Insatiable

hold on to Jack Bauer’s leash as tightly as she should have, and just as they got to an

unobtrusive side door, he managed to dart off.

“Oh!” she cried. “Jack!”

She dropped Lucien’s hand to chase after her dog. Jack ran only as far as a group of

students who were sitting a few yards away, listening to one another’s iPods and sharing a

pizza, in which Jack was extremely interested. By the time she’d caught the dog up in her arms

and apologized to the students, who smiled warmly at her, she turned back and found Lucien

standing with the door open, waiting for her to join him inside the darkened museum.

“Oh,” she said, glancing behind her. No one on the steps appeared to have noticed that

her date had just broken into a New York City landmark.

Or so she supposed. Surely the prince didn’t have a key to the Metropolitan Museum of

Art.

Or did he? Maybe all Romanian princes-slash-professors did. “You can’t just…How did

you…?” She broke off, laughing. “Lucien, how did you get in there?”

He held up a black card with a magnetic strip on the back. “I told you,” he said. “A

friend of mine is giving a lecture here this week. I thought you might want to see what he’s

talking about. Come in. It’s quite all right.”

She still hesitated, glancing around her. “But…aren’t there security guards?”

“Don’t worry about them. I’ll take care of them.”

Meena raised her eyebrows. He would take care of them? What did that mean?

Oh…that he would bribe them. Of course.

Lucien was a prince. He was rich. He was used to getting his way. With everyone.

Especially staff.

She supposed he had dozens of staff. Maids. Butlers, even. Staff for his summer palace.

Pilots for his private jet.

Meena had staff—a housekeeper who came once every other week and refused to do

laundry.

“But,” she murmured lamely, “I’ve got the dog.”

“No one cares about a little dog.” He looked incredibly handsome, standing there with

the darkness behind him, one hand stretched out to her, the other keeping the door open for

her. “Trust me, Meena.”

The incredible part was that she did. She hardly knew him at all.

But she did trust him.

Why wouldn’t she? He’d already saved her life, and had done so by risking his own.

What was a little breaking and entering, compared to that?

But Meena had never been a risk taker…not on her own behalf. Leisha had nailed it on

the head when she’d accused Meena of having a hero complex. Meena would do anything to

help save the life of someone else (if only they’d allow her to).

But when it came to herself? Though she could look into the future of complete

strangers, she’d never been able to see what fate had in store for her.

And so too many times she’d done what was easiest—stay with a boyfriend who didn’t

really love her; not complain about a coworker who was taking advantage of her—instead of

what she knew, deep down, was right.

And now?

She knew if she slipped her hand into Lucien Antonescu’s, she wouldn’t just be risking

possible arrest by the New York City Police Department.

She’d be risking her heart.

Was she really going to do this?

But what other choice did she have? Was she just going to sit on the couch like Jon for

the rest of her life, waiting for the perfect person, the perfect job, the perfect life to come

along?

How did she know that perfect person wasn’t standing in front of her right now? How

did anyone know?

Easy. They didn’t. They took a risk.

She slipped her fingers into his.

Maybe she couldn’t see into her own future.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t have one.

“All right,” she said with a smile. “Show me. Show me everything.”

Chapter Twenty-six

12:45 A.M . EST, Friday, April 16

910 Park Avenue

New York, New York

A laric saw them come out of the building together—the tall, dark-haired man and the

petite brunette with the short hair and the tightly cinched trench coat. She was walking a

Pomeranian mix. The dog looked like it was foaming at the mouth in its desire to attack the

dark-haired man…

…who looked exactly like the author photo of Lucien Antonescu that Martin had emailed him earlier.

Alaric dropped the Archie comic into his pocket and straightened. He wasn’t going to go

for his scabbard. Not yet. He’d follow them and see where they went, if the guy tried anything.

Then when he did—and he would; Alaric knew he would, knew it as surely as he knew

that his sword arm would never fail him—Alaric would slice off his head and have the

pleasure of watching the prince of darkness finally turn to dust.

The only problem was, when Alaric took a single step toward the couple, a heavy hand

fell upon his shoulder. Startled—it wasn’t often Alaric was taken by surprise—he spun around,

his sword half out of its sheath….

Only to come face-to-face with his boss.

“Goddamnit, Holtzman,” Alaric said, lowering his blade. “What are you trying to do, get

yourself filleted?”

“You’re in violation of orders, Wulf.” Abraham Holtzman was a balding man who’d

dressed for the assignment of shadowing the ruler of all that was unholy in jeans and sandals.

With socks. At least he had the sense to wear a Star of David at his neck. “You’re not

supposed to be here.”

“Nice socks,” Alaric said. “Very unobtrusive. No one in Manhattan will notice you or

think you’re from out of town. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kill the prince of

darkness before he gets away.”

“Stop!” Holtzman threw out a hand to halt Alaric just as Lucien Antonescu put out his

own hand and, his gaze falling on Alaric and Holtzman, steered the dark-haired young woman

in the opposite direction, away from them.

Had the prince seen the two of them? Alaric didn’t know.

But he had felt a sort of chill just as that dark-eyed gaze had rested, however briefly, on

him.

Had the prince known who, or what, he and Holtzman represented? Did he know that the

Palatine Guard was watching him?

Alaric would never know. Because Holtzman was reaching into his suit coat and pulling

out the only thing in the universe Alaric dreaded more than a pack of vampires whipped into a

frenzy by the smell of fresh human blood.

The Palatine Guard Human Resources Handbook.

“No,” Alaric said, a spurt of irritation coursing through him. “For God’s sake, Holtzman.

We don’t have ti—”

“Look here, Wulf,” Holtzman was already saying. “It says right here on page fourteen of

the handbook, ‘If an officer should witness his partner wounded in the line of duty, he will be

required to take a minimum of no less than two weeks’ leave for psychological R and R as

well as undergo mandatory counseling,’ which we both know you’ve dodged, as usual. And it

says that he will not be allowed back on duty until he’s completed both of these. Now, we all

know what a workaholic you are. You haven’t had a vacation in years. And God knows what

Martin went through in Berlin was horrific. You stalked that entire nest by yourself

afterward…don’t deny it, I saw the report. It’s not your fault they went underground and were

Читать дальше