Insatiable

him…because she was hiding a monster of her own?

And if this was so, why did he also get the feeling that there was a sweetness about her

in which he could somehow find his own redemption?

It wasn’t possible. Man could find redemption only through God.

But God had forsaken his kind centuries ago.

And yet Lucien couldn’t deny what he’d been feeling all night as he’d gazed into her

dark eyes…the growing conviction that Meena Harper might be his salvation.

Or was he asking too much of one person…and a human being, at that?

He didn’t know.

But he was desperate to find out.

It had taken all of his self-control at the museum to keep his hands off her. He realized

now that he’d been trying, in his own clumsy way, to give her fair warning, showing her the

portrait, trying to make sure she knew what she was getting herself into. Stupid.

But true.

And for a split second, he’d been certain she’d known…something. Not everything, of

course, or even as sympathetic as she was, she would have fled in terror.

And there’d been other times, as well, like by the painting of St. Joan….

Lucien had lived long enough to know there were no such things as angels or saints—

despite what Meena evidently wanted to believe regarding Joan of Arc. Or if there were, he’d

never encountered any. Obviously, or he and his kind would have been wiped out long ago.

But how else could he explain Meena Harper…and the aching need he felt to make her

his own?

On the other hand, he was a vampire—something her own dog had been at great pains

throughout most of the night to warn her about, though she seemed perfectly unaware of the

fact. Even now, as she was walking slowly around the penthouse, taking in the view, she had

no idea of the danger she was in.

Lucien felt he had to say something. It was only fair to give her a fighting chance.

It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

“You mentioned the vampire war earlier,” he said. He’d switched on the sound system

when they’d come in; a string quartet played softly overhead. Now he went to the glass and

chrome wine refrigerator and selected a bottle. Something light, he thought, like her. She

wouldn’t like anything too heavy, too dark.

“Oh,” she said with a laugh. “That. Yeah. Work.” She gave a shudder. “Let’s not talk

about work. Kind of a mood killer, you know?”

He found a pinot noir Emil had stocked. Perfect. “I’m sorry,” he said with a smile. “Is it

that bad?”

“It’s pretty bad,” Meena said, coming over to where he was standing by the bar and

slipping onto one of the chrome and black-leather stools beside him. “I lost a promotion I

really wanted, and channel four is killing us in the ratings, all because they have this horrible

monster misogynist story line that people seem to love.”

Lucien paused midpour. “Monster misogynist?” he asked, one eyebrow raised

quizzically.

Meena held up both hands like they were claws. “You know. Vampires.” She bared her

teeth and hissed like a vampire in a movie.

Lucien nearly dropped the glass of wine he was holding out to her, just as her dog,

standing a few feet away from them, barked with impressive ferociousness for such a small

animal.

“Jack Bauer!” Meena dropped her hands and turned on her stool. “You have to relax!”

To Lucien she asked, “Do you have any hamburger or something in the fridge?”

Lucien froze. If she opened the refrigerator, she would find his latest black market

delivery from the New York Blood Center. “I don’t think I—”

“Oh, never mind,” she said, interrupting. Fortunately, she’d begun looking through the

purse she’d hung on the back of the stool. “I might have something in my bag. Oh, here. Some

dog treats. I’ll just lure him into the bathroom and lock him in there, and then maybe we’ll

have some peace.”

Meena slipped off the stool and held out her cupped hand to the dog, who continued to

bark…until he caught the scent of the treats.

Then his foxlike ears tipped forward and he trotted toward her until he reached the room

that Lucien had indicated was the bathroom. After rinsing a soap dish she found there, filling it

with water, and leaving it on the floor for him to drink from, Meena piled the treats alongside

it, and as soon as Jack Bauer was too busy wolfing them down to notice what she was doing,

she shut the door behind her.

Lucien tried not to show his relief over the narrow escape he’d had. Normally he didn’t

do things as stupid as put his blood supply in the kitchen refrigerator, where any woman he

brought home might discover it while casually looking for a snack for her little dog.

But he certainly hadn’t expected to be sleeping with anyone while in New York. He was

there on business. It was only because Meena Harper was so completely unlike any other

woman he’d ever met that he’d violated his own personal—and long-held—code of conduct.

And nearly ruined everything in doing so.

“There,” she said, resuming her position on the barstool. “Sorry about that. I don’t know

what’s come over him. He’s usually really good with people. Except your cousin for some

reason. And Mary Lou. Maybe it’s anyone who owns a summer castle. Jack Bauer obviously

has Marxist leanings.” She laughed and raised her glass. “So.”

“To Jack Bauer, budding Marxist,” Lucien said, clinking the side of her glass with his

own.

She laughed again, her large dark eyes bright over the wide rim of her wineglass. He

hadn’t been flattering her when he’d made the observation that she looked a little like the girl

in the painting with which she obviously felt such a connection in the museum. The actual

truth was, she was much prettier.

Much prettier, and much more vulnerable looking. “So I take it you don’t like

vampires?” he asked carefully.

Meena laughed. “Considering they’re basically ruining my life right now? Not much.”

“And monster misogynists are…?”

“You know,” Meena said, “how in horror movies and books and TV shows, the monster

or the serial killer with the chain saw always goes after the helpless pretty girl. It’s so sexist.”

She went on. “And vampires are the worst of all. That’s because, as Van Helsing points out in

Dracula, vampires know the girl’s family is going to be all squeamish about cutting off her

head—even if they know she’s a vampire now. I guess because it’s supposed to be easier to cut

off your son’s head than it is your daughter’s.”

She gave a shudder, then added, “And what’s with vampires always wanting to make the

pretty girl their undead girlfriend? Or worse, not wanting to make her his undead girlfriend.

And then she talks him into it, to the thrill of the audience. Because being dead and with

someone is apparently a happier ending than being alive and alone. Only how is being dead a

happy ending?” Her eyes flashed. “Believe me. Being dead is never a happy ending.”

He studied her. There’d been a great deal of passion behind that last statement. He

wondered where it came from and if that odd obstruction in her mind had something to do with

it.

“But,” he said carefully, “you don’t believe in vampires.”

She choked on her wine. “W-what?” she stammered. “Did you just ask me if I believe in

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