releasing another couple along with the faint sound of bluesy music and laughter. The man and woman turned away from them, crossed to the opposite corner, then disappeared down a side street.
As they stepped off the sidewalk, Cilla slipped an arm through Jonah’s, and drew him on an angle toward Pleasures. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been tempted to drop in your club for just a drink.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “Why haven’t you?”
“Usually I’m not dressed for the occasion.” That was true enough, but not the only reason she’d avoided going into the bar. “My apartment’s not far from here, so I’ve walked by on my way home from work. You painted the doors red a few weeks ago.”
“My manager Virgil’s idea. He wanted to try it out for Christmas.”
“Festive. One of these days I’ll dress up and treat myself to a glass of champagne at the bar.”
“We don’t have a dress code.”
“But with a club like Pleasures, dressing up is part of the deal—kind of like Cinderella going to the ball. It wouldn’t have been the same if she’d worn her work clothes to the castle. Know what I mean?”
“Yes.” He looked over at the bright lights of the club. “I know exactly what you mean. Providing the opportunity to dress up and escape the workaday world is part of what each of my venues offers.”
The itchy feeling that had been nagging her since they’d stepped out of the parking lot suddenly increased, and Cilla had to exert all her control not to turn around. Instead, she listened hard.
Some kind of movement near the van? Their backs were to it now. Then she heard the footsteps, approaching from behind.
When Jonah tensed beside her and would have turned, she increased the pressure on his arm and pitched her voice low. “We have company, so do exactly as I say. Take me into your arms.”
She moved with him, shifting so that her body shielded his, then raised her hands to his face. “Lean closer.”
He leaned so close that his lips were nearly brushing hers. She was very aware of the fact that the footsteps were growing louder. But she was aware of other things, too—a flood of sensations. The hardness of his body, the heat of his breath on her mouth, the ribbon of pleasure that unwound right to her toes. Every cell in her body remembered him. Wanted him. For a fleeting moment, one desire—to feel those lips on hers—nearly swamped her.
Ruthlessly refocusing, she whispered, “Be my eyes. How many, what do they look like, and how close are they?”
“Two and they look like Laurel and Hardy.” He nipped at her bottom lip, and for just an instant, her mind clouded, then emptied as if someone had pulled a plug. She was aware only of Jonah—the hardness of his thighs against hers, the tightening of his hands at her waist, the heat of his breath as it moved over her lips and between them. Sensations hammered at her, and all she wanted was to melt into him.
“They’re about ten feet away. And the fat one, Hardy, has a gun.”
“Shit.” Adrenaline spiked through her system, clearing her thoughts, stiffening her spine. “I need them closer.”
“You’re getting your wish, sugar.”
“The one with the gun is mine.”
“Not going to happen.”
She nipped his bottom lip hard. “I know what I’m doing. Here’s how it’s going to go down. I’ll be the helpless female, you the macho man. He won’t know what hit him. Trust me.”
“Let the girl go,” a gravelly voice said.
Arguing time was up, but Jonah dropped his hands. Cilla immediately pivoted toward the men. Eyes widening, she pressed a hand against her breast and focused on her training. “Sweetums, he’s got a gun.”
“Step aside,” the tall, skinny one said to her. “We don’t want you.”
“Go ahead, sugar,” Jonah said. “Run on up to the club. I can handle this.”
“Okay. Okay.” The words came out on breathless gasps as she took one shaky step, sideways. Without missing a beat, she shot her other leg straight up. Her toe hit Fatso’s wrist dead-on and the gun clattered to the pavement. Pivoting slightly, she landed a punch to the man’s temple. With a grunt, Fatso fell like a rock.
She glanced up to see Jonah racing after the skinny one. “Dammit!”
Pausing only long enough to kick the gun on the sidewalk out of the way, she ran after them. Her heart shot straight to her throat when the back door of the van near the alley slid open. There was at least one more thug to deal with—the driver. She could see him through the windshield now. Broad shoulders, short gray hair.
Before skinny could nose-dive through the door, Jonah grabbed him by the collar and spun him around. One punch straight to the face took him down. Cilla winced and for the first time registered the sting in her own knuckles.
Then the window on the driver’s side lowered and she saw the gun.
“Get down,” she shouted to Jonah. He did, hitting the sidewalk and rolling as the shot rang out. Skidding to a stop, she pulled her own gun out of her pocket, gripping it in both hands as she took her stance and fired. Tires squealing, the van lurched away from the curb and up the street. It backfired loudly in the intersection, then roared off. She got the license plate before it disappeared.
Sliding her weapon back in her pocket, she turned to see that Jonah had already sprung to his feet. The relief was so intense that for a moment she couldn’t speak. Then she said, “I told you to trust me. I said I could handle it. You could have gotten yourself shot.”
So could she, Jonah thought as he walked toward her. He’d rolled over quickly enough to see that she hadn’t dropped to the ground as she’d told him to do. Instead, she’d stood there, feet spread, returning the fire of the man in the van like some mythical warrior. He was certain that his heart had skipped two whole beats.
“From my perspective, you did handle it. Very well. I’m not shot, and Laurel and Hardy are out for the count.”
He’d taken her arm to draw her with him toward the club. It was only then that he saw they’d attracted an audience. From the looks of it, most of the bar crowd had poured into the street including Virgil, the tall, bronze-skinned man who’d managed Pleasures since Jonah had opened it.
The fat guy he’d nicknamed Hardy was on his hands and knees, shaking his head like a dog. When they reached him, Cilla planted one of her shoes right under his nose where he could see it. “Don’t even think of getting up unless you want me to kick you again.”
He collapsed onto his stomach.
“Boss,” Virgil said. “You all right?”
“Fine. You’d better call the police. Ms. Michaels and I seem to have been the victims of an attempted mugging.”
“I already called 9-1-1, and so did several of our customers.”
Even as sirens sounded in
