by coming here, but MacMillian had proven he could be trusted. His partner was another matter. If MacMillian was a mundane, odds were deCompostela was, too. She wasn't about to risk her shaky truce with the Witching Council by bringing him into subversive business.

She had just made up her mind to leave when deCompostela folded his arms across his chest. His eyes made a slow sweep of her body, ending with her face. His expression was all too easy to read: _this should be good._

Georgia stiffened. A streak of stubborn pride she had never been able to control reared its head. MacMillian's partner thought he had her pegged, did he? She lifted her chin. "Someone's been following me."

His expression didn't change. "Come inside."

Georgia ground her teeth as hehad been all he could do to maintain his coolly-detached expression. He'd been around enough fakers and head-cases that he could read their auras a mile away. There'd been no sign of mental instability in this woman's aura. No deception. Everything she'd told him had been the truth.

And whatever she hadn't told him had terrified her.

It was a jarring realization. Georgia Clare looked about as tough as they came. All worn denim and black leather, with a heavy pair of shiny shitkicker boots to complete the _don't-fuck-with-me_ effect. What the hell could scare a woman like that?

Darius glanced at the clock on his desk. It was earlier than he normally left, but he doubted he'd get any more work done today. Besides, the witch was expecting him. He