Darius blinked. "You're an accountant?" She looked more like a supermodel librarian. Not that he could tell her that.

Have I ever told you you're like some kind of occult superhero? Georgia Clare: bookkeeper by day, badass biker witch by night. Seriously, you should put that on your business cards.

Something that sounded like ripping metal shredded the deadly quiet. The inaudible bass smoothed into a low, steady hum. Outside, a low, mechanical growl rumbled closer and closer. Darius caught his breath. He knew that sound, and it wasn't magic.

It was a motorcycle.

Some lines you just don't cross. Not in my business."

"Your business?" Georgia rolled her eyes. "You mean the private detective business? I wasn't aware you guys had such ironclad rules about making out with clients." She ignored the choking sound he made. "Seriously, have you even seen The Maltese Falcon?"

Darius' face heated. "This isn't some movie, Ms. Clare. You're not Mary Astor, and I'm sure as hell no Humphrey Bogart. Here in the real world, there are rules.

So, you're the Santa Claus of the magic world with a naughty and nice list?

I'd like to see you dance around a caldron naked.