Insatiable

“Oh,” Meena said unhappily. She was liking this story less and less. “How sad!”

“It was sad,” Lucien said in agreement. “And it gets sadder still. Her husband had

married her for love…a rarity in those days. He was never the same after her death. Some say

he went mad. He began to treat his enemies—and even his own subjects, his own sons —in

a…well, in a very regrettable manner.”

Meena looked up sharply when she heard him say the words a very regrettable manner .

Because while his tone had still been as distantly academic as ever, and probably no one

else would have noticed the slightest difference in his voice, Meena knew: the prince was

thinking about his own childhood. Lucien’s father had treated him in “a very regrettable

manner.” She was certain of it…even more so as she watched the way his gaze seemed to burn

as he stared down at the woodcut of the Princess’s River.

And Meena’s heart twisted with pity for him. Yes, he was a prince, and handsome and

rich and worldly.

But she knew what it was like to have problems. Real problems. The kind that kept you

up nights, stumbling around in the dark, reaching for amber prescription sleeping-pill bottles.

It was at that moment that Meena was gripped by an urge, as sudden as it was fierce, to

save him…the same urge she felt with everyone she met and knew was going to die soon.

Only in this case, she wanted to rescue Lucien from the sadness she could see in those

dark brown eyes, not from certain death…the same way he’d saved her that night from the bats

that had come shrieking down from the spires of St. George’s Cathedral.

Only she didn’t know how. She knew how to save people only from their futures (and

even that she didn’t do very well).

How did you save someone from his past?

Then, Lucien seemed to shake himself and gave her hand a squeeze and said with a

smile, “I’m sorry, Meena. You said you like stories with happy endings, and I tell you this one,

which is most decidedly not happy. I don’t know why I felt such a strong desire to share it with

you. It’s an important story—to me. To my people. But…it’s not for a woman like you, who is

so filled with life and joy.”

Meena raised her eyebrows. Boy, did he ever have her wrong.

“But the point is,” Lucien said, still smiling, “Vlad Tepes is Romania’s greatest

hero…like your General Washington. We wouldn’t exist as a country if it weren’t for him.”

“Oh,” Meena said. “Well, in that case, good for him.”

But she wasn’t sure she believed him. Not about this Vlad person, whoever he was, but

about the smile he’d given her. She knew it was fake. She could still sense the secret sorrow in

him….

And because she knew what it was like to feel so alone, she felt that it was up to her to

find a balm for his despair.

Her gaze wandered, searching for something that might help.

And a second later, she was guiding him toward an icon that glowed gold in the light

from its display case.

“Look,” she said triumphantly, thinking to herself, Oh, good. This will do the trick . “This

is appropriate, considering the way we met.”

Meena smiled at the cheerful painting, on wood, of a knight on his valiant steed, his

lance piercing the heart of a slithering serpent writhing beneath his mount’s hooves.

“Ah, yes,” Lucien said in the same academic tone that he’d used when discussing Vlad

Tepes. “St. George. There’s the spring, guarded by the fearsome dragon, who for so long has

not allowed the villagers to draw the water they so badly need…not unless they first sacrifice a

maiden. But on this day, there is no maiden left in the village, save the king’s daughter. She’s

bravely gone to the water’s edge, despite her father’s protests, expecting to die. But look who’s

appeared…a knight called George who will slay the dragon and save her and her people.

They’ll be so grateful to him, they will abandon paganism forever.”

Meena stood with her hand in his, gazing down at the icon.

Okay, she thought to herself. So, that didn’t work. He looks as depressed as ever .

And now I feel depressed, too. Thanks, St. George. Who knew you were also the patron

saint of downers?

And then, just like that…

She knew.

It was crazy. It was revealing far too much of herself to him…far more than she’d ever

wanted to.

But it was something, she realized, she had to do.

“Do you want to see my favorite painting in the whole world?” Meena turned to ask him.

He looked surprised…and amused. “I would love to,” he said.

This time Meena was the one to lead him…out of the medieval art exhibit and up the

stairs to the nineteenth-century wing.

She was a little nervous when they approached the painting she’d loved for so long that

it might not be everything that she’d remembered.

Then again, what was she worried about? This was Joan of Arc, beloved by everyone….

As they approached, she saw that she had nothing to worry about. No, the painting, as

ever, was amazing…at least it was to Meena. The picture light above the elaborate gold frame

was turned on and glowed down on the face of the boyish-looking peasant girl as she gazed off

into the distance, while behind her, the archangel Michael beckoned. Meena was so transfixed,

she actually forgot to be concerned over whether or not Lucien would like the painting.

She put Jack Bauer down on the floor and went right up to the painting, standing closer

to it than she’d ever dared during museum visiting hours.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” she breathed, marveling at the painting’s details.

“She is,” Lucien agreed somberly.

With a turn of her head, Meena was unnerved to discover that Lucien was standing much

closer than she’d realized…

…less than two feet away from her. He hadn’t even been looking at the painting when

he’d agreed that it was beautiful.

His dark-eyed gaze had been riveted on her face.

Blushing, Meena realized she might actually have found a rival for the painting’s beauty

in Lucien’s tall frame and perfect features.

He also, Meena had to admit, smelled good. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what,

precisely, it was that he smelled like. Jon had been through a succession of men’s colognes in

his lifetime, most of them cloying and obnoxious.

But Lucien’s was light and clean smelling.

Meena wanted to pour whatever it was all over herself.

“And what is it about St. Joan,” Lucien asked, smiling down at her, “that appeals to you

so much?”

“Oh,” Meena said. She realized with a pang of regret that she’d set herself up for this

one.

Still. He’d asked her to trust him when she stood outside the museum.

She couldn’t tell him the truth, of course. She knew what would happen. The same thing

that had happened with David. Lucien would think she was a flake. Worse than a flake, even.

He’d think she was a freak.

She wouldn’t let that happen. She was going to hide the truth from him as long as

possible.

Forever, if she had to.

But she could tell him a version of the truth, she supposed, without giving too much of

herself away.

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