When Night Falls by Jenna Mills

eyes, the whiskers on his jaw, the hard line of his wide mouth.
    And the earring. She hadn’t noticed the diamond stud before, but now it winked like a beacon.
    For some inane reason, her heart took on a rhythm as hard and sensuous as the rock music blaring through the bar. His look may have done a one-eighty, but William Armstrong still emitted power and authority, this time of a sexual variety, pure male animal.
    She fought his impact on her, stepped closer. “You don’t need to do this,” she said steadily.
    Hope lit his eyes. “Have you found her? Is she safe?”
    “Don’t get your hopes up,” Braxton snarled. “I’m betting Daddy never sees his little girl again.”
    Armstrong swung toward the punk. “Shut the—”
    Jess rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “This isn’t the answer, Liam.”
    “Leave me alone, Detective.”
    “You don’t want to do this,” she warned.
    “I want my daughter back, damn it!”
    “That’s what I’m for.”
    Braxton laughed. “Well, hot damn, Slick. Looks like you’re in business. You get a new babe as fast as you run ‘em off. How long till you lose this one, too?”
    Jess stiffened, but Armstrong ignored the taunt. “Last I knew, you were crawling into bed, Detective. How is that going to bring my daughter home?”
    She tightened her grip on his leather-clad arm. “You’ve got to stop undermining—”
    Adam Braxton sprang to life. He took advantage of Armstrong’s turned head to break free and throw a mean punch to the man’s cheek. Armstrong staggered but quickly righted himself and swung toward Braxton. Egging him on, Emily’s ex deflected a nasty hook and launched one of his own.
    Armstrong ducked out of the way.
    Jess did not. She didn’t have time to. The blow caught her in the jaw and sent her slamming to the concrete floor.
    “Jessica!”
    She fell hard, her head bouncing off the leg of a bar stool. Shards of pain shot through her. Splotches of white clouded her vision. The room blurred. She heard a man swearing savagely, heard the crowd erupting.
    She thought she saw a man lunging toward her, but then the world went dark, and she saw nothing at all.
    * * *
    Liam saw black. The crowd erupted and surged, but he could discern nothing but the woman out cold at his feet.
    He dropped to his knees and reached for her. “Jessica?”
    The fearless detective didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. She lay crumpled on the dirty concrete floor, still and unmoving, all that gorgeous red hair spilled out around her. A knocked-over bar stool lay by her side.
    He crawled closer, saw the blood.
    Rage pulsed through him. The bastard had hit her. In the mouth. “Get me a damp rag!” he called to no one in particular, then glanced at the woman lying next to him. “Jessica? Can you hear me?”
    A moan this time, soft, groggy.
    He reached for her, touched a finger to the corner of her wound. The flesh there was already turning darker. He hated thinking of the bruise that would mar her lush mouth. “Jessica?”
    “She all right, Mister?” someone asked from his left.
    “If you’d like someone to kiss that mouth and make her feel better,” asked another, this one drunk and amused, “I’m game.”
    Liam caged the urge to surge to his full height and teach the loser about respect and decency.
    “Give us some room!” he shouted. The whisperings and laughter, the raucous music, fueled his temper. This woman was hurt, and everyone just zipped along with their lives, paying attention only out of mild curiosity, for the drama, the spectacle, like gawkers at a freak show.
    Liam wanted to gather Jessica close, scoop her into his lap and shield her with his body, keep her away from the prying eyes of the crowd. Instead, he ran his hands through her thick hair and along her scalp, checking for injuries. He felt the small knot immediately, the stickiness, and pulled his hand back to discover blood.
    “Where’s that damn rag?”
    “Here you go.” One of the bouncers