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He’d be reduced to ashes. Charred, smoking ashes. The heat burning through him was too much to be borne, and the source of it was currently wiggling her adorable ass five feet away.

Madelaine had been delighted by the idea of trying the driving range. He’d given her one of his drivers, far too long for her, but she hadn’t complained. She’d just grabbed the bucket of balls, chosen a station, and beamed at him like this was the highlight of her week.

“This is going to be so fun!” she’d announced, bending down to set the bucket on the ground.

That damn skort. It was short enough to make him curse every designer who’d ever thought up “athletic wear.” It didn’t reveal anything… not exactly. But it came close enough to torture him.

He stood at the next station, trying to act like he cared about his own swing, slamming balls into the netted range. But every time he lined up, she bent over again, teeing up her next ball, her hips swaying slightly as she settled her stance. He couldn’t focus on golf. He was focusing on not groaning like a teenager.

Damn it all. He’d hoped this would be something to keep her entertained. He hadn’t realized it would quickly become his personal hell. He wanted to pull her close, pin her to the nearest wall, and devour every curve she was flaunting without realizing it.

Forever.

The thought startled him so badly, he froze mid-swing, straightened—and immediately found himself staring at her ass again. Was she wiggling on purpose?

Then she stuck her tongue out, concentrating as hard as if she was trying to solve a physics equation. She shifted her feet…wiggle. Drew her arms back…wiggle.

Thwack!

The ball soared, respectably if not elegantly, about a hundred yards down the range.

“Good job!” he called, maybe too loudly.

She spun around, bouncing on her toes. “I hit it!”

Her breasts joined the celebration, dancing right along with her. Paulo groaned and yanked his eyes skyward, silently cursing the heavens.

She was already lining up another ball, bending again, and this time the skort flipped just high enough to flash the matching under-shorts. Not her panties, though. He found himself wondering what those looked like. White cotton? Black silk? Something bold and red?

He wanted to know. Desperately.

A guard pointedly cleared his throat, and Paulo shot a glare his way. The man looked away quickly, but the damage was done. Paulo realized how long he’d been staring. Anyone with functioning eyes would know exactly what he’d been so entranced by.

With a vicious sigh, he placed another ball onto his tee and swung. The shot went left, wild and undisciplined, but it traveled three hundred yards, so…whatever. He’d take it.

Then, to save his sanity, he hit ten more balls in rapid succession, each one hit harder than the last, refusing to even glance at Madelaine. Not at her legs. Not at the damn skort. Not at her chest.

By the time they ran out of balls, his shoulders burned, his pulse thundered, and he still wasn’t calm.

On the ride back to the house, he busied himself with phone calls, grateful for the distraction. Because if he spoke to her, he might say something he couldn’t take back.

And Paulo Ruffino did not lose control. Not over business. Not over enemies. And especially not over one infuriatingly adorable, utterly off-limits woman.

Unfortunately, none of his sources had the information he needed. The location of Ronan Keane.

What would Paulo do once he finally tracked the bastard down?

That answer, once simple, was getting more complicated by the day. Because the more time he spent with Keane’s daughter, with her ridiculous skorts, her terrible cookies, and her maddeningly bright smile, the more difficult it was to imagine putting a bullet in her father.

Damn it. He was starting to realize he couldn’t kill Ronan Keane.

And that was a problem. A big one.

Chapter 16

Ronan stepped off the bus, his boots landing on the cracked pavement with a heavy thud. He paused, scanning the street from behind his sunglasses. So far, so good. He hadn’t been recognized. No cameras would tie him here. He’d paid cash at every stop and left no digital footprint. Detroit was just another busy city with too many faces and not enough eyes that mattered. Perfect.

The beard he’d grown over the last week itched like hell, but it disguised him well enough. The baseball cap dragged low over his brow, and the cheap tourist backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked like a tired traveler. Inside the pack were snacks, sure, but also a switchblade, duct tape, and a length of nylon rope. The tools of any good hunt.