Don't Let Go by Marliss Melton Page A

again.
    A rustle and thud suggested that he had leapt off the boat and was coming after her. She squelched the urge to run.
    “You can’t leave yet,” he said, catching up to her with speed that made her breathless. He caught her elbow and swung her around. “Come on, now. The boat’s not going to sink.”
    “I get seasick,” she added, unsettled by his touch.
    “Do you see any waves? You won’t even know you’re on a boat.”
    She yanked free of his sure grasp. The reminder of his physical strength made her inexplicably furious. “Where is Silas?” she gritted. He was the reason she’d come—him and the hope that she could pay off her bills.
    “He’s sleeping.” This was said with such weary relief that her anger subsided. “Please, come in and we’ll make arrangements suitable to both of us.”
    Jordan cocked an ear at the odd turn of phrase. She eyed the houseboat. It didn’t look like it would sink, and it didn’t rock at all on the placid inlet. “Fine,” she agreed. “But if I start to feel sick, I’m leaving.”
    He preceded her down the wide dock and across a gangplank with rails, holding out a hand to help her across. Wary of touching him, she ignored it and stepped briskly onto the boat. “What’s with the name of your boat?” she asked. The deck was spotless, gleaming.
    He smiled a cynical smile. “
Camelot?
Why, this is my castle, of course,” he answered, pulling open a door with a stained-glass centerpiece.
    Jordan edged inside and caught her breath.
    The interior was a woodworker’s paradise. From the paneled walls to the built-in cabinetry, every whimsical nook served some utilitarian purpose. Thick area rugs softened the gleaming wood floor. Recessed lighting lit the inviting seating areas. “Wow,” Jordan breathed, noting both a hallway and a flight of steps disappearing into darkness. It was a bit of a castle, only where was Guinevere, the Queen? “Where does Silas sleep?” she asked.
    “For now, in my bed,” Solomon retorted, wryly. “He didn’t want to sleep alone belowdecks. Can I get you something to drink?”
    His presence in the cozy space abraded her senses. “Water would be nice,” she said, moving to a window seat to put distance between them. “This is some library you have,” she remarked, as he brought her a glass, fingers brushing in the trade-off. The contact sent a spark up her arm.
    “I know,” he answered, casting a pride-filled look at the crowded shelves. “I’ve read them all,” he said matter-of-factly.
    “Really.” Jordan peered more closely at the dented and worn spines. “
Gulliver’s Travels
?” she asked him. “
Moby Dick
?”
    “Two of my favorites,” he replied, lowering himself onto the sturdy coffee table by her feet.
    Jordan resisted the urge to draw her knees up. There was something about this man that disturbed her—not that she thought he would hurt her physically. It went deeper than that.
    “What did you think of my poem?” he asked her.
    She took a quick sip of her water. “Well written,” she answered, guarding how deeply the poem had touched her; how she’d sobbed into her pillow on several occasions after reading it again. “How did you lose Silas for so long?” she asked him.
    “My late wife ran off with him,” he answered, with a deep freeze in his voice.
    Ah, thought Jordan, now having an answer to her earlier question.
    “I spent five years looking for him,” continued Solomon on that same cold note. “Turns out he was with his stepaunt in nowhere, Mississippi, abandoned by a mother who loved herself more than she loved her son.”
    There wasn’t a trace of regret or grief in his expression, though she hadn’t missed the fact that his Guinevere was now dead.
    “So,” she continued, steering the conversation back to his proposal, “what kind of suitable arrangements did you have in mind?”
    Beneath the black moustache, his smile was mocking. “I’ll pay you thirty dollars an hour,” he