Meg Cabot - Insatiable

“Not as hard to believe as the only explanation I’ve been able to come up with for why you weren’t hurt,” she said, leaning on the brick wall of the terrace. “Since I know I didn’t dream it.”

Vampires, he knew she was going to say. He wasn’t certain how he was going to proceed when she did say it. It had been so long since a human had found them out…a human who wished them harm. Other than the Palatine, of course.

That this disturbingly pretty, but unfortunately insane, girl should have done so was a little upsetting.

Even more upsetting was what he was going to have to do to her, by his own decree, if it was true that she knew.

“And what’s that?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“I think you’re an angel,” she said, smiling up at him sunnily. “And there was a miracle outside of St. George’s that night.”

8:00 P.M. EST, Thursday, April 15

910 Park Avenue, Apt. 11A

New York, New York

Prince Lucien Antonescu didn’t like being called an angel.

But then, Meena realized belatedly, not many men would. “There was no miracle,” he kept saying insistently. “And I’m no angel. Of that I can assure you.”

“That’s not true,” Meena said. She was teasing him. He struck her as a man who hadn’t been teased often in his life. He seemed extraordinarily serious. “You risked your life to save my own, and then you disappeared without even letting me give you proper thanks. That’s pretty angelic.”

“I think your friend is right,” he said to her as one of the caterers brought them flutes of champagne on a little silver tray, “and you’re confabulating your dreams with reality. They were only a few little bats-”

“You said that the night it happened,” she reminded him with mock indignation. “It wasn’t true then and it’s still not true. It was possibly the most horrifying thing I’ve ever been through in my life, and I still say it was a miracle you got by without a scratch. But if you want to keep minimizing it, go ahead. We can just talk about banalities like everybody else. How long are you going to be in the city, and have you been to see any good shows yet?”

He stared at her, his expression surprised. Then he burst into laughter. “I haven’t, actually,” he admitted. “I’d only just arrived the night we met, so I haven’t been here long. What do you recommend?”

Meena sipped her champagne. She felt as if her mind was going a thousand miles a minute. What were the chances of Lucien-her Lucien, the one she’d met outside St. George’s Cathedral-and the countess’s prince being one and the same person? This was going to be so perfect! She needed to find out everything she could about him so she could write up the perfect character description with which to hit Sy.

Not, of course, that her prince was going to be an exact replica of Prince Lucien. For one thing he was too young for Victoria Worthington Stone. They’d need to find someone a little older to play a suitable romantic match.

Not that Cheryl wouldn’t have gone for Lucien in real life, of course. She would have, in a New York second. Any woman would. Look at him! He was perfect…that profile, those impressive shoulders.

But whoever played him would definitely need to be more gray around the temples and have…glasses. Yes! That was it! A vampire slayer, or whatever it was they were called, should definitely be wearing glasses.

“I beg your pardon?” the prince said, looking down at her rather intently with those gorgeous dark brown eyes of his. “Did you say something?”

“No,” Meena said. The directness of his stare unnerved her. It was almost as if he could read her thoughts. Or see through her dress.

Still, he was the sexiest man she’d met in a long time…whom she hadn’t had to urge to give up his motorcycle.

“I mean, I was just wondering what you do,” she said. “I know that’s a rude, New Yorky thing to ask. We’re all obsessed with what other people do for a living. But I’m really curious. I mean, what does a prince do all day? Do you make a habit out of rescuing damsels in distress, or was I just in the right place at the right time? Do you have a castle? Do you joust?”

He continued to look bemused. He seemed to find her very bewildering. Meena wondered what women usually talked to him about. It seemed natural to her to ask a prince about jousting.

“I do have a castle, actually,” he said. “A family estate, really. Emil and Mary Lou come to visit in the summers. I’m certain she’s told you about it-”

Meena held up a hand. She realized belatedly she’d heard way too much about the castle already.

“Never mind. I already know. In Romania.”

“Outside Sighi oara,” he said with a smile. “And in answer to your other question, no, I’ve never jousted. I teach.”

“You teach?” If he’d told her he Twittered, she could not have been more surprised. “You teach what? Bat-attack evasion?”

“Eastern European history,” he said, still looking amused. “At the University of Bucharest. Evening classes, mostly.”

Meena raised an eyebrow. “Really?” She got the feeling, not just from the fact that he owned a castle but from the look of the expensive watch he was wearing and the way he carried himself in general, that Prince Lucien didn’t exactly need the teaching job to support himself.

His next statement confirmed her suspicions.

“It’s important to me,” he said, “that my country’s rich heritage not be forgotten by the next generation. You know how caught up the youth of today is in video games and text messaging. I try to make history compelling for my students, to awaken in them the kind of love I’ve always had for it. Whether I succeed…” He shrugged modestly.

Meena wanted to applaud. If he turned out to have a pair of bifocals in his jacket pocket, she thought she might actually jump up and kiss him on the mouth. “And you’re here on spring break?” she asked.

“No, I’m not, actually,” Prince Lucien said, removing a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses from the inside pocket of his cashmere blazer and putting them on. “I’m here for a lecture series a colleague is giving at the Metropolitan on Vlad Tepes.”

At the sight of the reading glasses, Meena swayed on her spindly high heels and almost fell down.

“Are you all right?” he asked with genuine concern in his deep voice. “Here, let me help you.”

She felt his strong arm, so familiar from that night in front of the cathedral, go around her bare shoulders. A second later, he was steering her gently and expertly toward one of the countess’s white, cast-iron garden chairs.

She sank gratefully onto the green-and-white-striped cushion, capable of thinking only, The glasses! The glasses!

He took the glasses off and tucked them hastily back into his pocket, bending over her with concern. “Shall I get you some water?”

“No,” Meena said, draining the contents of her champagne glass and setting it down on the wrought iron table beside her. She hurried to say something to change the subject. “W-what’s Vlad Tepes?”

“He was the most powerful prince of Wallachia, what is present-day Romania, in the fourteen hundreds,” he explained. “He’s considered a great hero in Eastern Europe. Are you sure you’re all right? You really don’t look well.”

She laid a hand over his where it rested on the arm of the chair beside her. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that made her want to touch him. She didn’t think it was only the fact that he’d saved her life, either.

“I’m fine,” she said, thinking that his fingers felt a little cold. But then, it wasn’t exactly summer outside. She wished she’d brought a cardigan. But they’d already been so late for the party, she hadn’t had time to look through her closet for one nice enough to go with her dress. “I’ve just been having a really bad week at work.”