Don't Let Go by Marliss Melton Read Free Book Online Page A

the most sensitive man could write,
Is he my earthly ideal gone?
    This was his way of apologizing. Only she would rather have someone to blame and rail against, wouldn’t she?
    But there was something bittersweet in this apology, as well as an underlying communication of intimacy that made her feel exposed, like he’d glimpsed a side of her she’d vowed no man would ever see again.
    At a loss as to what to do with the poem, Jordan stuck it back in the envelope and left it with the rest of her bills to deal with later.
    She put her groceries away. As a part of her nightly ritual, she called Jillian and confirmed that she’d be over for dinner Friday night. Then she fixed supper and ate it standing up, her gaze straying thoughtfully to the envelope.
    On her way to bed, she snatched it up and carried it upstairs, where she left it on her bedside table while she showered and dressed for bed. Turning out the light, she slipped under the covers and looked at the envelope, glowing like a ghost in the darkness.
    The fact that Solomon McGuire, a stranger, recognized her pain made it all the more crushing. Turning her back on his missive, she grieved her loss. The memory of Miguel’s smile, his scent, his frail little arms clutching her neck, followed her into her dreams.
    One of Solomon’s best-kept secrets was that he enjoyed puttering at the desk in his office at Spec Ops. Senior chiefs weren’t supposed to enjoy time spent in the office. Paperwork was for lowlier enlisted to generate and officers to sign.
    But Solomon took private pleasure in anything associated with reading and writing. He knew for a fact he was better-read than his commanding officer. Lieutenant Commander Montgomery had a master’s degree in finance, but he didn’t own a library like the one on Solomon’s houseboat. Harley, who’d constructed the built-in shelves, had an inkling of the number of books that lined them, but not even Harley knew Solomon had read them all.
    Back from a month’s TDY in Venezuela, Solomon was pleased to return to a desk overflowing with paper. He shut the door, cozied into his leather desk chair, and started sorting through it. It took an hour to come across a handwritten envelope that had been forwarded to the SPEC OPS building from his previous command post.
    The return address of Mantachie, Mississippi, looked entirely unfamiliar, as did the neat script. He slit the envelope with his sterling-plated letter opener, finding two pages inside, a handwritten letter and the copy of a death certificate. Candy’s death certificate.
    Doused with shock and disbelief, he skimmed the letter, desperate for news of Silas.
    You do not know me, sir, but I know of you through Candy, who was once my stepsister. Her father and my mother were married in the early nineties. Candy came through Mantachie two years ago, on her way to Vegas. She left Silas behind, promising to collect him later, only she never did. Last month I got word that she’d died in a car crash a few months before. She’d lived her life like that—going too fast, wanting too much. I’d just as soon keep Silas with me—God knows I love him like my own. Truth is I can’t afford to keep him any more than I have a right to. He’s your boy, not mine. Please come and fetch him within a week if possible, as I have to move from this address.
    Respectfully,
Ellie Jean Stuart
    “Son of a bitch,” Solomon breathed, examining the second page, a death certificate. Candace was definitely dead. He waited to see how that news would impact him and felt nothing. His love for her had perished long ago.
    Silas!
    He dove back into the letter, reading it carefully this time, searching for inferences. The message seemed sincere, suggesting that the author was a woman of common sense and moral consciousness, which was more than could be said of Candace.
    Excitement started singing through his veins.
    Silas was alive! His son, alive! His search was over.
    He stood up so swiftly that the