Free Close Protection by Mina Carter Page A

just didn’t look like this. Perhaps the level of attractiveness was directly proportional to the level of asshole-ishness?
    “Didn’t you know? ‘I want’ doesn’t get jack-squat.”
    He moved his head and the overhead lit a flash of colour at his hairline. Her brows creased. He had dark-brown hair but it was dyed, the roots starting to show through. Bright pink roots. Ashlee had gone through a phase of dying her own mousy hair bright red, with all the touch-ups and salon visits required, but usually the bright colour was the one growing out. She blinked, fear dancing down her spine in hobnail boots. There was only one race that had hair that colour.
    Pixies.
    Isaac Roth was a pixie. One of the most bloodthirsty and ruthless of the paranormal races.
    The fear and panic in her system reached critical level, and she knew she was seconds away from losing it completely. Like completely freaking out, hysterical sort of losing it. Which would do her absolutely no good whatsoever. Just thinking it allowed her to channel her inner bitch and she shrugged, twisting her wrist.
    A quick movement released the thin blade sheathed on her forearm under the shirt and dropped it into her hand. She tapped the razor-sharp edge against Roth’s pant leg, right over his femoral artery.
    His eyes widened. Surprise and something else—admiration maybe?—shone in his gaze. Inclining his head, he stepped back out of range of her knife.
    “Oh, I always get what I want, sweetheart, make no mistake about that. But it was crass of me to press my suit; I’ll give you some time to consider my offer.”
    With that he turned, signalling to his men, and they left her alone in the bar. Alone and shaking like a damn leaf.
    She stumbled a little as she made her way over to the front door, throwing the bolts and pulling the blinds down before Roth could change his mind and charge back in. One dose was more than enough in a day. She leaned against the wall by the door and closed her eyes. Hot tears prickled under her lids, trying to escape and leak down her cheeks. No way. Not happening. She wasn’t going to cry. She was a damn Bishop for heaven’s sake, and her dad hadn’t brought up a weak-willed daughter.
    The thought of her dad put steel in her spine, and she straightened up. Roth wanted to play silly fuckers, did he? She could play games too. Now that she knew what sort of thing she was dealing with, she had a better idea of what measure she needed to take.
    Marching through the bar, she headed for her office. Office? Ha! Closet might be a better description. Tucked away between the main bar and the kitchens, it was a tiny little affair barely big enough for a desk and the tattered couch tucked away under a small window. Set high in the wall, it looked onto the alleyway outside and was heavily barred and warded against magical attack. Her dad had been a forward thinker when it came to the paranormal races.
    Striding into the room, she skirted the desk and dropped into the chair behind it to yank the top drawer open. It stuck, as usual, so she swore and put more muscle behind it. It gave with a clink, almost dumping the contents into her lap.
    It was full of junk. Pens, paperclips, duct tape. You name it, it usually ended up in this drawer. Like it was some sort of magnet for random crap. Pursing her lips she rifled through the contents. Where was it? She’d seen it just the other day…
    Her fingers closed on the edge of a card and she dragged it out with a cry of triumph. Battered and dog-eared, it had obviously been lurking in the drawer for a while. There was even a coffee-ring stain across it, proof that it had spent some time on the surface of the desk as well. Her lips moved as she read the words on the front.
    Paranormal Protection Agency.
    Just a name and a number. That was it. No catchy tagline or web address. No customer recommendations. Nothing. Holding her breath and praying that it still worked, she reached out and dialled the