Taking the Heat

Taking the Heat By Sylvia Day


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



My gratitude goes to Cynthia D’Alba, who critiqued this story for me in the midst of celebrating her first sale. Now that’s a friend!



And hugs to my dear friends Maya Banks and Karin Tabke. It’s an honor to share a book with you both. I’m ready for our next retreat, ladies!





Chapter 1



Two explosions rocked Deputy U.S. Marshal Brian Simmons on August 15 at 4:32 in the afternoon: the first was the sight of his perennial wet dream, Layla Creed; the second was the detonation of a launched grenade.

Brian heard the whistling of the approaching explosive a second before the projectile hit one of three Chevy Suburbans waiting to transport Layla from a safe house to the Baltimore/ Washington airport. Lunging forward, he tackled her to the ground, shielding her with his body with only seconds to spare.

The blast radiated from the point of impact, sending a surge of heat roiling over them. The shock wave jolted her slender body and he curled around her, clutching her tightly. The ringing in his ears was deafening, dulling the sound of Layla’s screams. But he felt them. Felt them vibrate against him.

Shrapnel rained down. Fire licked at the soles of his shoes. He scrambled to his feet, pulling her up and hauling her back into the apartment building. His ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton, his focus narrowed by the instinctive need to get Layla to safety.

Layla.

Withdrawing his service weapon, Brian steered her with a firm grip on her elbow. They bypassed the elevator and slipped into the stairwell. He glanced up, momentarily considering the viability of returning to the room she’d occupied the night before. Then, he pulled her down toward the subterranean garage.

The safe house had been compromised. At least two deputies had lost their lives, one of whom was a friend he’d known for years. He wasn’t certain who he could trust, and with Layla in the crosshairs, he wasn’t taking any chances. Hard-driving possessiveness pushed him forward. She kept up; her fingers linked tightly with his as they thundered down the stairs.

They burst through the metal stairwell door into the garage. A forest green Honda was backing out of a parking spot to their left and Brian stepped behind it, withdrawing his badge and identification from his pocket.

He met the gaze of the female driver who gaped at him through her rearview mirror. “I need you to get out of the car, ma’am.”

A harried-looking brunette climbed out from behind the wheel, her widened eyes on his Glock. She held both hands up, her purse dangling from the bent crook of her elbow.

He holstered his weapon and handed her his business card. “Call that number and they’ll get you squared away.”

Grim-faced, Layla slid into the passenger seat without prompting.

Brian was pulling out of the garage when the wail of sirens announced the arrival of the local authorities and fire engines. He could see the black plume of smoke as he hit the freeway on-ramp.