Insatiable

other kind is there? Did you think I meant a real vampire war?”

She saw him throw a look in the countess’s direction…a look Meena couldn’t read at all.

She wasn’t sure what was going on between the two of them, but Mary Lou, reaching out to

pry the champagne flute out of the prince’s fingers, apparently before he could break it, said,

“Now, what all are you two still doing out here? Dinner’s on the table and everyone’s waiting.

What could you be talking about that you didn’t even hear the announcement?”

“Oh, not much,” Prince Lucien said, still looking as if he was holding his jaw very

tightly. “Just the vampire war.”

The countess glanced at him quickly, then tossed back her golden head and laughed.

“Oh, my stars,” she said. Her southern accent always seemed to get more pronounced

when she’d been drinking. “Meena must have been telling you about the vampire war between

the television show she works for, Insatiable, and their archrival, Lust . No offense, Meena, you

know I’m an Insatiable fan to the end. But I just can’t get enough of that sexy Gregory Bane.”

“Well,” Meena said, scowling as she always did when she heard Gregory Bane’s name,

“I understand our vampire is going to be just as sexy.”

Lucien, meanwhile, looked visibly relieved. “Television,” he said. “Of course.”

Meena still didn’t understand anything that was happening. Like why the tightness had

finally gone out of the prince’s face…or why the smile he gave Meena when he turned around

was so dazzling, it made her knees feel weak again, so that she wasn’t sure she was going to be

able to walk all the way to the Antonescus’ dining room on her high heels. At least, not

without wobbling.

But that was all right, because Mary Lou said with a laugh, “Of course that’s what she

meant, silly. What other vampire war is there? Well, far be it from me to interrupt your

conversation. I’ve saved you two places at the end of the dining table. Prince Lucien, be a dear

and escort Meena in.”

Prince Lucien was a dear. He rose, gallantly presenting Meena his arm. She looked at it

with a little astonishment at first.

And no wonder: no man had ever offered Meena his arm before. David hadn’t exactly

been the most gentlemanly of suitors, being more interested in his dental textbooks and

Toastmasters meetings than manners.

Meena wasn’t certain if she was supposed to slip her hand through the crook of the

prince’s arm or lay her fingers over it, the way she’d seen Jane Austen heroines do in BBC

productions.

She actually felt just the slightest bit light-headed…but whether it was from the prince’s

proximity or the champagne, Meena wasn’t sure. She wondered what was wrong with her. It

wasn’t as if she had never been around a handsome man before. She worked with some of the

hottest actors in television, for heaven’s sake.

Maybe it was just that none of them had ever shown any particular interest in her.

Or maybe…just maybe…it was because for the first time since David had left, she’d

actually met a man to whom she felt attracted who wasn’t already married, wasn’t gay, and

didn’t have certain death looming over him.

She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm—in case she had to lean on him for

support if the light-headedness got worse—and smiled up at him.

“So,” she said. “Where were we?”

Chapter Twenty-four

9:00 P.M . EST, Thursday, April 15

Outside of 912 Park Avenue

New York, New York

W hat are you doing here?” the blue-haired old woman asked as her Pekingese lifted a

leg not far from where Alaric Wulf was standing. “And don’t try to lie to me, young man. I’ve

been watching you from my window. You’ve been standing out here for an hour.”

“Just waiting for my wife, ma’am,” he said. “She has an appointment with Dr.

Rabinowitz.” He nodded toward the brass plate on the building he was leaning against that said

Dr. Rubin Rabinowitz, Obstetrics .

The Blue Hair followed his gaze, then turned back toward him. She wasn’t, he saw from

her expression, having any of it.

“This late?” the old woman demanded. “And why aren’t you in the waiting room?”

“Claustrophobia,” Alaric said. He glared at the Pekingese. Its little face was scrunched

up in a look of disgust that seemed to echo its mistress’s. “And Dr. Rabinowitz is very

accommodating of my wife’s busy schedule as a jet-setting supermodel.”

“Hmph,” said the old woman, and she hurried on her way.

Alaric, standing next door to 910 Park Avenue—but out of sight, leaning against the side

of the building where he wouldn’t be noticed by anyone but elderly women passing by as they

walked their impossibly small dogs and cast disapproving looks at him—felt that he approved.

Not of Blue Hair, although he’d liked her. He liked women with spirit. They reminded

him of Betty and Veronica.

What he approved of was 910 Park Avenue itself, and its tenants.

The living ones, anyway.

It was an elegant brick structure, built on a corner and obviously well maintained. The

potted plants on either side of the electronic doors looked healthy and lush. There was a

spotless red carpet beneath the green awning above the doors, and the doorman standing under

it was young and eager to do his job well. Alaric saw him corner and cuff a Chinese food

deliveryman before he’d managed to slink by him, determined to slip menus under

unsuspecting tenants’ doors.

The doorman also stopped to carefully check the name of each guest arriving to attend

the Antonescus’ party off a list they’d given him before allowing them up.

That was how Alaric had discovered that there was no way he could simply crash the

party uninvited…unless of course he used force.

And he wasn’t willing to play that card. Yet.

And because the building was twenty stories high, and the Antonescus lived on the

eleventh floor with no fire escape, his “feet first through the window from the roof” trick

wouldn’t work, either.

Until he figured out a way to sneak inside through the parking garage in the basement—

or possibly using the service entrance—he was going to get to know the parked cars outside of

910 Park Avenue pretty well, he suspected.

But that was all right. He had time. All the time in the world to plan his next move.

Alaric had checked into the Peninsula the night before and was very much enjoying the

upgrade from his hotel in Chattanooga. There were several premium cable channels for him to

enjoy—on a flat-screen TV, no less, while soaking in a big, deep tub with no rubber slide strips

in the bathroom—and Frette sheets, not to mention an indoor pool in a glass atrium on the top

floor so he could keep up his workouts; a vast and varied room service menu to explore; and

several lounges where attractive women of all nationalities could be found after a day of

shopping sipping tea and texting their friends. No, Alaric was in no rush to leave Manhattan.

Except for one small, unpleasant fact.

The reason he was there in the first place.

But then, if the e-mail Martin had forwarded him was genuine, the prince was in town

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