Don't Let Go Read Online Free PDF Page B

rest until Miguel was back in her arms, where he belonged.
    Rafael Valentino had to take Senior Chief McGuire’s word that Jordan Bliss was in the restroom. “Good luck,” the SEAL had said, seeming all too happy to foist the woman off on someone else.
    Rafe eased into a chair and waited. This wing of Curaçao’s Hato International was used exclusively by U.S. and NATO forces. At the moment, it stood deserted. He didn’t know what to expect as the restroom door squeaked open. He drew a startled breath as a darker-haired version of Jillian edged through the opening. Her pale, exhausted countenance brought him quickly to his feet.
    She looked like she’d been to hell and back.
    “Jordan Bliss?” he asked, approaching her.
    Indigo-blue eyes reflected confusion. “Who are you?”
    “Special Agent Valentino, FBI.”
    “Where did the SEALs go?” The plastic sack she held sagged to the floor, as if too heavy to hold.
    “Back to Venezuela. They have orders awaiting them.”
    The freckles on her nose stood starkly against her pasty complexion. “They went back?” Abandoning the sack, she stumbled to the exit and feebly thrust it open.
    With a cry of disbelief, she beheld the spot where the helicopter had sat. She let the door fall shut, slumping wearily against it.
    “I’m a friend of your sister’s,” said Rafe, with an urge to take her into his arms before she collapsed. Her vulnerability reminded him of Jillian’s.
    “Jillian?” She turned her head to look at him.
    “Yes, Jillian. She’s been worried sick about you.”
    “Is she okay? The baby!” she cried.
    “She’s fine,” he reassured her. “And very pregnant. She’s looking forward to having you home.”
    “Of course,” Jordan agreed, without enthusiasm.
    “I have a plane waiting,” he added, indicating the private jet outside. “Is there anything you need before we go?”
    “Just my clothes.” Pushing off the door, she went to retrieve the sack.
    As the tiny twin engine sliced through the thin atmosphere over the Gulf of Mexico, Jordan felt the effects of the tranquilizer waning. It might have been the sugar in the powdered donuts Valentino set before her at the start of their flight, but as they entered U.S. airspace, with the Mississippi River snaking far below them, she felt revived enough to ask, “So, how did my big sister get six Navy SEALs and the FBI to yank me out of Venezuela?”
    The darkly handsome agent cast her a ghost of a smile. “The SEALs were my idea,” he admitted, in his peculiar, gravelly voice. “But your sister gets points for persistence. She called the Bureau thirty-one times.”
    “I’m not surprised,” said Jordan, dryly. “How do you know Jillian? Through Gary?” Her sister had never mentioned a friend at the Bureau, certainly not a distinguished gentleman who didn’t wear a wedding ring.
    “She was a nurse in the ER in Fairfax when I was treated for shrapnel in my neck.” He touched the scar just above his collar.
    Jordan realized the injury was the reason for his rusty voice. “Oh. So . . .” She pushed back thoughts of Miguel that made conversation so difficult. “How’s Jillie doing? Is the barn up yet?”
    “The barn is up.” He turned down the corner of the page and closed the magazine, giving her his full attention.
    A gentleman, thought Jordan—unlike a certain Navy SEAL she’d encountered lately.
    “Has she bought those therapy horses yet?”
    “She has just one horse that I know of.”
    “That’s our old horse Molly,” said Jordon, locking her cold hands together. “You must think I’m an awful sister, leaving her at a time like this,” she added, betraying her private guilt.
    “It’s not for me to think anything,” he answered tactfully.
    “I had to go back to Venezuela,” she explained. “I was supposed to bring Miguel home with me. Did Jillie tell you about Miguel?”
    “No.”
    “He’s four years old. An orphan. I met him last summer doing my mission work there,