Ruby Woo’s gun was hard and cold on Thornton’s cheek. Cold as a cold beer on a hot summer afternoon, but less enjoyable.
Ruby pressed the trigger. Thornton Gray hissed and did what heroes and mysterious yet loveable detectives going on their forties do when facing this kind of situation.

(clic -> grand, you know the drill)

A split second later, he was still alive and Ruby was knocked out on the floor, harmless, weaponless, sexy as hell.

“Damn, he thought, a beer would be nice indeed.”

Thornton Gray stared in disbelief as his blood started pouring from his stomach. Why, ho why had he trusted Jessica Considine?

He put one knee to the ground and found it not only damp from his own blood, but also soft and warm to the touch. Nice as it seemed, Thornton’s acute senses, racing through the complex yet incredibly tidy maze of his synapses, soon realised it was because the floor was made of carpet.
Thornton clenched its teeth: he was allergic to acarids.

This was the worst day of his life.