She moved in close—so close that I could smell her new perfume, Eau de Goat—and hissed at me. “If you don’t stop trying to take away my jobs, I’ll make sure you never work in this town again.”

Never work in this town again? Had she really said that? Of course she had. Minka was the queen of the tattered cliché.

“Threats, Minka?” I backed away from her, knowing she had an unruly left hook. “Ian won’t like hearing that you threatened me.”

She sniffed imperiously. “Ian is a jerk.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”

“You’re a jerk, too.”

Feeling disappointed, I shook my head. “Have you been sick or something? Your comebacks are so lame, it’s pathetic.” I didn’t stick around to hear her answer, but turned and hurried off. I didn’t look back, either—possibly a tactical error where Minka was concerned, since she was the master of the sneak attack. But honestly, I couldn’t take another violent shock to my nervous system.

“You’ll be sorry!” she shrieked.

I rubbed my arms against the chill but kept moving. Minka had the kind of aura that stirred up all the frigid, stagnant chi that existed in any space. Or maybe auras and chi had nothing to do with it. I just knew she scared the hell out of me. Once I turned the corner and was out of her sight, I breathed easier. It was warmer now. The spell was broken.

I knew that sounded a little wacky, but I’d been stalked and harassed and, yes, punched in the face by Minka LaBoeuf. I wasn’t about to question the possibility that she could cast spells with those evil eyes of hers.

Strolling briskly down the wide hall, I entered the suite of business offices and greeted Wylie, Ian’s current assistant.

“He’s waiting for you, Ms. Wainwright. Go right in.”

“Thanks, Wylie.”

I knocked, then opened Ian’s door.

“Hey, you,” Ian said, jumping up from his chair and rushing to greet me with a hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been itching to get your opinion on what to do about this book.”

Shaking off the last of my Minka-induced negativity, I smiled and hugged him back. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“I’ll warn you beforehand that the outside of the book is less than impressive. Well, actually, it’s in horrible shape, but I know you can make it shine. The inside is exquisite.” He led the way across the room to his lovingly restored Chippendale conference table. We sat, and I watched him slowly unwrap several layers of white tissue paper to reveal a rather nondescript book.

The book was big, probably twelve inches tall by nine inches wide, but it was less than one inch thick. The leather cover was green, or it had been at one time; now it was faded to a dull gray. The front cover was badly frayed along the inner edges and outer hinge, where it would probably break apart at the least jarring movement.

And it was disturbingly familiar. I frowned and chewed my lip as I reached for it.

“I know it’s ugly,” Ian reiterated, misreading my reaction. “But the paper is still in excellent condition, and just wait until you see the illustrations.”

“Okay.” I picked it up cautiously, not only because it was old and falling apart, but because I was afraid of what I would find when I opened it. I stared at the spine. Beauty and the Beast, it read, though the letters had lost most of their gilding.

I opened the book, bypassed the flyleaf, and turned to the front illustration across from the title page. It was colorful and sweet and classically Victorian. A tea party for two. Beauty wore a regal red cape and her golden blond hair flowed in waves down her back. She sat at a table, pouring tea for the Beast, who was depicted as a huge brown bear. His appearance was hairy and scary, yet he seemed dignified and well mannered. The tea set was blue. I could’ve described it blindfolded.

I paged back to the inside flyleaf and stared at the inscription written there. My throat tightened and the pressure building in my chest began to ache.

“It’s very rare,” Ian said in a rush. “First edition. Look at the interior pages. They’re fantastic. I just need you to fashion a new cover and do some cleanup, and we’ll have a masterpiece to display in the children’s gallery.”

I ran my fingers over the dried ink and reread the sentimental inscription. The scrawled penmanship had a beauty all its own.

“Earth to Brooklyn,” he snapped. “What’s going on? Can you do the work or not?”

I shook myself out of my melancholy and glanced up at Ian. “I’m not sure I can.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure? You could do this restoration in your sleep.”

“Oh, yeah, I can do the work.” I turned the book over to see if the damage extended to the back joint, but it was still smooth and unfrayed. “But…I don’t think I can do the work.”

He scowled, shoved his chair back from the table, and stood over me. “You’re speaking in riddles. What’s wrong with the damn book?”

“Nothing’s wrong with the book,” I said, and met his gaze directly. “Except that it was stolen.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He stared at my expression, then shook his head vigorously. “No way. What the hell are you talking about? I bought it from Joseph Taylor, the most reputable bookseller in the city. It was a clean deal.”

“I believe you.” Joe Taylor was an old acquaintance of mine. My mentor, Abraham, had known him forever, and over the years we’d done a lot of bookbinding work for him.

I touched the crisp, deckled edges of the paper and fought to stay calm. “But I’d like to find out who sold it to Joe, because I know they weren’t the rightful owner.”

Frustrated, Ian scratched his head, causing his hair to spike wildly. “What aren’t you telling me, Brooklyn? How do you know this book was stolen? Who did it belong to?”

Awash in memories, I didn’t realize until too late that I had tears in my eyes. I brushed them away with a fierce swipe of my hand and faced him. “Me, Ian. Once upon a time, this book belonged to me.”

Chapter 2

“You?” Ian shook his head in confusion. “So what happened? You sold it to someone?”

“No.” Reluctantly, I pushed the book away and stood. “No, I gave it away.”

“Well, then there’s no problem.”

I laughed, but the sound was empty. “Believe me—there’s a problem.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he muttered, and began to pace back and forth between the conference table and his massive antique mahogany desk.

Confused and unsure what to do, I leaned my hip against the table and glanced around the office, trying to distract myself by admiring Ian’s latest artwork. He still had the Diebenkorn painting of a woman drinking coffee prominently displayed behind his desk, but there were three miniature Rembrandt engravings on the wall closest to the door that I didn’t remember seeing before.

As always when I visited Ian, I thought how nice it would be to borrow from the vast Covington collection to furnish one’s office. And if the artwork didn’t impress a visitor, one could always enjoy the incomparable view of the Golden Gate Bridge seen through the big picture window by the conference table. I turned and stared out at the wide expanse of the bay and tried to appreciate the amazing vista.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Ian asked from close behind me.

I sighed and slowly turned around. “It’s a long story. Are you ready to hear it?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose I’ll have to.”

I smiled. “Did Austin ever introduce you to Max Adams?”

“Max? Sure. Didn’t he die a few years ago?”

“It was almost three years ago,” I said. But thanks to the reappearance of Beauty and the Beast, I was reliving the day as if it were yesterday.

I’d had a crush on Max Adams from the first day I’d laid eyes on him when I was ten years old. Max’s family had followed Avatar Robson Benedict—otherwise known as Guru Bob—to the Sonoma commune he’d established, just as my family had a few years earlier. So we all grew up together in Dharma. Max was my oldest brother Austin’s best friend until they each went away to different colleges.