She’s dressed in a pair of pajamas that match Frey’s—only hers are pink with little black cats—and, oh, a couple of other major differences: her top is low-cut, revealing a curve of breast, and her pants ride low on her hips, exposing a tanned stretch of trim abdomen. No robe for this one. She’s immodesty personified.

Makes me see Frey in a new light. He and I had sex. Once. It was pretty damned good, too, but if this is Frey’s girlfriend, he must have talents he hid from me.

She’s watching me, a half smile playing on those full lips. It hits me then. She’s reading my thoughts. Shit. She’s a shape-shifter, too. She now knows everything that’s gone through my head in the last few minutes. Too late now to close the conduit.

You might have let me know.

She laughs. Why? This was so much more fun.

Are you a panther, too?

No. She links her arm through Frey’s. A tiger.

Figures. I knew she had to be some kind of cat.

Frey is looking from one of us to the other. “This isn’t fair,” he says. “I can only hear one side of the conversation.”

She tilts her head up and gives Frey a kiss on the cheek. “Go tend to Anna’s needs,” she says. “I’m going to shower.”

Color floods Frey’s face as he watches her walk toward the bedroom. She must have thrown him a parting remark that I wasn’t privy to.

“Care to share?” I ask.

“No.” He straightens his shoulders and gestures toward the hall. “Let’s go to the library.”

I follow in his wake. “Does the sex kitten have a name?” “She didn’t tell you?”

“No. Would I be asking if she did?”

“Layla. Her name’s Layla.”

“Any last name?”

We’re at the door to the library and he swings it open. He doesn’t answer. He’s never been secretive with me before and it’s creeping me out.

“She said she’s a decorator? Where does she work?”

No answer. Again. If he doesn’t give me something to work with, how am I going to check this kitty out?

He’s at the shelves, trailing a finger over a row of books. Frey’s library is extensive, three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Each book has the name of a literary classic embossed on its spine.

The room smells of old paper and aged leather, like an antiquarian bookstore. Except that these books are not literary classics. They’re books on magic. Cleverly disguised and protected by a spell.

Frey makes his decision with a grunt and a snap of his fingers. He pulls down a volume and turns to me, clutching the book against his chest.

“I’m still not sure I should do this,” he says.

I hold out a hand for the book. “Look at it this way, if you don’t and I walk into a were trap, will you ever forgive yourself?”

Again the grunt but this time, he puts the book in my hand. “Read the first three chapters. And chapter seventeen. They contain the relevant information.”

The book lies heavy on my palm. The title says Great Expectations, and if I were human, what I’d see when I opened the book would be the Dickens text. What I see now upon opening the book is Old English calligraphy.

English?

I look up at Frey. “The last time I looked at one of these books, the text was some kind of hieroglyphic. Are they all different?”

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “I wasn’t sure about you then.”

“You have the ability to change the text?”

“Oh, Anna, I have all sorts of abilities. You’d be amazed.”

I stare at him. Having met Layla, he’s probably right. As for the books, I knew they were spell protected. It appears Frey is the spellbinder. Impressive.

He takes my arm and steers me toward the door. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Anna. And call me if you have any questions. In fact, call me after your meeting.”

“You’re that concerned about my meeting with the were?”

He looks grim again. “After you read those chapters, I’m hoping you’ll reconsider the meeting. No business can be that important. Or if you must go, take someone with you for backup. Williams maybe. He seems to have some free time on his hands right now.”

My thoughts are suddenly of Sandra. Irrational thoughts, like I don’t want to share her with anyone. I shake my head to clear the cobwebs. That I would be thinking such a thing seems to make Frey’s point.

I raise the book. “I will read this before I make any decisions. I promise.”

He doesn’t seem too impressed nor does he look relieved at my words. He opens his mouth to say something else when the bedroom door opens and a naked, wet Layla appears in the doorway.

“Oh,” she says, making no attempt to cover herself or duck back into the room. “Anna, you’re still here?”

Like I hadn’t caught that probe she deliberately sent out a second before opening the door. Rolling my eyes at both of them, I head out the front door.

Layla is a piece of work, true, still I don’t know why I’m feeling so agitated as I make my way back to the car. The last time we were together, Frey told me that he had a girlfriend. I didn’t give it much thought. I would have expected her to be someone like himself. Dignified. Sedate. This tiger is clearly a man-eater. She’ll gobble him up and spit him out in a New York minute if he isn’t careful. Makes my spidey sense tingle. She’s had a profound influence on someone I consider a friend—right down to taking over his living area.

I press the car lock on the remote and slip into the driver’s seat. Layla will have to wait. I have plenty on my plate at the moment. Still, she’s added to my to-do list.

Right after Gloria and David . . . and Sandra.

I have an hour or so before Gloria calls to let me know if I’m going to meet her at her home or in jail. Might as well get a jump on my “research.” I settle the book on my lap.

It’s as far as I get. My cell phone rings. I’m mighty popular this morning. The number on the display is a familiar one.

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Oh, Anna.” My mother sounds breathless and excited. “You are never going to guess what happened.”

“You sound happy so it must be something good. Tell me.”

“I’d rather do it in person. Can you come over now?”

Crap. I glance at my watch. I’d just make it to East County, where they live, and have to turn around and come back to meet Gloria. “I can’t right this minute. Can’t you tell me over the phone?”

She starts to laugh. “No. I have to see your face when you hear this.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“When can you get here?”

“Late this afternoon, maybe?”

“Excellent. Come for dinner. We’ll be waiting. À bientôt, ma chère fille.”

She disconnects without waiting for me to respond.

Ma chère fille?

I close my phone and drop it back into my bag. What was that all about? My mom has always been a Francophile, but since when did she start talking to me in French?

I CAN’T IMAGINE WHAT KIND OF SURPRISE AWAITS me this afternoon. Maybe she and Trish enrolled in a French-cooking class and they need a guinea pig to experiment on. Dad is not big on French cooking. Since I can’t eat any kind of cooking, it may turn out to be a less-than-momentous occasion all around.

Oh well. May as well not waste good reading time. I settle back in the car seat and open the book to the first chapter. Unlike the first time I opened the book, it takes several seconds for the conventional text of Great Expectations to fade. Maybe once outside the confines of Frey’s library, the book protects its secrets on its own. Does it hold off revealing the true text until it’s sure the hands that hold it are no longer human? I must ask Frey how this works.

When the transformation is complete, it takes concentration on my part to interpret the actual text. Old English calligraphy is not the easiest to read. The language is flowery and antiquated. I flip to the front and understand why. The book is not dated. No author listed. No publishing information. No publisher, actually, since the pages seem to be handwritten. In ink. I’m surprised Frey would let me out of the house with such a valuable book. Knowing Frey, though, the book may be equipped with its own security system. If I tried to rip out a page or accidentally dropped it in the bathtub, my head would likely explode.