As strong as that urge is, though, a burning desire to see Sandra is stronger. It propels me forward, sends fingers flying upward to smooth my hair, to touch my lips, to trace the curve of my breasts through the silk of my dress.

I can’t control it.

My hands start to shake. I felt this way with Avery. Out of control. Bewitched.

I bang a fist on the steering wheel, hard enough to send a shiver of pain racing up my arm.

I won’t let it happen again.

The house looms ahead. Light spills out of every window, warm, inviting shafts of light that signal welcome like a beacon. I pull up at the front door. There are no other cars or motorcycles in sight but there is a garage in back. Sandra must be parked there.

I climb out of the car, closing the door gently. She knows I’m here. Just as I know she’s inside. I feel it like the breeze on my face. There’s a tickle of scent on the air. Jasmine. Rose. Something more exotic. Frangipani. I breathe it in. Closing my eyes, tilting my face. Stalling.

When I open my eyes again, I see it. Rising over the roof of Avery’s house. Sending clouds scurrying from its brilliance like rats from a golden scythe.

The full moon.

THE FULL MOON.

I’ve never been a follower of astrological charts. Don’t read my horoscope or follow lunar timetables to determine when to change the color of my hair or seek out new friends.

I didn’t know the moon would be full.

Did Sandra? Is that why she wanted to see me tonight?

The book said the full moon, though a werewolf’s reminder that he must change at least once a month, is not an edict. When I walk in, will I be met by an entirely different Sandra than the one I remember from Beso de la Muerte?

Do I care?

Not really.

I’m more concerned about how I’m going to handle being in Avery’s house.

Unlike the gate at the front, the front door does not swing open at my approach. I press the bell with a hand that shakes in spite of my commanding it not to. I hear the chimes and, again, am transported back to the first time I found myself on Avery’s doorstep.

Dread mixes with anticipation in a strange concoction of emotion that makes my stomach lurch at the same time my libido jumps into overdrive.

This is ridiculous.

Maybe I should turn around and go home. Let Sandra come to me. Meet on my turf. I haven’t read that last chapter. Wait until I’ve read it. Wait until the goddamned full moon is past.

“Hello, Anna.”

The melodious voice floats on the air, and for a moment, I look around stupidly thinking she must have snuck up behind me. Then reason returns and I remember the security camera over the door. I frown into the blinking lens.

“Are you going to let me in?”

She laughs. “Of course. I wanted to warn you first. I have a pet inside, and she tends to be protective. Be a good girl and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

What the fuck? A pet?

The door doesn’t open. She’s obviously waiting for me to agree not to attack her on sight. Why would I? She still doesn’t get that I’m not going to fight her about Avery’s estate. It’s not lost on me, though, that in effect, she’s threatening me. I’ve never suffered bullying well.

“Either you’re going to let me in or I’m going home. Makes no difference to me. If I do come in, you might want to put a leash on that pet. You may have forgotten what I’m capable of. Avery made the same mistake.”

There’s a moment’s silence, then the door opens.

Sandra stands in the doorway, backlit by the soft glow of a fireplace in the living room behind her. I get a flash of Avery in that same spot, inviting me in, a party in full swing behind him. I’m dizzy with conflicting emotions. I vowed never to come here again. The pain of finding David, of betrayal, of lost love sweeps over me with such force, it sends panic rioting through me.

As if reading what’s in my head, Sandra lays a reassuring hand on my arm. “I understand it is difficult for you to be here. I promise to make it better. Please come in, Anna. We have much to discuss.”

The touch of her hand, the touch of her voice reaching into my psyche brings me back with a jolt. Avery fades. The party fades. I’m back in the present staring into the eyes of a woman who seems able to read my soul.

But that’s only the first shock.

When my senses return, and I look, really look, at Sandra, disbelief chases any other emotion right out of my head. She’s wearing a red dress. A Badgley Mischka gown of silk cut low at the neck and slit high at the sides. The gown Avery gave me before our last meeting. The gown I threw in a wastebasket after I killed him.

SANDRA TAKES A STEP BACK AND TWIRLS AROUND. “Isn’t this the most beautiful gown? I found it in a closet upstairs. I couldn’t resist trying it on. Fits me well, don’t you think?”

The eyes are too wide, the voice too breathless, the innocence stamped on that smiling face too pronounced to be real. She knows exactly whose dress it is. Or was. Where did she get it? The last time I saw it, it was crumpled in a wastebasket in David’s condo.

“How did you get that dress?” It erupts like a growl.

No pretense in the emotion that shows on her face this time. Cunning. Self-congratulatory pleasure in having shocked me. Arrogance in the belief that she now has the upper hand.

Mistaken arrogance.

I purposely keep my voice low. “How did you get the dress, Sandra?”

She blinks back to innocence. “I told you, Anna. In a closet upstairs.”

She lets a heartbeat go by, then before I can reply, adds, “Why do you ask?” She lifts a hand, trailing a finger between her breasts. “Don’t tell me. Was this your dress? Did Avery buy this for you? He has been a naughty boy, hasn’t he?”

Her eyes have turned cold, glittering in the dim light of the foyer like blue diamonds on snow. She’s watching me, head tilted, eyes narrowed, body still except for the fingers that continue to move in a provocative path down to the depths of her décolleté and up again.

When I move, it’s so fast, she has no time to prepare. I grab that hand and bend it backward at the wrist. She flinches, gasping, trying to relieve the pressure. I step back with her, holding tight, and bring my face close to hers.

“Where did you get that dress?”

Then, before I can stop it, she’s yanked her hand free and is pushing me, forcing me back until I’m rammed with ferocious force into the wall. Now it’s her face that looms above me, her hands that hold mine in a grip I can’t break, and her voice growling in my ear.

“I told you to play nice, Anna.”

Her eyes are animal eyes. Her body has lost its softness, as if the feminine has been swallowed up by a hard and masculine anger. Her scent has changed. Gone is the subtlety of roses and pheromones, the promise of sex. In its place are musk and testosterone and an odor I don’t recognize until I see the burning in her eyes. It’s the smell of rage, sharp, pungent, threatening. Violence a flicker, a kiss, away.

I stand still and wait for it to pass. Wait for the instant she no longer perceives me as a threat and the animal retreats.

She burrows her face close to my neck. She inhales my scent, licks the skin, her tongue rests on my jugular. She’s interpreting my intentions the same way I did hers.

At last, the fury drains from her body. I feel it, in my head and in the physical release as her muscles lose their rigidity, and the softness, the feminine, returns.

She straightens up and stands back. She turns, head down as if embarrassed, and walks away, into the living room. She doesn’t say a word or look around to see if I’m following.

I slump against the wall for a moment, waiting for my body to stop shaking and for my head to clear.