Hot Blooded

white T-shirt had a cowering,
bare-breasted brunette backed against the stage. She must be the one who'd
screamed.
    Automatically, Lance inhaled, testing the air. It smelled of booze and blood.
Never a good combination. Looking closer, he saw that the brunette's lip was
split, her chin smeared wet and red. She touched it with shaking fingers. He
rolled his shoulders and fought a familiar kick of hunger.
    "Leave the chick alone and let her dance!" someone yelled.
    "Shut the hell up!" the man snarled, his voice slurred. "She's my woman, I'll
do what I want. Give me the fuckin' money, Jen!"
    He was evidently referring to the bills tucked in the stripper's G-string.
Lance curled a lip, but before he could shove his way through the crowd and
teach the bastard how women should be treated, Grace stepped out of the pack.
"Police!" she said, her voice cool, controlled. "What's going on here?"
    The man whirled on her, his florid face reddening even more. "Back off,
bitch, or I'll give you what I gave her!"
    "That's Deputy Bitch to you." She bared her teeth in something not even a
drunk could mistake for a smile. "And you're under arrest."
    "No!" the stripper said. "That's okay, I'll give him the money."
    Ignoring her, Grace told the man, "Hands behind your head, sir." Despite her
controlled tone, she stood like a duelist, loose-limbed and watchful. "You're
under arrest."
    "Fuck you!" the drunk growled. He started toward her, his fist lifted.
    Grace stepped to meet him, grabbed his wrist, spun him around, and cranked
his arm up behind his back, using the leverage to slam him facedown across the
stage. "I said," she gritted, reaching for her handcuffs, "you're under arrest!"
    Lance damn near applauded.
That's my girl
! If he hadn't already
known what she was, that move would have told him. Folding his arms, he rocked
back on his heels to watch. Directly behind him, somebody in the crowd booed.
Without looking around, Lance shot an elbow back, hitting something beer-belly
soft. The same voice strangled out a gasp of pain.
    "Has he ever been charged with criminal domestic violence before?" Grace
asked the stripper, not even breathing hard. Her captive was struggling, and she
bore down on his pinned arm.
    "Yeah, and he don't need to get busted again." The woman took a step back
toward one of the tables near the stage, where several empty bottles stood like
chess pieces. "You're just gonna make it worse."
    Lance's instincts went to high alert. He started forward. "Grace…"
    "Lady, the way I see it—relax your arm, sir!—his spending the night in jail
will save you a night in the emergency room. Sir, if you don't—"
    "You're not locking him up, bitch." The woman spun, grabbed a bottle and
swung it hard, right at Grace's head.
    Faster than even Lance could come to the rescue, Grace released the drunk and
pivoted to deflect the bottle with a thrust of her palm. It spun out of the
stripper's hand and smashed on the floor in an explosion of jagged glass.
    The drunk's swinging fist smacked into Lance's hand on the way to Grace's
jaw. An instant later, the bruiser was sprawled across the floor, out cold from
a hard, clean punch to his misshapen nose.
    Lance turned, but Grace already had the stripper down across the stage,
snapping on the cuffs she'd intended for the woman's abuser. Her hat had fallen
off, and several blonde strands had escaped that ruthless French braid. Her
elegant, delicate profile was tight with anger, blue eyes burning hot. "Lady,
you just broke Grace's Eleventh Commandment," she snapped over the woman's
sobbing obscenities. " 'Thou Shalt Not Coldcock The Nice Deputy.' That means
your first stop is jail. As your second stop, I suggest a therapist for that
codependency problem you have with Mr. Wrong." Grace looked around at the crowd.
"Hey, somebody get her something to wear."
    As she dragged the cursing stripper onto a chair, a redhead dressed in a
thin, flowered robe tottered up on six-inch heels, a terrycloth bundle in her
arms. "I hope you're still gonna take Darrell to jail, too," the redhead said,
shaking out the white robe and settling it around her friend's shoulders. "He's
always beatin' up on her. He's such an asshole."
    "I noticed. And yeah, he's definitely going to jail." Grace reached for her
shoulder mike.
    As she radioed for help transporting her prisoners, Lance sauntered over.
Scooping her hat off the floor, he presented it with a