Shot to Hell (Four Horsemen MC #7) by Cynthia Rayne

deserved whatever he got.
    As soon as Steele waltzed back into the diner, Ace placed his hand over hers. Steele stared at his brother like he’d palmed her breast instead.
    She didn’t knock his hand away.
    “Have supper with me tonight, darlin’.” Ace used a husky tone.
    If he’d asked her earlier, she’d have turned him down flat, but Steele’s reaction spurred her on. Steele was practically seething—his chest thrust out, muscles cording in his arms.
    Ash smiled, slow and wide. “I’d love to, Ace.” She slid her phone across the table and he put in his digits, then she called him so he’d have her number.
    “It’s a date.” He winked at her and slid out of the booth. He stood chest to chest with Steele and, for a second, Ash thought one of them might take a swing at the other.
    Finally, Ace backed off. “Wish I could stay and eat, but I’ve got a busy day so I’ll catch you later. How about a late dinner? Ten?”
    “Perfect.”
    With a grin, Ace sauntered off.
    To tweak Steele further, she turned to watch the other biker walk away. Ace had a damn fine ass–high, tight, and firm. If only she were interested.
    Although Ace wouldn’t care if she was. His heart—or at least his attention—clearly belonged to another—a former cop, no less. She doubted an outlaw and a former officer of the law had a chance in hell.
    “Are you finished?” Steele plopped down across from her. With one finger, he pushed Ace’s cooling cup of coffee to the edge of the table as though his brother had the cooties.
    She blew out a breath. “For now.”
    “Ace is a dick.”
    “I didn’t ask, and I don’t give a damn about your opinion. You and I are strictly business.”
    Angel brought over a mug and poured coffee for Steele. Ash told him Ace had left and then ordered her food to go, so she could get away from Steele as soon as possible.
    After the biker waiter left, Ash pulled a small notepad from her jacket. During an investigation, she kept detailed notes on all the interactions she had with people involved in the case. “I’ve got a lead we should follow up on.”
    “What kind of lead?” Steele glanced at the pad.
    Justice walked over. Evidently, he’d been having breakfast at the counter, and she hadn’t picked him out amid all his brothers. All of them looked the same from behind—jeans, leather cuts, and nice rear ends.
    Ash continued speaking. “I’m hopin’ it’s a helpful one. The DEA keeps tabs on people of interest. In a records search, they came across someone who might have worked at one of the Raptors’ businesses. It’s been hard to sort out since the bikers did a lot of things off the books. Enid Poole might have stripped at the Pussycat Palace, and now she works in nearby Crimson Creek at a new place called The Lone Star Lounge. Her stage name is Ginger Heart.”
    Ash would rather not go to a strip club, but it was the only lead she had. It wasn’t the first raunchy place she’d gone looking for criminals and it wouldn’t be the last, but going in there with a couple of big guys at her back might make it easier, at least.  She’d been to a few strip clubs in her day—for work purposes only. The criminal element gravitated toward dives and drunken party types.
    She didn’t begrudge anyone making a living the way they saw fit or patronizing those establishments, but it made her wonder about chasing some high-end, white-collar criminals. Maybe she’d get to go to a ballet or an opera instead of bars filled with nude girls.
    “Crimson Creek is Dixie Mafia territory,” Steele said. “Hold up.” He narrowed his eyes. “They gotta strip club now?”
    “The Dixie Mafia,” Ash repeated. “How do they figure into all of this?”
    “Long story.” Steele didn’t answer the question, the tight-lipped bastard.
    The Raptors had an association with the Dixie Mafia, but the evidence trail was tenuous at best. According to her boss at Cole, DEA leadership was more interested in nailing