Range stepped outside the club.

Dammit. What the hell was that about?

She’d caught him looking, or almost. And then he’d felt her stare on him.

What in the world possessed him to look up at her at just that moment? He knew she was watching him. His wolf sensed it.

And yet I looked up—like a dumbass.

He’d fucking fail Surveillance and Reconnaissance 101 with actions like that.

He heaved a breath, then sucked in the hot, humid Houston air.

Damned Texas coast.

Mosquitos, humidity, heat.

And hot women.

Woman.

Make that singular.

One woman. Hot as hell.

And when she’d looked at him, it felt like his nerve endings had been branded with a hot poker.

He’d never had that happen before.

His wolf howled at him.

Zip it.

He was in no mood to hear his wolf’s theorizing on this matter.

He scratched at the fashionable scruff that adorned his face. Not that he gave a shit about fashion. Hell, he had scruff before scruff was popular.

And he occasionally sported a beard. Because shaving sucked. Big time.

Eira Winter. Who are you?

He knew what his brothers would say if they were here. As one, they’d chant, “Just turn the information over to the client, get paid, get back to Alaska.”

True, they’d say that. But if they were here, and they saw her…

If they’d felt what he felt.

No. He couldn’t just flat out do that. Couldn’t.

Or could he? He should. Was there a workaround?

One thing was for certain. He couldn’t hang around here and attract her attention. What happened to staying low key? Working undercover?

He was either off his game—or that redhead had thrown him for a loop.

He smiled wryly at the predicament.

The next morning, with coffee in hand, and perched in a nice hiding spot outside Eira’s apartment in the Heights, Range reached into his pocket and snagged the burner phone he’d bought when he arrived in Houston and punched in George’s number.

George answered on the first ring. “Speak.”

What the fuck does he think I am? A dog?

He’d noticed that George answered the phone the same way the other times they’d talked.

“I have an address for you,” Range said without pleasantries.

“Let’s have it.” George’s words were clipped.

“Payment, first.”

“I don’t think so,” George countered.

“You’re the one who needs me. My reputation clearly brought you here. Else you’d have the address on your own already.”

Heavy breathing of irritation came through the phone.

“Payment, first,” Range repeated.

“Fine. Come to our offices.” George gave him an address.

“Cash.” Range hung up the phone and felt like he needed a bath.

He felt dirty. Of all the jobs he’d ever done, and there were plenty of them, this one for some reason left him feeling grimy, so gross that a shower with a firehose wouldn’t wash that kind of scum off.

An hour later, he was in The Woodlands, an area north of Houston that insisted the letter T be capitalized when one wrote The Woodlands.

Pretty damned pretentious, he noted.

The glass building was several stories high and bore no markings to indicate the industries or offices contained within.

He took the stairs—not one to trust being locked up in an elevator, or as he called them, a steel box with no door handle—and found the suite that George had given him.

The door opened before he could knock.

A thug with greased-back, ponytailed hair stood back and let him in. “George is in his office.” He waved toward a hallway, then indicated for Range to precede him.

Range stepped back. “Lead the way.”

The guy studied him, looked like he was about to argue, then for whatever reason, decided against it, and started down the hallway.

Once in the office, corner office, of course—Range figured George would have no less—he took note of the expensive furniture glossed to a high polish. And noticed what was missing. The signs that business happened here.

No calendar.

No notes.

No inboxes.

No computer.

What the hell kind of office is this? What kind of company do they run?

He reminded himself that it was none of his business.

He finally took the time to appraise George—his contact—the intermediary between Range and the client.

If George were to resurrect in the animal kingdom after death, Range was certain the manicured, coiffed, Italian suit and Rolex adorned dweeb would come back as a weasel.

He took his measure while at the same time, George’s glance was dismissive.

George pulled out a notepad and a pen. “The address. We’ve waited long enough.”

Range said nothing, standing still.

George frowned, reached for an attaché case. “Here.” He popped it open.

Range didn’t bother counting it.

“Remind me again why it is that the client wants Eira Winter’s whereabouts?”

“She has something that’s his.”

“And legal means wouldn’t handle this?”

What did she steal? A damned Picasso?

God, I hope not. That dude had zero art talent.

George shook his head as though in disappointment. “You weren’t hired to ask questions. The file you received covered what you needed to know.”

Range didn’t care for his tone at all. He was tempted to teach George—and his hired thug, if need be—a lesson.

But one thing came to his mind.

The image of Vince’s daughter on the website they’d set up to raise funds for her treatments. All the tubes going in and out of that little one.

He sucked in a deep breath and counted to ten. But he still wasn’t quite ready to roll over.

“I’ll tell the client directly.”

George scoffed. “What?”

Range leaned against a wall, his eye on both George and the thug.

“That’s my terms.”

“He’s not even in this country.”

“Fine, get him on the phone.”

“Do you realize what time it is over there?”

Since Range didn’t even know where the hell there was, how was he to answer that question? He shrugged.

George huffed, composure and haughtiness gone. “He won’t be happy.”

“I bet he’d be less happy if he didn’t get what he wanted.”

George glared at him, took out a phone and pressed two buttons.

Nice. Has him on speed dial, I see.

George turned away and muttered into the phone, then made a 180 and handed the phone to Range.

Range put the phone to his ear, fighting the urge to wipe it off first. He didn’t have a chance to say anything before the voice on the other end of the line started to speak.

“I’m under the impression you wanted to talk to me directly.” The voice was gravelly, low, and with a heavy accent. Norwegian? Range wasn’t sure. Accents weren’t his thing.

“That’s correct,” Range replied.

“And you have the location of the individual?”

“I do.” There was something about the man’s voice and the whole situation in general that made Range want to back out.

Then the image of Vince’s little girl came to mind again.

Damn.

He gave the voice on the phone the address.

“Tell George to pay you.”

“Don’t hurt the girl.” Range couldn’t have said where that warning came from, but one thing was for damned sure; it came from his lips.