by Vella Day
Pledged to Protect Boxset
Vella Day
Contents
Panic and Passion, Book 1
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Danger and Desire, Book 2
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Terror and Temptation, Book 3
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Panic and Passion, Book 1
Panic and Passion
Copyright © 2018 by Vella Day
www.velladay.com
[email protected]
Published in the United States of America
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief questions embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
The only thing that separates life from death is trust.
Attorney Susan Chapman thought being a prosecuting attorney was tough. Boy had she'd been wrong. When someone starts killing the jurors in the Caravello trial she'd prosecuted, she believes she'll be next. Sure, it's wonderful the FBI has assigned her a super hot bodyguard, but when she finds how he's connected to the Caravello family, she now fears he's trying to kill her.
When FBI agent Jake Yarnell is asked to protect a woman whose best friend was killed in a bomb meant for her, he's frustrated that the feisty and sexy attorney distrusts him more than the killer. So what is he supposed to do? Answer: keep protecting her until she believes him. Too bad that's easier said than done when at every turn another juror dies and the killers keep finding out where they are located.
1
A prickling sensation on the back of Susan Chapman's neck told her that if she answered her front door, her life would change forever.
The doorbell rang again followed by a knock. “It's me, Anne-Marie,” her best friend called.
Susan let out a breath. She rushed to pull open the door. Her friend was all bundled up in her pretty pink scarf and wool jacket, looking very cute and professional. “Hey,” Susan said with a smile, wondering what Anne-Marie was doing at her door early on a Monday morning.
Her friend’s smile evaporated. “You forgot, didn't you?”
Susan stilled. Crap. What had she forgotten? Prosecuting another lowlife had taken over her life for the last few weeks, probably destroying the last of her brain cells. “I'm sorry.”
Anne-Marie stepped inside the house, leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “No problem.” She stood back and reissued a smile. “I can still borrow your car, right? I really need the Mercedes to impress my mega-big client. He just flew into DC from Los Angeles last night. My rusted out bucket of shit won't cut it.”
Ah, yes. The car. She’d promised Anne-Marie she could use it. Duh. A promise was a promise. “Sure.”
Anne-Marie dangled her keys and dropped them into Susan's palm. “Enjoy my clunker.”
Susan peered over her friend's shoulder to catch a look at her new ride, hoping it wasn't the 2002 SUV. Yup. It was. “I won't break down in the middle of the Beltway will I?”
“Car runs just fine. She just looks bad. I'll let you know how the showing works out.”
From the bowl on the table, Susan picked up the keys to her brand new Mercedes and handed them to her. “Here ya go. Just be careful with her.”
“I promise.” Anne-Marie gave her another hug. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck and drive safely.”
“Always do.” Her friend blew air kisses. “I love you, sweetie.”
“Love you too.”
Anne-Marie dashed off toward Susan's prized possession. Before the cold January air sucked all the heat out of the house, she closed the door and had to chuckle. Anne-Marie and her clients. Maybe the car would get her that coveted sale she always talked about.
Susan went into the living room and peered out to make sure her friend didn't have any trouble starting the car in the freezing temperature.
Her friend waved and leaned forward to start the engine. A second later, a loud boom rocked her as a huge ball of fire engulfed the car. Disbelief, panic, and fear squeezed the breath from Susan's lungs, as pieces of metal and glass erupted in the air, imploding her living room window. The incredible force blew her off her feet, and shards of glass cut her arms, her face, and her chest.
A scream ripped from her throat as her head hit the living room's hardwood floor. Then her vision faded to black.
**
“Can you hear me?” The man's deep, rich voice reached deep into her mind and soothed her turbulent thoughts.
Susan could hear him, but her mouth couldn't form a response.
A rough palm covered her hand. “Can you move a finger for me?”
Oh, God. Was that Daddy? He used to hold her hand when she was little, his touch warm, comforting, and so caring. This couldn't be him, though. He'd died two years ago. Or had he come to take her to heaven?
“Mrs. Chapman?”
No, not Daddy. And it was Ms. Chapman no
w.
What was happening? She blinked. Or at least she thought she had. Why couldn't she see? Panic sizzled up her spine.
What had he asked? To move a finger? Anyone could move a finger. She struggled to lift her pinky, but it refused to budge.
The person nudged her arm gently at first, and then a bit harder. She strained to move her lips, wiggle her tongue, twitch a knee, a foot, a toe—anything. Liquid dripped down the back of her throat, nearly choking her.
“Wake up.”
She was awake, wasn't she?
Where was she? In her house? In a hospital?
She must be on drugs. Her inability to move and wake fully was out of her control. Her heart raced, and as much as she wanted to move, she'd have to wait for nature to take its course. She forced her mind to let go of her fears, and her body relaxed.
The next time she became coherent, she succeeded in cracking open her right lid. The picture on the ceiling mounted television flickered above her, the glare stabbing her eye. She could see!
Susan searched the room and glanced toward a darkened window. The strong odor of hospital disinfectant permeated her nostrils, indicating she was in a hospital. The first thing Susan did was wiggle her toes and her fingers. Yes! Air rushed from her lungs at her success. Mouth drier than a sand trap, she swallowed, and then cleared her throat.
“You're awake.”
She turned toward the voice. A wave of pain squeezed her chest, rose up, and pounded against her skull. She blinked to clear her vision. Chocolate brown eyes hovered above her. The rest of the man's face and body went in and out of focus, but his warm eyes held her captive.
She licked her lips.
The tall stranger, whose broad shoulders strained against his gray t-shirt, held out a cup of ice chips.
When she raised her arm to take it, a searing pain stabbed her chest. “Th-thank you.” Her voice sounded raspy, but she was thrilled she could finally speak.
A whirring noise below her bed startled her, and slowly her back elevated.
He tilted the cup to her lips. “Nice and slow.”
He smiled, and she nearly forgot to suck one out.
The cool ice melted against her parched throat. “What happened?”
His smile disappeared. “You don't remember what the doctor told you?”
She'd talked to a doctor? She didn't remember. “No.”
“Your car exploded and the flying debris cut you.”
She hoped she had imagined the merciless flames bursting from the car window, the glass spewing in every direction, and the unforgettable stench of gasoline and burnt rubber. But apparently not. “Anne-Marie is dead, isn't she?”
Her stomach threatened to revolt as a tear trickled down her cheek. They'd been best friends since second grade.
His gaze dropped. “I'm sorry.”
She zeroed in on the gun snuggled in the stranger's shoulder holster, and her heart squeezed tight as she shoved down her panic. “Who are you? Are you with the DC police?”
“I introduced myself after the doctor came in.”
Why had her memory failed her now? Her ability to recall even the smallest details about a case set her apart for most other attorneys. “I'm sorry, but I don't remember.”
He put the cup back on the side table and dragged the chair closer to her bed. “I'm Special Agent Jake Yarnell. FBI.”
“FBI?” Her breath lodged in her throat.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Why are you here?” In her heart she knew, but her mind wasn't ready to accept the reality.
Agent Yarnell sat on the padded chair and leaned forward, his wrists dangling over his knees. “Tell me what you do remember.”
Not wanting to relive the horrific event, she turned her head away from him.
“Do you have any idea who would want to harm you?” he asked in the softest voice.
So it was true. Whoever had planted the bomb had intended for her to die—not dear Anne-Marie. Bile raced up her throat and tinged her mouth as her head throbbed. “Every felon I've put behind bars for the last seven years could have wanted to see me dead.”
“Does the name Charles Caravello mean anything to you?”
The name Caravello jolted her from her self-pity. She bolted upright and regretted the quick move. “Yes.”
“He was executed three weeks ago.”
After sitting on death row for six long years. “I know, and I'm sure the FBI knows I know. I was the prosecuting attorney for the case.” She lay back down.
“I wanted to be sure you remembered.”
“I understand.” He probably wondered if she knew her name.
“You had some brain trauma as a result of the blast, and your memory could have been affected. In fact, the doctors had to induce a coma to let your brain heal.”
“A coma?” Dear Lord. Her injuries had been life threatening. Her muscles tensed as her stomach churned. “How long was I out?” She retested her memory regarding her recent cases, the names of her coworkers, the date she paid her mortgage. All seemed in order, unlike moments before.
“Almost two weeks.”
The life drained from her. Maybe she had another disability. “Will I be okay?”
“Let me get the doctor. He can tell you.”
He jumped up from the chair and raced out of the room, before she could question him further. Was her prognosis so horrible he didn't want to be the bearer of bad news?
Two minutes later, a short, bald man strode in, along with a nurse dressed in teddy bear scrubs. Jake remained standing by the door.
“I'm Doctor Dalton.” He didn't smile, but his voice sounded kind.
Agent Yarnell must have relayed her inability to recall his previous visit. She swallowed. “How badly was I injured?”
He stepped next to her bed. “You had a nasty contusion on the back of your head. Once the brain swelling receded, we removed the breathing tube, and here you are.” Before she could ask any more questions, he leaned over and flashed a harsh light into her eyes. She blinked and he stood back. “You also received a large gash on your cheek, some glass cuts and small burns on your arms and a rather severe wound on your chest where a piece of glass impaled you. You should be able to be released in a few days.” He adjusted his glasses and scribbled something on her chart. “Other than needing some time to heal, you'll make a full recovery.”
The doctor turned to Jake. “Don't ask too many questions. She needs to rest.”
The agent nodded.
She let out a breath and another tsunami-sized pain tore up her body. Her arms were on fire, and her chest rebelled every time she took a deep breath.
“Everything hurts.” She could barely concentrate with her body on fire.
The doctor said something to the nurse. The lady in the brown and green scrubs scanned Susan's wrist ban, pushed the touch pads on the IV and did something on a computer. “This should help. You'll feel better shortly.”
“Thank you.” If only they had medication to help heal the loss of her best friend she might start to heal.
Once the doctor and nurse left, Susan turned back to the agent. She needed to find out who'd killed Anne-Marie more than she needed to rest. Who wanted her dead? “Do you think there's a connection between Caravello's execution and the car bomb?” She gritted her teeth, forcing away the reminder of the blast.
He sat on the chair and kept his gaze to the side. Lines formed around his mouth and eyes. “We're not sure who's to blame, but in the last few weeks, seven of the twelve jurors who helped convict him have turned up dead.”
Oh, no! Her pulse skyrocketed. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to picture those on the jury, and questions stumbled through her brain. The trial had been so many years ago. “Dead? How?”
“We didn't put the pieces together until recently. Several of the jurors had moved in the six years since the conviction.”
The FBI must believe she was in imminent danger if he was here. “How long have you been at the hospita
l?”
“About four days. Ever since we realized your life was in danger too.”
Goose bumps slid up her spine. Her gaze shot to the door almost expecting the assassin to rush in. “Have my mother or brother been by to see me?” If she didn't remember the doctor coming in or the agent's name, maybe she wasn't awake when Mom and Craig stopped by.
“No.” He dragged a hand down his jar.
“That's not possible.” They'd be the first to visit.
His gaze shot over her head. “What's important is keeping you safe. The FBI would like to put you into a safe house.”
Her heart nearly stopped. Being sequestered from her family might be worse than death. Her head began to throb. “I know the drill. If I stay in a safe house, I won't be able to see my family, take any photos of them, or bring any of my law books with me. My life as I know it will be gone.” She locked her gaze with his. “That's unacceptable. My mother needs my help in caring for my brother. Craig's stuck in his wheelchair, which means I can't move away from here.”