Broken SEAL’S Secret Baby (Billionaire Protectors: The Lanes Series)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

Kate

Why am I here again? I don’t know Charles Winthrop Emory very well. He’s my brother’s best friend.

And I didn’t know his wife, other than to greet her when she dropped her daughter off and picked her up at Bit o’ Heaven Preschool where I’m the education director.

This is a wet, miserable day when you should not even expect a duck to be out, yet here I am with my favorite pupil, attending her mother’s funeral.

It is March 25, of 2020 and Emily Jean Emory (say that ten times fast) is dead. By all accounts she was excellent at her work. She was the head nurse at a local hospital and was well thought of by other nurses who brought their children to Bit o’ Heaven.

Her daughter was and is a well-adjusted child who happily said good-bye to her mother and was equally happy to be picked up and go home with her. She was just as pleased to go home with her father, when he returned from his duties, and took his turn collecting his child .

Emily didn’t need to work. Charles Emory, the CEO of Agri-Oil was as rich as Croesus. I know this because my brother, James Bailey, was acting CEO while Charles was deployed. James had wanted to be an architect. He had an abiding interest in sustainable building that made its own energy, provided food, and recycled waste in as nearly a closed loop as human homes could manage.

It was not his fault that he’d graduated when construction experienced an extreme slowdown, or that his dream was viewed as being kind of crazy.

When Charles came home to stay, he could have put James out of a job. Instead, he made my brother his CFO, and added purchasing and several other duties that didn’t make a lot of sense to me. But it seemed to suit both of them.

There were a lot of things that didn’t make sense to me. I knew several women who would have loved to stay home with their children. Economic constraints dictated that they must work.

It was for the sake of those mothers, fathers, and guardians that I wanted to go into child care as a business. Bit o’ Heaven was a good daycare and preschool that went above and beyond essentials. But I’d worked for several, before I landed my current position, where the management put making money ahead of the children’s welfare.

Cece seemed to take her mother’s going to work in stride. It was just the way things were. She did visit me in my office a little more often than some of the other children. She was curious and inventive – traits that didn’t always go over well with some of the other teachers.

Naptime seemed to be an exceptional trial for everyone involved. I enjoyed Cece but tried not to show it. When you work with groups of students, it doesn’t go over well to have favorites – even if I was fond of her.

Then her mother was invited to speak at a medical convention somewhere out of the country. It was an honor. She was delighted to accept, and Charles seemed proud of his wife’s accomplishment, willingly picking up the slack with childcare for his daughter.

Emily was supposed to be gone for two weeks. But illness among the convention attendees kept them at the center, then Charles told the administrator at Bit o’ Heaven that Cece might need some extra attention. The quarantine had become serious, and several of the attendees were gravely ill.

Cece became sad. She cried when her father left her. She interrupted story time. She called another student a big meany-head, and a poopy-face because he asked if her parents were getting a divorce.

She wasn’t necessarily wrong in her assessment of the student. He was something of a bully, but his parents were divorcing, and he was getting traded back and forth between them.

Then, Charles told us that Emily was a hero. She had helped nurse the other members of the convention as one by one they had become ill, and she had paid a heroes price.

Not even her body would be returning home. Because she had died of a virulently contagious disease that turned up in China back in December, she had to be cremated. All that remained of Emily Jean Emory came home in an urn.

Cece cried all morning on the day she’d learned of her mother’s death. Then she threw a block at the mean kid when he’d asked if she was getting a new mommy.

I took her to my office and held her while she cried some more. I didn’t have the heart to put her in time out, as the rules said I should. Late that afternoon, the administrator told us all that Bit o’ Heaven would be closing its doors until “the medical authorities have this silliness all straightened out.”

That left me without a paycheck, with a month of college classes to go. So, when James called later that evening and asked if I could help with Cece, he didn’t have to talk very hard to get me to agree to begging off from my classes for a couple of days and looking after Cece until after the funeral.

So here we were, on a cold day in spring, going through an odd funeral. James, Charles, Cece and I were the only people physically present. Most of the other “attendees” were viewing the ceremony via a camera that sheltered under a canopy.

It was a reasonable solution, and I wasn’t sorry there was just an urn of ashes. One of my aunts had told me I should kiss my great-uncle’s corpse in its coffin. I took one look and ran screaming to my mother. At least Cecily Elizabeth Emory, usually called Cece, would be spared the barbaric practice of viewing the dead. The poor child had been through enough.

Cece had refused to stand in a taped-off section of lawn by herself and now clung to my knees. I put my arm around her shoulders, trying to share my raincoat and umbrella with her.

Charles Emory stands in a square on my left, his handsome face set like a granite craig. A black medical mask covers the lower part of his face, but I could see the muscles clench in his jaw. Dark eyebrows shade storm-cloud eyes fringed by sinfully long eyelashes. The hair I can see under his J.B. Stetson hat is dark, with a sprinkling of gray at the temples. Mostly, it is cut short in a severe military style.

His wide shoulders, held in stern parade-rest, are covered with a dark peacoat. His legs, which look athletic and strong, are covered by black, severely pressed slacks. Even with all the mud and rain, his dress shoes have a high gloss that would have put your eye out if there’d been any sun to reflect off them.

“I want to go home,” Cece whimpers, shivering as a blast of icy wind threatened to topple the tents. She is wearing a little black, woolen dress, black tights, and black patent leather ballet flats. The jacket that matches her dress is stylish but doesn’t look very warm.

“Soon,” I say to her, reaching down to pick her up.

Mr. Emory hasn’t said more than a word or two to anyone since we arrived, but now his manly jaw moves beneath his mask and he says, “She’s too big to be held. She’s four years old and has two perfectly good feet. Stand up straight, Cecily Elizabeth Emory.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Cece says, her teeth chattering.

Her father’s voice softens a little. “That’s my steadfast little soldier.”

Cece tries to salute and stand on one leg like her favorite book character. She wobbles and nearly falls down.

Defiantly, I pick her up, settling her on my hip and wrapping my jacket around her as best I can. “Her feet are wet,” I whisper, “and she is cold. I could take her to the car.”

Charles Emory reaches out his hands to us. “She’s too big for you to hold long,” he says. “Give her to me. She needs to be here for this.”

I hesitate. How dare he imply that I can’t support the weight of a four-year-old, especially one as fairy-light as Cece?

But she stretches out her arms to her father, and I relinquish my grasp. As I transfer his daughter to him, I notice that the top part of Mr. Emory’s mask is wet, and it isn’t from rain. He snuggles the little girl to him, enveloping her in his pea coat. I tamp down my emotions. Grief is not rational, and everyone responds in their own way.

“It won’t be much longer now,” he says, shifting his weight awkwardly to balance the child against him. “We just need to finish saying good-bye to Mommy.”

The big screen behind the pedestal that holds the last remains of Emily Jean Emory shows a lovely blond woman in her early thirties, dressed in a hospital gown and snuggling a newborn baby.

“Will we see Mommy soon?” Cece asks. It nearly broke my heart to hear her confident trust in her father.

“Not today, Cece,” he says, his voice muffled from being buried in the crook of the little girl’s neck. “Not for a long, long time. But Mommy is watching us from heaven. She loves us both.”

“Then why can’t she come home?” Cece pursues the topic relentlessly. “We could go to my school and give her a ride.”

My heart plummets. The child was under the impression that her mother was at Bit o’ Heaven Daycare, probably waiting for them.

But her father had it in hand. “That’s just one tiny corner of heaven,” he says, glancing over at me. “Mommy’s gone to the big part, and she can’t come back to see us.”

The recorded eulogy talked on, unable to appreciate the small drama that played out in front of it. The screen displayed stills and videos of Emily Jean tending her baby, playing with her cute toddler, dropping Cece off at Bit o’ Heaven Daycare, and kissing her goodbye for the last time. That shot had been captured on the front door security camera at the school.

“But why?” Cece protests. There is only a tiny wobble in her voice. “I go home every day.”

Next was a big screenshot of a group of nurses, all smiling at the camera. This was followed by a shot of Emily addressing a crowd of seated people.

Charles Emory lifts his head to stare at it as the group shot faded into a woman smiling at the camera from a hospital bed.

“Because Mommy liked helping people. And she did a beautiful job of it. Such a good job that I guess God wanted her to take care of him. Or maybe he had some angels who needed her help.”

“That’s not fair!” Cece yells, pushing away from her father. He rocks back from the impact, moving one foot behind him to keep his balance. “I need her more! I want my mommy! If you love me, you’ll go get Mommy and bring her home.”

Charles wraps his daughter tighter in his coat, turning them both away from the camera feed. But I can hear him whisper, “That’s enough, Cece. You are making a scene in public.” His voice is rough and raw with emotion, as if he is trying not to cry.

I feel in my pocket for the wad of tissues I’d stashed in there. I cried when I was angry. Masks made crying hideously unfortunate, and I feel as if I’m suffocating. I let the tears run down my face, clenching my jaw. Couldn’t he tell the child was hurting? Would it have been so dreadful to leave her at home? She could have watched this later when she was older and her grief was not so new.

The recorded eulogy ran down to a merciful end. Mr. Emory turns to James and I, the only people physically present. “Thank you for coming and being here with us.”

“You are welcome,” James says. “She’ll be missed.”

Unable to get words through my emotions, I nod my acknowledgement and hand most of the wad of tissues to Mr. Emory. He uses the edge of it to gently wipe Cece’s face, then turns the wad over to dab at a snot smear on his lapel.

“Let’s go to the car,” he says. “The funeral director can take it from here.”

Cece’s car seat is in the back of my brother’s company sedan. Her father carefully buckles her into it, then tucks a soft blanket around her. “Daddy’s legs are too long to ride in the back,” he says gently. “Will you be all right with Miss Kate? ”

Cece nods, her lip sticking out and her nose red from crying. “Miss Kate loves me.” Anger rings through every syllable.

There is a world of implication in those words. I can not help but think he deserves the rebuke for being so cold to his child. Mr. Emory comes around the car and wordlessly holds the back door open for me before clambering into the front seat. His face is pale and set. I realize that Charles Emory is in pain. Cece had lost her mother, but Charles had lost his wife.

And it seems there is something more. He grips the roof of the car, easing himself into the seat.

He carefully situates his left leg, settling into the soft leather seat with a sigh of relief. “Rainy weather stiffens this leg right up,” he says. “Thanks for driving for me today, James. I didn’t want to lay her to rest through a camera feed.”

James glances over at him. “I owe you, Chief,” he says. “I’m here for you, any time.”

I want to reach over the back of the seat and smack my brother on the top of his head. What the heck did he owe Charles Emory? The few times the man had come home with him when they were college roommates, I’d wanted to drown both of them.

Charles had left the gate open so the bull got in among the yearling heifers. Dad was fit to be tied because the old fella had sired most of them, and that meant inbred stock — never a good thing. Besides, he hadn’t intended for the “little ladies” as he called them to be bred until they were two-year-olds.

When we’d hosted the football team, cheerleaders, and cheer club one spring break, Gregory Jones had been ecstatic about getting an all-sports scholarship.

I was a sophomore and had the biggest crush on Greg, even though he only had eyes for Debra Sue, the head cheerleader. Charles had made a remark to the effect that a sports scholarship was all an African American share-cropper could expect — and he said it where Greg could hear him.

James had taken Charles aside and explained that Greg was a good friend, and that even if he wasn’t, we didn’t say things like that about anyone. The stuck-up preppie hadn’t said anything after that. But it didn’t seem to me that he’d changed his ways, chewing out a preschooler who just wanted her mommy to come home.

I reach over and take Cece’s hand in mine. She wraps her little fingers around my thumb. She doesn’t cry out loud, but she makes little hiccup sobs.

Worn out from the storm of emotion, Cece falls asleep. The rest of the ride is made in silence. Long dark eyelashes, so like her father’s, lay against her rosy cheeks. Her face is grubby from crying, and I consider trying to clean her up. But that would have woken her. Sleep is good medicine for anyone grieving, but especially for four-year-olds.

When we pull into the parking garage at Agri-Oil’s tower, she wakes up and looks around. “Are we home?” she asks.

“We are,” Mr. Emory says, his voice gruff with emotion. “Just let me get out of the car.”

The tall man struggles to extract himself from my brother’s economy car. “Next time,” he says with an attempt at humor, “We’ll take my ride. It’s not as low to the ground.”

“Whatever you want, Chief,” James says. “I can carry Cece . . .”

“I have two good feet,” Cece announces. “Daddy said so.”

“So you do,” James agrees. “I’ll get the car seat then, so you won’t get in trouble going to the grocery store.”

“Not much chance of that,” Mr. Emory says. “I’ll ask the cook to place an order and have it delivered. I know it has to be touched by somebody somewhere, but I won’t have to take Cece out. ”

“I’ll wait here,” I volunteer. “No need to crowd up in the elevator.” I love Cece, but I’d had enough of Mr. Charles Emory, retired Naval SEAL, war hero, and CEO and chief stockholder of a multi-billion dollar corporation.

“Thank you,” Mr. Emory says.

I am left alone in the car. I didn’t bother climbing into the front seat. James would want to disinfect everything.

My brother has always been a clean freak, even when we were kids. I was the one who didn’t care about getting my hands dirty making mud pies or building dams in the creek.

Since the Ebola outbreak in 2014, he’d become a fanatic about cleaning vehicles, doing laundry, and even showering after anyone had been in the City. It was extremely irritating, especially since I’d been living in the dorm at KU. He practically wanted to run me through decontamination every time I came home for the weekend.

“Humor him,” Mom had said the day I helped her and Dad move into Sunset Retirement Village. The name was kind of a pun. Not only did it cater to the over sixty crowd, but it had a gorgeous westward view of the open plains.

Neither Mom or Dad were super happy about the move. They’d planned to travel when they retired, or maybe make the classic move to a beach house in Florida.

But Dad was in the first stages of early onset Alzheimer’s disease. Right now, he was still Dad. But he’d started doing weird things, like leaving the tractor running in the field, or cutting the dining room table in half because he didn’t have a sawhorse. Mom was afraid he’d hurt himself or someone else, so James took over the farm and they moved to the retirement village.

I love James, and he does a good job helping me out. But he is a huge pain in the, um, neck, as only a big brother can be. And I purely hate Charles Emory. He was heedless as a youth, cold and uncaring as a man. After a day and a half of being with the two of them, I am ready to get back to the dorm.

To pass the time while I wait for James, I text my roommate, Grace Weber. How are things?

Grace is everything I am not. Where I am built like a two-inch by four-inch board and am five feet ten inches tall, Grace is five feet two and curves in all the right places.

I have long, dark hair that is perfectly straight — not a totally bad thing, light hazel eyes, a lean face with high cheekbones, and a nose that just escapes Barbara Streisand proportions. Grace has blond, Shirley Temple curls, big blue eyes, with a rosy complexion, and a cute little tip-tilted button nose.

Grace texts back: OMG, Kate! I’ve been trying to get hold of you.

Did I mention that Grace is excitable? She has a hard time texting without capitals. And exclamation points.

Me: Why?

Grace: They’re closing down the campus! Everything is going online, and we’ve got to move out of the dorm!

Me : How soon?

Grace : Like, now! They gave everyone 48 hours, as of yesterday morning!

Me : Well, that bites. We are done with the funeral, so I’ll have James drive me over as soon as he gets back to the car. Do you need a ride?

Grace : No. My folks will be here at 4:00. I’m so glad you texted. I didn’t know what to do. They’re going to lock up at 8:00 PM tomorrow and no one will be allowed in.

I see my brother get off the elevator and approach the car.

Me: I’ll be there as quick as I can. I see James.

Grace: All right. Be careful.

I sign off and watch as my brother gets into the car. “Drop you off at the dorm?” he asks .

“No. Sorry. They’re closing the dorms. I need to pick up my stuff.”

James whips around and peers at me over the seat back. “You’re shittin’ me.”

My brother. The soul of politeness and good will. Maybe there is a reason he got along so well with Mr. Charles Emory, billionaire, former Navy SEAL, and all-around asshole.

“I wish. I need to go pick up my stuff. All my clothes, my laptop, and my books are there.”

“And then what?” he asks.

“And then I have no idea. Go throw your stuff out of my room at home? Rent a motel? You tell me.”

James sighs. “Right. Let’s go get your stuff, then we’ll figure it out.”