Don't Let Go Read Online Free PDF

vital signs and her pupils. “You’ll feel better in a couple a’ hours,” he reassured her. “How ’bout a cup of orange juice?” he asked, like he was offering her the elixir of youth.
    She just looked at him. How could she eat anything, knowing Miguel was probably hungry and thirsty and terrified without her?
    With a commiserating grimace, he stood up and followed the others.
    Jordan keeled over on the cloth-covered couch and closed her eyes. A patch of sunlight fell warmly across her face.
    Miguel.
She’d played with him and held him and watched him flower for two summers in a row. He’d become as much a part of her as the baby who’d been attached by an umbilical cord. Now that he was gone she felt just as incomplete as when she’d miscarried.
    Hot tears welled up under her closed eyelids and seeped between her lashes, wetting the cushion beneath her head. A shadow robbed her face of warmth.
    She cracked an eye and discovered Senior Chief McGuire standing over her with a cup in one hand and a half-wrapped breakfast biscuit in the other. She closed her eyes again. “Go away.”
    “Sit up,” he said, ignoring her.
    “Leave me alone.”
    Instead of leaving, he cupped her shoulders and pulled her up into a sitting position. “You need to eat,” he said, lowering himself into the sunny patch she’d lain in. He plucked the food items off the floor.
    “Says who?”
    “Says me.” He shoved the cup at her.
    She realized suddenly that her mouth was parched. Her fingers shook as she accepted the cup. She had to close her eyes at the sensation of citrus juice gliding over her tongue, sliding coolly down her throat.
    She took a tentative bite of the biscuit that was thrust into her hand. Hunger, revived by the smell of food, made her suddenly ravenous. “Where are we?” she demanded around a mouthful. The stunted cactus visible through the window told her nothing.
    “The Dutch Antilles,” he said, curtly.
    An ocean lay between her and the child of her heart. The realization robbed her of her appetite. She started to wrap up the rest of the biscuit.
    “Finish it,” said the SEAL.
    She glared at him, her eyes stinging. “I am not one of your soldiers,” she retorted. As their gazes clashed and held, she was hit by how unrelentingly male he was. The breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his upper arms, summoned an annoying awareness of herself as a woman, filthy and in bad need of a shower, while he, sometime in the last few minutes, had managed to wipe the paint off his face.
    “A representative of the FBI is coming to collect you,” he said, in a gruff, resonant voice. “And escort you home.”
    “Whatever.” Her home was wherever Miguel was.
    “You need to get cleaned up,” he added.
    His own scrubbed face was strangely arresting. Patrician features, a dark moustache, and neat black eyebrows combined to make him ruthlessly handsome. His silvery eyes were nothing short of hypnotic. She wrested her gaze upward, noting the silver hair above his forehead that streaked back into darker hair like a fin.
    Mako.
The name popped into her head. No wonder the others called him that. He looked just like a shark.
    “Where’s the bathroom?” She struggled to rise.
    “Over there.” He stood up also, watchful, but not touching as he nodded toward a door. “I tossed a flight uniform inside so you’d have something to change into.” The words
there
and
uniform
betrayed New England roots.
    As Jordan shuffled toward the ladies’ room, her legs tingled and revived. She could feel Mako’s gaze on her as she fumbled with the handle and pushed her way inside.
    She winced to see her reflection in the mirror—bedraggled hair, puffy face, and disillusioned eyes. Her life was supposed to be getting better, not worse.
    With a fresh onslaught of tears, she twisted the faucet on and set about washing up. She would get through this, she promised herself. No matter who or what tried to get in her way, she wouldn’t