Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) Read Online Free Page B

Jonathon fixed his gaze just over the head of the knife-wielding assailant and allowed his lips to curl in a satisfied smile, hoping to give the impression that a group of his mates had just entered the alley, rather than two small, terrified women.
    The ruse worked. The man holding the blade read triumph in Jonathon’s gaze. His knife wavered for a fraction of a second as he glanced over his shoulder to see who was standing behind him. The brutes who’d had his arms pinned back lessened their grip, perhaps thrown off guard by the presence of witnesses.
    Jonathon broke free and lunged forward. He drove his shoulder into the knife-wielder’s chest, slamming him up against the brick wall of alleyway. The man’s breath rushed out in a satisfying oof as they wrestled for control of the blade. They were equally matched in size and strength, their bodies only inches apart. On another occasion, Jonathon was confident he could have taken him. But not then. Not with whatever drug he’d been given coursing through his veins.
    His grip on the knife slackened. He was dimly aware of a brass bell ringing, like a church alarm, accompanied by frantic female shouts for help. He felt a moment’s irritation that the women didn’t have the sense enough to run, but he quickly pushed the distraction aside. His opponent was gaining the advantage. The brute edged the knife downward, the serrated edge of the blade a fraction of an inch away from Jonathon’s cheek.
    The other two thieves surged closer. Jonathon’s back was exposed, while his assailant was pinned against the alley wall. Three against one. Very well. Jonathon drove his knee into the knife-wielder’s groin as hard as he could. A thoroughly disreputable move, but then, this was not a gentleman’s fisticuffs match at the local club. Rules and order be damned. He would have driven the man’s balls through his belly and out the other side if he’d been able. As it was, the man let out a deep groan and crumbled to the ground in a fetal position, clutching himself and groaning
    Jonathon, now fully in control of the knife, spun around to face his remaining two assailants. The brutal impact of a fist against his jaw snapped his neck around, and slammed his temple against the brick wall. An explosion of light; stars danced before his eyes. A coppery taste filled his mouth. Blood. His head pounded and his vision blurred around the edges.
    His legs abruptly gave out and he fell to his knees. He shook his head and gazed upward, only to find himself staring into the barrel of a pistol. One of the remaining brutes, his lips curled back in a grim smile, flexed his finger on the trigger.
    In the split second that followed—a second that seemed to stretch into eternity— Jonathon understood that he’d lost. He’d fought hard, but he’d lost. His last thought was neither rage or defeat, but gallows humor. What a preposterous place for his life to end. Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, one of England’s wealthiest and most prominent men, shot like a dog in a dirty alley in Liverpool.
    No sooner had that crossed his mind when everything seemed to happen at once. From the corner of his eye he caught a flurry of skirts, then the wild swing of a rough wooden board the instant before the gun discharged. The board made impact with the brute’s upper arm, knocking him off-balance as the shot rang out. White hot heat grazed Jonathon’s left shoulder.
    A raised cry of voices followed. Heavy boot steps of men running toward them. More feminine shouts, and the ringing of that damned brass bell. His assailants fled, disappearing into the murky shadows of the night.
    Jonathon understood, dimly, that the fight was over. Rather than running, one of the women had thrown herself into the melee and saved him. But why? Nothing about the event made sense. His mind spun and whirled in wild disorder. He couldn’t follow a single thought to its logical end.
    A small, feminine face, framed by a