Insatiable

time to register what was happening—was on top of her…his full body weight stretched over

her, heavy as a steel beam and just as strong.

“I told you, Meena, I’m not here to kill you,” he said. His face was just inches from hers

now.

So was the sword blade. He held it propped casually against Meena’s throat as he peered

at her, like she was some kind of interesting species of butterfly he’d managed to capture and

pin to his collection.

This was not really how Meena had anticipated her amazing kick-to-the-groin move

going.

“Oh, really?” she grunted, trying to sound like she didn’t care. This wasn’t easy,

considering the fact that her heart was hammering so hard, she wondered if he could see her

pulse in her throat.

Also, he wasn’t light. She was finding it difficult to draw a breath with him on top of her

like this.

Still, she tried to sound casual. Like she didn’t care that he was stretched across her body

like a lead blanket. Like she wasn’t conscious of the fact that she was a slight young woman

wearing nothing but a black bra and silk slip and he was a man roughly her own age weighing

at least eighty pounds more than her and holding a knife—sorry, a sword —to her throat.

She was beginning to reconsider the whole not-afraid-to-die thing.

“No,” he said in the same disturbingly deep and much too calm voice, with that slight

accent. “I already told you.” Was it Meena’s imagination, or did he sound a little insulted?

“I’m not interested in you.”

Meena had to laugh at that. Even though she was about to die. Or worse. Maybe she was

hysterical.

Still, she had to admit, it was kind of funny, a guy tackling you while you were half

naked, holding a sword to your throat, then intimating that he wasn’t interested in you.

Especially when he was on top of you.

“You could have fooled me,” she said. “You seem really interested in me at the

moment.”

He raised a blond eyebrow. “That?” He shifted a little. “That’s just my scabbard.” Then,

apparently fearing that he might appear ungentle-manly, he added, “Not that you’re

unattractive. But you’re not really my type.”

Meena glared at him. Really, this was just too much. To kill—well, come here with the

intention of killing her, then insult her, too?

“Well, you’re not my type either,” she said angrily.

“Oh, I know that.” He grinned down at her. His teeth were white but not quite even. One

or two of them were just crooked enough to prove they were all real, not veneers. “I’m alive.”

Meena stared up at him. Since he was obviously a foreigner, she thought maybe he’d

misunderstood her.

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “I meant that I don’t happen to like men who

come barging uninvited into women’s apartments, waving swords.”

Now he was running his fingertips—from the hand that wasn’t clutching the sword—

along the length of her arm. He was doing it seemingly absently, as if he couldn’t resist the feel

of her skin.

But he evidently had understood her.

“I know,” he said. “I meant I know your type. Lucien Antonescu is your type. That’s

why I’m here. All I want is for you to tell me where he is. Then I’ll go.”

Meena would have frozen if she hadn’t already been rendered immobile by his body

weight. Lucien? This was about Lucien?

She supposed it made a crazy sort of sense. Men with swords had certainly never come

bursting into her apartment before Lucien had come into her life.

And Roger had said the flowers were from Lucien.

“You know Lucien?” she demanded.

She should have known. It had all been going so well. Too well. The amazing night

they’d passed together. The note, saying he was hers. The bag.

She should have known it was too good to be true.

It ought to have been as obvious to her as the sword in front of her face. Leisha had even

suggested it:

Lucien was married.

Of course he was. No single man his age was as perfect as he was. They were all gay,

completely baggage ridden, or taken.

Obviously, Lucien’s crazy wife had hired this man to scare the living daylights out of

her.

Well, it had worked.

“Actually,” the man said—he was still absently stroking her skin, like he didn’t even

realize he was doing it—“we’ve never met personally, the prince and I.” She realized he was

still answering her question about whether or not he knew Lucien. “But I’m certainly

acquainted with his work.”

“His work?” Meena was more confused than ever. She tried to picture this man attending

a course in Eastern European history and failed. He obviously wasn’t a scholar. A homicidal

maniac, maybe. But hardly an academic. “You mean his books?”

The man laughed shortly. “No. I was referring to his extracurricular activities.”

Meena had no idea what he was talking about.

But she didn’t miss the insinuation in his tone. He meant that he knew that she and

Lucien…

Well. What they’d done together, last night.

God. Had he taken pictures? Wasn’t that what private detectives hired by wives did?

She wanted to die.

Clearly, the Lucien she knew and the Lucien this man knew were two different people.

She’d known Lucien had secrets—which was all right. She was keeping secrets from him, too.

But she was furious that Lucien’s secret was that he was married. He just hadn’t seemed

the type. She’d even asked him straight out if he had a wife, and he’d said no. If she ever saw

him again—and she certainly would, because as soon as she got rid of this blond-haired

mammoth on top of her, she was packing up the Marc Jacobs bag and heading straight over to

Lucien’s apartment to return it, preferably with some of Jack Bauer’s excrement smeared all

over it—she was going to tell him exactly what she thought about men who cheated on their

wives with innocent dialogue writers.

“Look,” she said in what she hoped sounded like a strong, firm voice. Irritated by the

man’s laughter, Meena twitched her shoulder away from his hand.

For the first time, he seemed to realize he’d been touching her skin. He looked almost

surprised and instantly drew his hand away.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” she said. “But you can’t come bursting in here

with…with… medieval armaments and boss me around. You can tell Lucien’s wife from me

that it’s over. I don’t want anything more to do with him. Okay? So her little attempt to scare

me away from him, or whatever this was, has had its desired effect. She can have Lucien back.

I don’t even want him anymore.”

He was frowning now. He seemed displeased.

But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking down at his hand.

“Did you hear me?” Meena demanded. She was conscious that the sword blade was still

very close to her throat. Very close, and very sharp.

On the other hand, he seemed a little distracted, looking down at his hand, then back at

her skin. Now, she thought, might be a perfect moment to knee him in the nads . Then, while he

was curled up in excruciating pain, she’d grab that Pottery Barn lamp over there and smash it

over his head….

“Did he even bite you?” the man demanded, swinging his blue-eyed gaze back at her.

Meena, who’d been formulating the third part of her plan—the part where she went for

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