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 decollete 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.

She's strong and fast. Faster than I am. Stronger? I'm not sure. She caught me off guard and tossed me into that wall like a rag doll. I've fought centuries-old vampires and won.

Not this time, though. The first round goes to Sandra. I realize now I cannot let my guard down for a moment with this one. Not if I want to survive.

I watch her, in front of the fireplace, her back to me, her posture relaxed. She raises her hands and runs her fingers through her hair. She stands with one hip slightly thrust forward, a model's stance that draws one's eyes to the curves of her body. It's a cultivated pose. She knows I'm watching.

The siren is back.

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