Insatiable

of the penthouse the way the scent of her humanness did….

Meena Harper. Meena Harper. Meena Harper .

Emil went on. “I realize in doing so, I was very wrong. Of course you were distracted

from your duties. I would understand it if you chose to kill me, my lord, for my gross

negligence.”

Lucien looked down at the smaller man, who was bowing his head, humbly waiting for

his body to be lifted and hurled through one of the UV-blocked windows and into the daylight,

where he would instantly fry in the sun like a potato crisp.

But Lucien could no more blame his cousin for what had happened the night before than

he could explain it. He didn’t yet know why he was so convinced that the dark-eyed girl in

pajamas he’d rescued that night outside St. George’s Cathedral would turn out to be the source

of his spiritual and emotional redemption.

He certainly hadn’t treated her the way one would treat a redeemer. He had spent the

night doing things to her that, in the light of day, he wasn’t sure she remembered…but it had to

be admitted that at the time, she’d seemed to fully enjoy them.

God knew he had.

Now Meena Harper’s essence seemed to have entered his long-empty veins. They

thrummed with her life force and energy, giving them a kind of electric vitality.

But that wasn’t all. He seemed to…know things.

He couldn’t explain it. It didn’t make any sense. It was almost a sort of…madness. Her

madness, the exact same flickering images that he’d seen coming and going inside her head

every time he’d entered it. How had he known, for instance, that the girl in the photo had

difficulty keeping herself from smiling when there was a camera around?

The girl in the photo was dead. And he had never met her.

What did it mean?

He didn’t yet know.

But he knew it meant something different.

And different, after five centuries, was good.

Very, very good.

“It’s all right, Emil,” he said. He felt kindly toward his cousin. Which was ridiculous.

Merely a week ago, he’d have been raging over this colossal cock-up. Was it Meena Harper

who was making him feel so mellow?

Or something else?

Emil raised his head, confused.

“Then…” He looked around the room, as if expecting to see another of Lucien’s minions

appear, stake in hand. “You don’t want to kill me, my lord? Or my wife?”

“I think there’s been enough death lately,” Lucien said mildly. “Why don’t we

concentrate instead on finding this killer and stopping him—or them. Are you telling me that

no one,” Lucien asked, getting up from the table and going to stand by the plate-glass

windows, “was able to give the police any kind of description of any sort of suspect? No one at

all was seen dumping the body or anywhere around it?”

Emil, looking immensely relieved to have been given a reprieve, grabbed his files, then

leafed quickly through them.

“Oh, plenty,” he said. “So many possible suspects the police are still interviewing them

all. Everyone thinks they saw something. Which means, of course, that no one saw anything.

Because whoever did this had sense enough to wipe the memory of anyone who might have

seen anything useful.”

Lucien frowned, staring out over the city. He could see the red warning lights of the

airport towers across the East River in the distance.

The lights reminded him of the glow he’d seen the other night in his brother’s eyes.

Dimitri had always been power hungry, forever looking for new ways to expand his business,

his dominance, his control. It had nearly killed him when their father had left all his immense

fortune to his eldest son…even though Lucien had been more than willing to share it.

Did Dimitri’s hunger for wealth and power extend to other things, as well? Lucien

wasn’t certain he knew for sure.

Which was a sad thing for a man to have to admit about his own brother.

Lucien turned away from the window with a start. Emil had been speaking to him all this

time, and he hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention.

“Of course,” he said. Whatever it was, Lucien was certain Emil would handle it

admirably, as he did all of his endeavors on the prince’s behalf. “Emil.”

“Sire?”

“I’m going to have to cancel my previous plans for this evening.”

Emil looked uncertain. “My lord?”

Lucien ignored the pulsing in his veins—a new sensation…or at least one he hadn’t felt

in half a millennium—and said, “I’d made plans to go to the symphony tonight with Ms.

Harper. But in light of…this”—he indicated the file on the table—“I obviously have more

pressing affairs to see to.”

“Oh,” Emil said, his eyes reflecting true disappointment. “I see. Of course. I’ll take care

of it. But are you certain? Surely there’s time for pleasure as well as—”

“Later.” The skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan stretched out beneath him. Somewhere

down there, he knew, lurked a killer. More than one. He needed to find and stop them.

But would it be before they killed again?

“Four women have already died,” Lucien said. “I can’t afford to be so negligent again.”

But even as he said it, he knew it would be a matter of only hours before he began

craving her again. He talked of the killers being addicts.

Yet who, precisely, was the true addict?

Chapter Thirty-three

2:00 P.M . EST, Friday, April 16

ABN Building

520 Madison Avenue

New York, New York

I know who you are,” Tabitha Worthington Stone said in a breathless voice. “Or I guess

I should say what you are.”

“Do you?” The tall, dark-haired young man looked down at her with a gaze that

smoldered, a faint smile playing on his perfectly formed lips. “What am I?”

“You’re a…a…” Taylor glanced away, biting her luscious lower lip and throwing an arm

dramatically over her forehead. “No! I can’t say it. It’s just not possible!”

“Say it.” Maximillian Cabrera grabbed her by both shoulders. “Just say it!”

“Oh, hey.” Paul, one of the breakdown writers, nodded at Jon. “Here to see Meena?”

Jon tore his gaze from the incredibly passionate scene being acted out on the empty

soundstage in front of him. Taylor Mackenzie still somehow managed to look sexy in leggings

and a large gray cardigan, which she wore open over a belly-revealing black T-shirt.

Too bad Jon didn’t have anything as good to say about her costar-to-be, Stefan Dominic.

He thought Dominic looked terrible, all black skinny jeans, greasy hair, and a two-day growth

of razor stubble.

No way they were going to give him the part, Jon thought. They’d be way smarter to

give it to someone cleaner-cut looking. Like Jon, for instance. Dominic was just so… obvious .

For someone supposed to be playing a vampire, that is.

“Yeah,” Jon said to Paul. “I mean, Meena knows I’m here, anyway. I had to phone up in

order for security to let me sign in.” He pointed to his visitor pass, clipped to the collar of his

jean jacket. “But I haven’t seen her anywhere.”

“She’s in her office,” Paul said. “Under the pile of breakdowns I just handed her. You

better look out. She’s in a foul mood.”

Jon frowned. “Really? Why?”

Читать дальше