Head Over Heels by Jill Shalvis Read Free Book Online Page A

a beat. “When?”
    “Friday.”
    “I’ll be there.”
    “It’s just a routine thing, no big deal.”
    “I’ll be there, dammit.”
    Sawyer left feeling like shit. Nothing new there. Needing a caffeine kick, he parked at the convenience store, and for just a moment, leaned back and closed his eyes. He needed something, and caffeine wasn’t it.
    Balls-to-the-wall sex had a nice ring to it.
    A shout interrupted the thought. Glass shattered, followed by running footsteps, which was never good. Sawyer straightened just as a guy came barreling out of the convenience store, hugging his sweatshirt close to his body as if protecting something.
    A piece of paper fluttered from the sweatshirt.
    Aw, Christ on a stick, Sawyer thought, catching a flash of green. Not paper.
    Money .
    The guy hopped into a banged-up Celica and sped away with a show of squealing tires and smoke.
    Goddammit . Sawyer hit the gas to follow as he called dispatch to report that he’d caught a robbery in progress. The piece-of-shit sedan in front of him turned right at the end of town, obviously headed toward the open highway. At the freeway entrance, there were two delivery vans, moving slow as molasses. The car swerved around them, heading directly into a small, quiet neighborhood filled with midsized houses, hard-working people, and kids. Lots of kids.
    Sawyer swore again and kept on the car’s bumper while simultaneously keeping dispatch abreast of their coordinates. Thankfully it was midday, both a work and school day, and the streets were relatively empty.
    At the corner, the sedan went up and over the sidewalk and popped the two right tires. By the middle of the next street, the car was slowing, then drifting to a complete stop.
    “Don’t run,” Sawyer said under his breath, pulling up behind him. “Don’t fucking run.” He hated foot chases. But, of course, in the next second, the suspect had abandoned his car and was hauling ass down the street.
    “ Fuck .” Grabbing a spare set of cuffs, Sawyer shoved them into the back of his jeans and hit the pavement. “Stop,” he yelled. “Police.”
    The suspect didn’t stop. Of course not. Goddammit. Sawyer shook his head and followed with the ease that running five miles every day afforded him. He didn’t run for pleasure. Hell no. He ran every day, rain or snow or shine, so he didn’t lose assholes like this one. He chased the guy through a yard, over a fence, and into some bushes, yelling at the few curious people poking their heads out to “get back inside!” Closing the distance, Sawyer made a swipe for the guy’s sweatshirt and hauled him to the ground.
    They landed hard, the suspect on the bottom, limp as a rag doll. Great, Sawyer thought. He’d killed him.
    But then the guy groaned, and Sawyer was glad for it. Less paperwork if he was alive. He put a knee in the guy’s back and reached for his cuffs. “What the hell was that?”
    The suspect shook his head. “ No Ingles .”
    No problemo . Sawyer had some Spanish. He could say “give me a beer,” “throw down your weapon, asshole,” and lucky for this idiot, he could also recite the Miranda rights.
    * * *
    It took another two hours and more paperwork before Sawyer could go. He had aching knees from the takedown and a mother of a headache brewing, but it was the adrenaline flowing through him that sent him straight to the gym.
    Working out wasn’t his first choice for letting down the adrenaline. That honor would still go to the balls-to-the-wall sex he’d wished for earlier, but that wasn’t in the cards for him today.
    The gym he went to was small but new, and state of the art. A friend of his met him here several times a week. Matt Bowers was a district supervisor forest ranger, and Sawyer’s sparring partner.
    Sawyer changed and found Matt beating the hell out of a punching bag. “Why don’t you try someone who’ll fight back?” Sawyer asked.
    Matt turned and looked Sawyer over. “I’ll get more action out of