The Marine's Babies

“Thanks. I hate wasting a single shot,” she said, tickling the girl. “We went off and left our digital camera at home. It’s scary how dependent you get on being able to take hundreds of pictures of your kids.”

Throat too tight to speak, Emma smiled and nodded.

“Okay, I think we’re ready. Smile, silly rabbit!”

Emma snapped the shot, but just at that moment, the curly-haired toddler bucked, sending the diaper bag into the pool.

“My wallet and Mary’s asthma medicine are in there!” the woman shrieked.

Hurtling to action, the father set down Mary, then jumped in after the bag. Mary took off after him, yelling, “Fish! Fish!”

“She can’t swim!” Mary’s mother screamed. Before Emma even realized what was happening, the woman had thrust her infant son into Emma’s arms, and then leapt into the pool.

The entire incident took mere seconds. From the outside, the scene had been so unremarkable, no one from the splashing, shrieking swim class had even noticed.

Mary was safe.

The bag, medicine and wallet were still fairly dry.

Emma, meanwhile, holding a baby boy who was larger than her son had ever grown to be, felt in danger of fainting. But she wouldn’t, because she’d rather put herself in jeopardy than a precious child. Grief squeezed her chest, making air a rarity in her lungs.

“Thank you so much,” Mary’s soggy mother said, her daughter safely in her arms. “I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t been here.”

“S-someone else would’ve helped,” Emma reasoned, inhaling the infant’s sweet scent. Lotion and baby shampoo. It all came rushing back. How Henry had smelled right out of the tub, giggling when she tickled his belly while wrapping him in a fluffy, giraffe-patterned hooded towel.

“Regardless,” the man said, “how about we at least buy you a coffee or tea? Maybe one of those frilly, flowery drinks?”

“Really,” Emma said, fighting with everything in her not to cry, as she passed the infant to his father. Never would she give in to the insane voice telling her to run off and never let the baby go. “I’m good.”

“Sure?” the man asked. “We could flag down a waiter and have him put something on our bill for you to enjoy later.”

“Oh, let’s do that,” the woman said. “What’s your room number?” she asked Emma. “We’ll stop by the concierge’s desk and buy you and your husband lunch and fruity drinks.”

Husband? Emma glanced at her left-hand ring finger and realized she had yet to remove her thin, gold band.

“Thank you,” Emma said, pulse racing, already backing down the path leading from the children’s pool, “but I have to go. I’m late. Terribly late.” I should’ve been back at my safe, quiet house an hour ago. There, I never would’ve had my heart broken all over again.

FRIDAY NIGHT, both babies finally asleep, Jace leaned his forehead against the makeshift nursery’s window, squeezing his eyes shut. The paternity test had proven with 99.99 percent certainty that Beatrice and Bronwyn were his. The gravity of that knowledge weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He was thankful that Pam had gotten over being angry at him and had been great about helping out, but, like it or not, it was time to face facts. He was a father.

Straightening, rubbing his whisker-stubbled jaw, Jace sighed.

His commanding officer had been considerate, giving him the rest of the week off to take care of business. Jace had placed an ad for a nanny. He’d rounded up used cribs and a changing table from a few of the guys. He’d stocked up on diapers and formula and a playpen. He’d mastered diaper-changing and could at least get the crew fed and clean, but what next? He was floundering and knew it. Not a good feeling for a guy trained to handle any situation, no matter how dire, in a calm, rational manner. He didn’t panic—ever. Not even in the heat of battle. So why now, gazing at two snoozing babies, did his heart feel ready to pound out of his chest?

IN THE last few days, Emma had done a lot of soul-searching. Sunday morning, strolling along the shore, plucking shells from the sand, she kept dwelling on what had happened at the resort. Holding that baby boy had felt so right. It had returned her to a time and place when her life had been perfect. It had shown her that as much as she hated to admit it, maybe her mother had been right. Not now, but soon, she needed to get a grip.

A slight breeze stirred the muggy air, carrying with it the briny scents of the sea.

Pausing, staring out at the horizon, Emma crossed her arms, wishing the omnipresent knot in her stomach would go away. Ever since she’d held the infant, she hadn’t been able to put her latest conversation with her mother from her mind. Like a recording, her mother’s voice repeated options to help Emma take back her life.

Marry again.

Adopt.

Borrow.

Of course, the first and third options were ludicrous. The last thing Emma needed or wanted in her life was another man. And who in their right mind would let Emma borrow their infant just so that she could prove to herself she was a good mother? Adoption could be a possible road back to motherhood, but not for an awfully long time.

Emma’s own mom had been right; Henry’s death hadn’t been Emma’s fault. In her mind, Emma had no problem realizing that. It was her heart that didn’t believe it. It was her heart that had been irreparably damaged by Rick’s unfathomably cruel accusations.

Hot and annoyed by the day’s oppressive heat, Emma trudged back to her house. She didn’t bother counting her few finds, choosing instead to leave them in their pink bucket, at the base of the steps.

She went through the motions of fixing herself a bagel, but since she wasn’t the least bit hungry, she left her meal on the counter in favor of opening the newspaper she’d brought in earlier.

Sipping hot tea that was only making her hotter, Emma skimmed local and national headlines—frustrating.

Entertainment news—boring.

Birth announcements—depressing.

In the classifieds, an ad for free puppies caught her eye. After the divorce, all of her friends had advised her to get a dog. But something inside feared mothering a beagle wouldn’t be enough.

She’d finished half of her tea when something else snagged her attention:

Marine dad desperately seeking

live-in help for infant twins…

Borrow a baby, her mother whispered in Emma’s head.

The very notion of taking a job that would, in a sense, allow her do just such a thing—borrow a baby—caused her hand to tremble so badly that tea sloshed over the lip of her mug. When the liquid pooled on the newspaper, she frantically dabbed at the mess.

Dare she call the number? What if she got the job? Worse yet, her heart cried, what if she didn’t?

Chapter Two

“Um, Becca,” Jace said, forcing himself to meet the Goth girl’s dark-shadowed eyes. Though it was only early Monday afternoon, his exhaustion level made it feel closer to midnight. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, but I’m thinking I may need someone with a little more experience.” Not to mention, fewer piercings!

“But I’ve got five younger brothers and sisters. And I just got evicted from my apartment, so I could really get into the whole sleepover aspect of this gig. Ready to talk money?” Kicking back on the sofa, she slipped off black flip-flops before putting her feet on the coffee table. Granted, he sat like that nine times a day, but it was his place. “Comfy,” she said, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Yeah, this is gonna work out fine.”

What worked for Jace was booting this applicant to the curb.

With one more interview to go, he spent the next thirty minutes reacquainting himself with the sticky tabs on the babies’ diapers. Though he’d been with them a week—and now faced the reality of being their father every second of every day—Jace still couldn’t fully wrap his head around the situation.

Just yesterday, the PI had informed him that Vicki had, for all practical purposes, vanished, meaning, Jace didn’t have any option other than to step up.

“Okay, kiddos,” Jace said upon finishing his task. “You’re good to go for at least another couple of hours.” Until Vicki could be found, he’d finished setting up his home office to double as a nursery. He felt bad about its plainness. Beige walls and a do-it-yourself computer station that leaned to the left. The cribs and changing table had been borrowed from fellow Apache pilot, Morris “Birdman” Harlow. He had three girls and one boy and all the gear that went along with them.