My Protector (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 5) Read online

  My Protector

  Layla Valentine

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  My Protector

  1. Jenna

  2. Joel

  3. Joel

  4. Jenna

  5. Jenna

  6. Joel

  7. Joel

  8. Jenna

  9. Joel

  10. Joel

  11. Jenna

  12. Jenna

  13. Jenna

  14. Joel

  15. Jenna

  16. Jenna

  17. Jenna

  18. Joel

  19. Jenna

  20. Jenna

  Epilogue

  Layla Valentine

  Secret Daddy Surprise

  Introduction

  1. Garrett

  Also by Layla Valentine

  My Protector

  Copyright 2018 by Layla Valentine and Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Jenna

  I’ve always thought that you can tell a lot about people by the way they behave in airports. Maybe that’s because I spend so much of my time in airports, though, and one of the only things to do on a seven-hour layover is people-watch.

  Today, I’m at a regional airport, which is what I prefer. International airports don’t give you any idea of the flavor of the country you’re in, but this airport feels like France. Most of the people in the departures lounge with me are French—at least, I assume they are by the fact that they’re speaking to each other in rapid French. My own French is good enough to ask for directions and extend polite courtesies to service workers, but I sure as hell can’t keep up with any of the conversations around me.

  Of course, the bad thing about regional airports is that there’s very little to do. This one has a single, solitary bar, tucked into a corner behind a ridiculously large planter. I’m seated on one of the uncomfortable bar stools, well into my second cocktail. My flight to Paris doesn’t take off for another three hours, and from there I have another two-hour wait for my flight back to the States.

  So in the meantime, I’m checking out the people in the airport. It’s the usual cross-section of society. Some people are traveling in sweats or pajamas, slumping in the rigid seats at the gate with feet propped up on their luggage. Although part of me judges them for letting it all hang out in public, I have to admit there’s a part of me that’s jealous.

  I know I look immaculate with my dark hair in an updo, my legs sheathed in stockings, and my perfectly tailored business suit, but it would be nice not to have to dress like this on international flights. I know I’m not going to feel comfortable again for hours, and when I finally peel these clothes off at the end of my journey, I’m going to be sweaty and sticky and disgusting.

  A lot of the waiting area is occupied by young people—younger than my twenty-seven years—sporting backpacks. Looking at them also makes me experience a stab of jealousy. I never had the chance to travel around the world after college—I went straight into business. And, okay, it’s true that I get to travel all the time for my job, meeting with executives in other countries. But that isn’t the same, and even I know it. I spent the majority of this trip to France in conference rooms in the hotel and didn’t get to see anything cool or touristy.

  That said, the trip was a success, and I’m proud of what we achieved. It’s always a great feeling when a new company agrees to come on board, and not just because of the extra profit we earn. I work as a consultant for philanthropic organizations. My company helps charities we believe in raise money so they can pursue their mission. Sometimes being a business executive feels like a very cold, detached way to live, but other times I really feel like I’m making a difference in the world.

  It’ll be nice to have a couple of days off, though. Every December, my firm closes for a couple of weeks so that employees can spend their holiday of choice with friends or family, and, as usual, I’ll be spending the time with my father. I’m going home to Manchester, New Hampshire today, but in another week’s time, I’ll be driving to Boston to spend a week with him. Dad and I haven’t seen each other in months—unfortunately, I’m usually too busy with my job—and I can’t wait to be there. We always have a good time together. He’ll have bought a bottle of high-end whiskey for the occasion, as he always does, and we’ll go out into the backyard and chop firewood together so we can make a fire in his fireplace and sit beside it with our drinks.

  A smile makes its way across my face as I imagine it. Even though we don’t see each other as often as I’d like, my dad is probably my best friend. I’m an only child, so ever since Mom died when I was a baby, it’s been just the two of us. I think it’s probably thanks to him that I’m so good at my job—he raised me to be confident and assertive, both of which are very important when trying to pitch your services to people. But he also raised me with compassion, a trait non-profit organizations are always glad to see. If it weren’t for Dad, I wouldn’t have had any of the successes or the opportunities I’ve had in my adult life.

  But when we spend holidays together, our focus is always on the fun things we have in common. Dad is a great cook, and he’s been trying for years to teach me. I don’t have his touch, so I’ll be his sous chef as we prepare Christmas dinner. I picked him up a French cookbook during this trip, and I’ll give it to him as an early Christmas present. I know he’ll love picking a recipe for us to make together.

  And we’ll play chess. So much of our time spent together is funneled into our ongoing chess tournament. Dad’s currently beating me 105 games to 87, but I’ve been studying technique online, and I think I have a few moves that might surprise him. I sip my drink and smile, imagining him staring in consternation at the chessboard as I capture piece after piece and eventually maneuver him into a checkmate. It’s about time he took me seriously as an opponent.

  Getting away from work for a few days will be great, too. I look around at the travelers in their sweats and imagine a whole week without putting on a business suit and heels. It’s going to be heaven.

  Still, there’s something a little sad about this Christmas. As the weeks have gone by, I’ve been feeling more and more despondent, and for a long time, I couldn’t figure out why. I’ve always loved this time of the year. It’s strange that I should be so sad and lost in my head about it this year when everything in my life is going well. My health is good, and so is my dad’s, and things have never been better at work. So what’s the problem?

  I first got an inkling when I received a Christmas card from my college friend and roommate, Tori. Dear Jenna, the card said in a careful script that seemed much too fancy and ornate to have come from my carefree friend. Wishing you and your family a happy holiday season. With love, Tori, Stephen, Ryder, and Kylie. The photo on the card showed Tori in a button-down cardigan, sitting on a leather loveseat beside her older and slightly graying husband. She and Stephen each held one of their four-year-old twins on their lap. As I stared at the card, I found I couldn’t quite believe how different Tori’s life was from my own.

  Tori and Stephen met while
we were in college. He was a teacher’s assistant in her anthropology class senior year, and when she first told me she had a crush on him, I assumed nothing would come of it. After all, it was Tori. She always had a crush on somebody, and it was usually somebody inappropriate. But three weeks later, the class had ended, and Tori and Stephen were dating. He proposed to her on the evening of our graduation, and they married about a year later. A year after that, she announced that she was pregnant.

  Each of those things seemed small—or at least, not so titanic—when they were happening. Everyone dated. I had been dating someone myself at the time. It was normal for people of Tori’s age to get married. And even having children, which was inarguably a life-changing event, didn’t seem so startling. That was what you did after you got married. It was normal. It was to be expected.

  But looking at that holiday card, I realized that I was no longer looking at my adventurous friend who was always up for anything. I was looking at a wife and mother, a woman who wore button-down cardigans and wrote notes in careful calligraphy. What was more, Tori had become all these things without my knowledge because she and I hardly ever saw each other anymore. We were friends now in name only.

  She wasn’t the only person I’d drifted apart from in the past few years. It seemed as though everyone from college was settling down and starting families. Tori’s was just one of a slew of Christmas cards I received this year with photos of chubby children decked out in adorable red and green outfits, some of them sitting on Santa’s lap, others posing with the family dog in front of a neat row of hand-knit stockings. The parents in all these pictures are holding hands, their heads bent together happily. And meanwhile, I’m spending my holidays drinking whiskey and playing chess with my father.

  It’s not that I don’t want to do that—I definitely do. But I’m starting to wonder if that makes me weird. Is there something I’m missing out on?

  The vibrating of my cellphone shakes me out of my thoughts. The fact that anyone at all is calling me is strange. I keep my phone service active when I’m overseas, but I mitigate that by letting everyone in my life know that I might not be able to accept calls. Consequently, most people choose to reach out to me via some other means of communication when I’m out of the country—email, usually, or instant messaging. For a moment, I think it must be a business call, but this isn’t my work phone. I deliberately packed that in a pocket of my carryon bag because I didn’t want to be troubled with business during my flight home.

  I pull the phone out of my pocket. There are only a few phone numbers in the world I know by sight, and this is one of them.

  “Hey, Dad,” I answer.

  My dad has always had a zany sense of humor, and I’m expecting him to launch into the call with one of his signature antics—singing an old-timey folk song, for example, or sharing a little-known fact about the nature of the cosmos. Or he might just belt out “Lima Bean!” his nonsensical nickname for me. But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he says, “Jenna?”

  He sounds…well, he sounds serious. My dad doesn’t have a serious bone in his body, and I’m immediately anxious.

  “Yeah, Dad, it’s me. What’s up?” I try to keep my voice casual and breezy as if by treating this conversation lightly I can force it to be light. Something feels very wrong.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “I’m in France,” I say. “I told you, remember? We were video chatting last week, and I told you I was coming here for work. I’m actually on my way home today. It was a really productive meeting. I’m going to have to get on a plane soon, but when I get home, I can tell you all about it.”

  “You’re at the airport?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “In Paris?”

  “In Chambéry. Dad, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he says. He sounds like he’s in a hurry to end the call. “I just wanted to call and say I love you, Jenna.”

  “I love you too, Dad,” I say, mystified. “What brings it up?”

  “Just get home safe, okay?”

  “You bet,” I say. Then, I end the call.

  I stare at the phone in my hand for a minute. It’s bizarre enough for Dad to call me when he knows I’m out of the country. We don’t talk on the phone a lot. We have our weekly video calls, and sometimes we do call just to ask each other a random question. But he’s never been the kind of parent who worries more than is necessary about my safety. I know he’s not lying awake at night because of me being in France. He knows he raised a smart and capable daughter who can handle herself in an unfamiliar country. Besides, he doesn’t want to rack up roaming minutes on my phone bill.

  So why the call? I have to admit, when his number came up, I was worried it would be some kind of emergency, that he would be calling to tell me he was in the hospital or something. But it wasn’t anything like that. He seemed more concerned about my welfare. Asking where I was, what city I was in—why ask a question like that if he didn’t want to talk about what I was doing here?

  And then there’s the fact that he jumped almost immediately to the I love you. Now, don’t get me wrong—I know Dad loves me. It’s just that he’s never been especially verbal about that fact. He’s the kind of person who shows his affection in other ways. Cooking with me, for example, is an expression of his love. But to call me up and say it like that…well, it’s out of character.

  Maybe I dismissed the idea of him being unwell too quickly. Maybe he is sick. I chew my lip thoughtfully. Should I stop in Boston on my way home? Maybe check on him?

  A staticky voice comes over the intercom. It speaks first in French, then offers an English translation: “Flight seven eighty-four to Paris, now boarding at gate A2.” The message is repeated in both languages.

  I get to my feet, sling my travel bag over my shoulder, and join the line of people waiting to board the plane, making sure I have my boarding pass in hand. I’m worrying too much, I decide. Am I really thinking of changing my travel plans because my father called to tell me he loves me? Ridiculous. I’ll call him when I get home. I’m sure he’ll be his usual playful self, and I’ll feel completely reassured. The fact is, I know I can’t take extra time off work so close to the holidays unless it really is an emergency. And I really want to get out of this business suit and these heels. Dad hasn’t given me any concrete reason to think anything at all is wrong.

  I take my seat on the plane, order a glass of wine, and lean back, waiting for takeoff.

  Everything’s fine.

  Chapter 2

  Joel

  Driving through Boston, a lot of people might see a dilapidated city on the decline. But I think that point of view tells you a lot about the person who holds it. Sure, cities go through stages, and Boston isn’t the modern urban center it once was. And yeah, it’s true that a lot of the buildings that were once regal are now covered with graffiti and starting to crumble. But if you ask me, it’s all a part of the character of the place.

  A city like New York might be in better repair, but New York is so confused over who it wants to be that it’s had to divide itself into five boroughs, each with its own unique personality. Chicago knows who it is, but it feels like it grew up defining itself in opposition to New York. Which might be why the Windy City always feels like a bratty kid brother to me. And as for Los Angeles…I mean, you can’t get a taxi to save your life. I don’t mind celebrities, I don’t. But how are the rest of us supposed to get from point A to point B in a place like that?

  My job has taken me to thirty-seven of our fifty states in the past five years, so I consider myself pretty well-traveled. And at this point, I feel more than confident in saying that there is no place like home. Being in Boston gives me a feeling of calm and potential that I don’t get anywhere else. I know this city, and I know how to make the most of her ins and outs. I am at my most effective right here.

  I like to think of myself as a magician. What I do isn’t magic, of course; it’s careful trickery. But that applie
s to stage magicians as well. The whole aim is to trick the audience. The difference between a magician and me is that my audience is the entire world. If I handle things right, they’ll never even know they’ve been tricked. They say a good magician never reveals his secrets, but I say a great magician never lets you know you’ve been had at all. I am a great magician.

  The other difference between most working magicians and me is that I only have one trick. I don’t dress it up with a lot of showmanship, and I don’t pad my act by playing with cards or rodents. I have my one trick, and it’s the entire performance. Take a bow, curtain down, no encore. But it’s a damn good trick if I do say so myself.

  I make people disappear.

  It’s harder than it sounds. You can’t just take a person out of their surroundings. People leave a lot of trails, a lot of records in their wake. And those all have to be scrubbed before they can be considered disappeared. But I’m good at it. I don’t make mistakes. I get it right.

  Usually.

  I feel a sinking sensation in my gut as I drive past the remnants of a gas station that’s been closed for a couple of years now. It’s not that passing the place catches me by surprise, of course. I know this city like the back of my hand, and if I wanted to avoid this spot, I could devise at least ten alternate routes that would allow me to do so. But that’s just weak. You can’t spend your life steering away from things that are hard, right? And besides, this is still the quickest way to get to where I need to go. But you would think that after years of driving around the city, some of the sting would have gone out of seeing buildings like this gas station.

  It hasn’t, though. They all still get to me.

  It should have been just another job. The guy who owned the gas station found me in the bar I sometimes visit on weeknights when the work isn’t coming in. Someone had given him my name, he said, and told him that I could make people disappear. Was it true?