he found out she was going through with her plans, regardless? Would he even forgive her for leaving him and Silas in the lurch? And why, damn it, did it matter to her if he forgave her or not?
“Mornin’, Jordan!” Silas’s cheery greeting roused Jordan from a night of terrifying dreams in which she and Miguel had been chased by soldiers while trying to escape Venezuela. With a groan, she came to one elbow to wipe sleep from her aching eyes.
The knowledge that she was leaving soon had driven her anxiety to unprecedented levels. It filled her with mixed regret, dread, and—yes—fragile hope.
With rain coming down in sheets outside the octagonal window and Silas squirming through his lessons, Jordan gave in to her scattered thoughts and took him to the movies.
By the time she and Silas stepped aboard the boathouse that afternoon, soaking wet from their dash through the rain, she wanted nothing more than to crawl back in her bunk and sleep. She’d even gotten used to the sound of sloshing water.
But Solomon was home from work and apparently in a cheerful mood. “Let’s go out,” he suggested, with a look that saw more than she wanted him to. “I want to take Silas to the aquarium.”
All Jordan wanted was to put her face in a pillow and forget the daunting task ahead of her. “I’ll stay here,” she said. “Go ahead and take Silas.”
“But I want you to come,” Silas protested. He slipped his hand into hers and tugged her toward the door.
Guilt nipped Jordan’s conscience. She felt like she was abandoning Silas to get to Miguel. Her day was a wash anyway. Not even Solomon could make it any worse.
But, surprisingly, he made it better. Jordan spent the next three hours watching in amazement as the surly senior chief became a lighthearted companion and father. He and Silas laughed at the otters in the tank outside the aquarium. Once inside, he whisked Silas past the marsh exhibits straight to the big tank full of sharks and fishes.
A great white drifted past the glass, making Silas squeal. They watched in glee as it gobbled up a smaller fish. Jordan found herself smiling wryly.
Silas begged to pet the baby stingrays. For forty-five minutes, he watched them slip fluidly under his palm.
“Are you sure this is safe?” Jordan asked, mistrustful of the little critters.
“They clip their barbs,” Solomon assured her. He stepped behind her and surreptitiously pinched her nipple. “Like this.”
She gasped and swung around to elbow him, but with a boyish grin, he dodged her reprisal.
The grin left her reeling. Who’d have guessed that Solomon had a
playful side? The last thing she needed was for him to appeal to her on another level. Her desire for him was enough of a distraction.
They wandered to the next exhibit to watch a documentary on sharks. It was dark. With no seats in the room, they had to stand. Silas’s gaze was glued to the revolving screen and the mako shark circling them. “Makos are the only species of shark that are warm-blooded,” announced the narrator. “This allows them to live in arctic waters.”
Who’d have guessed? thought Jordan, waiting for her chance to get even. As the shark opened his mouth to attack, she pinched Solomon—hard—right where a love handle would have been, if he had one. He snared her wrist before she had a chance to pull her hand back and hauled her to him, locking her against his bigger body. Jordan, privately pleased to be his prisoner, pretended to struggle.
His smile flashed in the darkness. “You shouldn’t tease a shark,” he whispered.
“Let me go,” she hissed back, shoving him halfheartedly. His rock-solid frame, that unique musky scent of his, made her heat with desire. Oddly, the day’s stressors seemed to augment her sexual appetite.
She crowded helplessly closer, pressing herself against the solid length of his thigh, gasping with delight as his hand came up and covered her right breast. Relying on the shadows and his averted face to conceal his actions, Solomon fondled her. Jordan shivered. Her nipple swelled and peaked, jutting toward his palm with secret abandon.
For the next ten minutes, he treated her to a massage, from her shoulders to her buttocks, kneading and molding away the tension until she was little more than a puddle of longing—and his for the taking.
When the movie ended, he released her, adjusting himself with a crooked smile. He left her swaying on her feet as he moved away to collect Silas.
By the time they returned to the houseboat, Jordan’s worries about traveling to Venezuela had faded behind the realization that she and Solomon were going to have sex tonight. There was no ignoring the signs. He’d made his intentions perfectly clear, and she lacked any willpower to deny him.
Tonight she would be a creature of instinct and compulsion. What did it matter when, within days, she might be dead?
Don't Let Go Page 13
