Insatiable

“I guess,” she said, choosing her words with care, “it’s that she managed to make such a

difference in so many people’s lives, despite being poor and a girl…huge handicaps for the age

in which she lived. She made predictions, you know…remarkably accurate predictions that at

first no one believed. But eventually she convinced enough people that she was telling the truth

that she was given an audience with the king. Who believed her.” Meena squinted some more

at the painting, trying to imagine what it must have been like for Joan, so determined, yet with

so many strikes against her. “Of course people said she was insane. Today some people say

that the ‘voices from God’ she heard were adolescent-onset schizophrenia. And as a teenager, I

guess she’d have been the right age for it….”

“But you don’t want to believe that,” Lucien said when her voice trailed off.

Feeling herself blushing again, Meena looked down at her feet.

She didn’t kid herself that part of the reason she loved the painting they were standing in

front of was that she, like Joan, had her own inner voices to contend with. Not that she

believed that her inner voices—the feelings she had that told her how people were going to

die—came from God.

But she knew she wasn’t schizophrenic, either.

“A lot of people didn’t believe Joan, either. At least at first,” Meena said finally, raising

her gaze to meet his. “But eventually, she persuaded enough people of her sanity that she was

brought before the king…and he believed her. How could a crazy woman trick a king whose

own father had psychosis? He would have recognized the signs. No,” Meena said, looking

back up at the painting and shaking her head. “She wasn’t schizophrenic. She knew things. She

was the greatest military strategist the French army ever had…a teenage girl who listened to

the voices inside her head and guided her men to victory again and again….”

When Meena looked back up at Lucien, she was embarrassed by the tears that had

sprung spontaneously into her eyes.

“Until,” she went on, a catch in her voice, “she was captured by the enemy, abandoned

by her king, and burned to death at the stake for being a witch.”

Lucien’s smile had been amused…until her tears came.

Then his mouth gave a twist, and he reached for her.

Suddenly Meena found herself pulled against him, his arms wrapped around her, her face

pressed against his chest….

“You look like her,” he said into her short dark hair.

Meena, ashamed of her tears and mortified at finding herself in his arms because she was

crying—and over a long-dead saint—felt herself turning redder than ever.

“No, I don’t,” she said hastily against his shirtfront. “I have nothing in common with her

at all. Really, I don’t. I—”

“Yes,” he said, holding her away from him by her arms so that he could look down into

her eyes. “You do. I noticed it the minute we walked up. Your hair is shorter and darker. But

you have the same intensity about you. Tell me something: do you hear voices, too, Meena

Harper?”

She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to burst out sobbing. She wanted to burst out

laughing. She wanted to cry, Yes. Yes, I do.

Only not about you.

Which could mean only one thing. Either her “talent” was finally going away, or…

He wasn’t going to die. Unlike every other man she’d ever met before to whom she’d

been attracted, Lucien Antonescu wasn’t going to die.

Not for a good, long time, anyway.

And then, before she could think of anything at all to say in response to his question,

he’d slipped one hand beneath her chin and was tilting her face up toward his, forcing her to

look him in the eyes.

“Meena,” he said. His voice was a gruff whisper in the darkened gallery. “What are you

hiding from me?”

Her voice was as throaty as his. “Nothing,” she lied. “I swear.”

And then the incredible happened. His mouth came down over hers.

Meena was so shocked that at first she froze, uncertain what to do. It had been so long

since a man had kissed her, she couldn’t believe it was happening at all.

And yet, there was the incontrovertible proof that she was in his arms…they were

holding her very firmly to him. She could feel his lips against hers, strangely cool, like his

fingers had been around hers, but so sweet, so patient, as if he’d be more than willing to wait

all night for her to catch up with what was happening….

And suddenly, Meena did catch up. Her heart gave an explosive double thump, and she

realized, Why, he’s kissing me .

And she rose up on tiptoe and slipped her arms around his neck, kissing him back,

sinking into him, exulting in the fact that his arms were tightening around her, inhaling the

crisp clean scent of him. She closed her eyes against the beauty of the painting behind him as

he lifted her off her feet and pressed her closer and closer to his heart, which she couldn’t feel

due to the frenetic beating of her own.

And then it was as if the ceiling overhead suddenly evaporated and the cold white glow

from the stars and the moon above combined into one brilliant shaft and went shooting down

toward Meena.

She’d had no idea that being kissed could feel this way.

But Lucien’s kisses made her feel… cherished. His hands cradled her as gingerly as if

she were one of the precious objects around them…a vase from the Met’s Chinese art

collection he was afraid might crack if he exerted too much pressure on it. His lips explored

hers, gently at first, then, when he seemed to realize that she wasn’t going to shatter beneath

his touch, with growing urgency.

She couldn’t help letting her mouth fall open beneath his….

And suddenly, it seemed as if something inside him burst. Something that appeared to

have been pent-up for far too long, and which let loose at the touch of her tongue to his. All his

polite civility was gone.

And Meena didn’t mind at all. His need for her matched hers for him. It was as if he’d

asked a question.

And she’d said yes.

The only problem was, the more passionately he kissed her, the louder Jack Bauer’s

growls grew. Finally, Meena had no choice but to draw her head away, and, glancing over at

her dog, she said with some irritation, “Jack. Shut up!”

Jack Bauer let out a startled yip, stared at Meena with his ears tilted forward…then

sneezed.

Meena couldn’t help but burst out laughing. She glanced at Lucien to see if he was

smiling as well….

Only he wasn’t. He was staring down at her with an intensity she could only have

described as… fiery .

Judging from his expression, she saw that he didn’t appear to find the situation the least

bit amusing. Still holding Meena so that her feet dangled a few inches above the ground, he

was looking deeply into her eyes.

“Spend the night with me,” he said in a passion-roughened voice.

Meena wasn’t shocked.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known he was going to ask. She’d felt the way their bodies had

fit together. It was as if they’d been made for each other. She’d sensed the hunger in his kiss

after the initial gentleness…it had matched her own. He wanted her every bit as much as she

wanted him.

Still, the last thing she needed—the very last thing—was to fall in love.

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