Don't Let Go by Marliss Melton Page B

better,” he told her kindly.
    “Thank you,” she murmured, knowing full well that she looked like hell.
    “Would you like a tour of the house?” Jillian asked.
    “Sure,” said Rafael.
    They made their way up the stairs, with Agatha right on their heels. As Graham threw himself down on the sofa to sulk, Jordan returned to the kitchen, one ear cocked to her sister’s narrative and the agent’s kind replies.
    They spoke like old friends, Jordan mused, not just acquaintances. Friends who found themselves on unfamiliar ground.
    Her speculations continued as she watched their exchange over dinner. Jillian had outdone herself dishing up a savory entrée of duck à l’orange, served with rice pilaf and steamed vegetables. Rafe ate with deep appreciation and impeccable manners.
    “Graham would like to know how you got the Navy SEALs to rescue Jordan,” Jillian asked, pulling her uncommunicative son into the conversation.
    Rafe touched his napkin to his lips. “Well, my colleague, Hannah Lindstrom, is married to a SEAL officer,” he explained to the teen, who briefly met his gaze. “Hannah made inquiries and, as luck would have it, six members of Team Twelve were in Caracas, anyway, training the Elite Guard.”
    Graham grunted and stabbed his fork into his meat.
    Jillian tried again. “You mean our military trains their military?”
    “Just their elite warriors,” he replied. “We want to see this Moderate government succeed. Training their best is one way to keep the Populists from wresting control again.”
    At the reminder of the unstable political situation, Jordan’s appetite fled.
    “What are the chances that they might?” Jillian asked, shooting her sister a troubled look.
    Rafael shrugged his shoulders. “The Moderates were elected by the barest of margins,” he admitted, “and the poor, who support the Populists, probably didn’t even vote, which means there may be more support for the rebels than the Moderates can combat.”
    Jordan didn’t want to hear that. She placed her fork beside her plate. How was she supposed to eat and casually discuss the fate of Venezuela when Miguel and the others relied on Father Benedict for every crumb to enter their mouths, for shelter from harm? She’d heard nothing from the priest in the past week, didn’t even know if Miguel was alive.
    Unaware of Jordan’s plummeting emotions, Rafe added, “They also have Cuba and Iran furnishing them with weapons and Colombian cartels financing their resurgence. It’s a tenuous situation.”
    Jordan pushed her chair back. “I’ll go warm up the pie for dessert,” she volunteered, avoiding Jillian’s concerned glance.
    When she returned to the table, conversation had turned to the details of Jordan’s rescue. “Jordan, Rafael says the SEALs who saved you are stationed in Virginia Beach.”
    “Are they?” Jordan replied, unsettled to think that Solomon McGuire lived just a stone’s throw away. What would he think to know she read his poem every night, perversely comforted by the intuitive knowledge that he’d lost a child himself, once.
    “You should write them a thank-you note,” Jillian suggested, unaware of Jordan’s agitation. “Rafael could give it to his partner to pass along.”
    Jordan didn’t answer. If she wrote to Senior Chief McGuire, she wouldn’t know what to say to him. His poem was a comfort, yes, but nothing changed the fact that he’d wrenched Miguel away from her—possibly forever.
    “Can I be excused?” Graham demanded unexpectedly.
    All three adults looked at him, startled by his angry tone.
    “You’ve hardly eaten anything, honey,” Jillian pointed out.
    “That’s because you guys are boring me to death,” he retorted, rudely. “I want to hang out with Cameron.”
    Cameron was the boy next door—if you could call him that when the nearest house was half a mile away.
    “Rinse your plate, then, and put it in the dishwasher,” Jillian replied, looking disappointed. “I guess