Meg Cabot - Insatiable

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said, slipping off his jacket and placing it gently over her shoulders…like this was the most natural gesture in the world.

Meena felt as if she’d been punched in the chest by a fellow shopper at a Marc Jacobs sample sale.

Calm down, she told herself. He’s a prince. This is what princes do. They’re trained from birth to act this way.

I mean, look at him. He’s so cool, his jacket isn’t even warm!

“Is that better?” he asked with what sounded like real concern.

Oh, Meena thought. Shoshona. If you could only see me now. How you would cry into your dressing-free salad.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “It’s a lot better, Lucien. Oh…may I call you Lucien? Or would you prefer Professor Antonescu? Or Dr. Antonescu? Or Your Royal Highness?”

“Lucien is fine,” he said, smiling some more. He looked almost unbearably handsome when he smiled, with all that dark hair and those sad eyes. Meena couldn’t help thinking to herself that Lucien Antonescu was a man who needed a lot of teasing. Maybe a lifetime of it, to make up for whatever had happened to him to put all that hurt into those brown eyes. “And what’s caused you to have such a bad week?”

“Oh,” Meena said. “Well, you’ve heard about the vampire war, haven’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

For a split second, she could almost have sworn those sad brown eyes flashed red, like she thought they had that night outside the cathedral. The look he gave her was one of incredulity mixed almost with…well, anger. His hand slipped out from beneath hers as quickly as if her skin had singed his.

“Dinner is served,” called the caterer in the blond ponytail and white shirt and black trousers, smiling at them from the nearby French doors.

Meena had no idea what she’d done to insult the prince. But he definitely seemed offended. He reached for the champagne glass in which he’d shown not the slightest interest before that moment and downed its entire contents.

What have I done? Meena wondered. What had she said? What had happened to make the prince go from tenderly loaning her his jacket to keep her warm to gulping down alcohol like a junkie reaching for his next fix?

“I-I’m sorry,” Meena stammered. “I just-”

But when he swiveled his head to look at her again, she was relieved to see that his eyes had gone back to their normal shade of brown.

Of course. She must have imagined the red thing. She did have a pretty overactive imagination. It’s what had gotten her her job.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding more like his cordial self. She couldn’t help but feel like he was controlling himself with an effort, however. The hand holding the champagne flute was white knuckled. In a second, she thought he might break the glass in half with his grip alone. “But I don’t think I could have heard you correctly. Did you say vampire war?”

“Ye-e-es,” Meena said slowly. She noticed the countess coming toward them from inside the apartment and felt a little relieved. Maybe Mary Lou could help her explain. “I write for Insatiable. It’s on ABN. We’re getting slaughtered in the ratings by Lust. They have this story line with a vampire… I know, it’s ridiculous, really. But this week my bosses announced they want us to do a vampire story line…”

“Oh,” he said. “That vampire war.”

“Of course,” she said, laughing a little incredulously. This guy was really intense! She hadn’t been wrong about his needing to be teased a little. He needed to be teased a lot. “What other kind is there? Did you think I meant a real vampire war?”

She saw him throw a look in the countess’s direction…a look Meena couldn’t read at all. She wasn’t sure what was going on between the two of them, but Mary Lou, reaching out to pry the champagne flute out of the prince’s fingers, apparently before he could break it, said, “Now, what all are you two still doing out here? Dinner’s on the table and everyone’s waiting. What could you be talking about that you didn’t even hear the announcement?”

“Oh, not much,” Prince Lucien said, still looking as if he was holding his jaw very tightly. “Just the vampire war.”

The countess glanced at him quickly, then tossed back her golden head and laughed.

“Oh, my stars,” she said. Her southern accent always seemed to get more pronounced when she’d been drinking. “Meena must have been telling you about the vampire war between the television show she works for, Insatiable, and their archrival, Lust. No offense, Meena, you know I’m an Insatiable fan to the end. But I just can’t get enough of that sexy Gregory Bane.”

“Well,” Meena said, scowling as she always did when she heard Gregory Bane’s name, “I understand our vampire is going to be just as sexy.”

Lucien, meanwhile, looked visibly relieved. “Television,” he said. “Of course.”

Meena still didn’t understand anything that was happening. Like why the tightness had finally gone out of the prince’s face…or why the smile he gave Meena when he turned around was so dazzling, it made her knees feel weak again, so that she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to walk all the way to the Antonescus’ dining room on her high heels. At least, not without wobbling.

But that was all right, because Mary Lou said with a laugh, “Of course that’s what she meant, silly. What other vampire war is there? Well, far be it from me to interrupt your conversation. I’ve saved you two places at the end of the dining table. Prince Lucien, be a dear and escort Meena in.”

Prince Lucien was a dear. He rose, gallantly presenting Meena his arm. She looked at it with a little astonishment at first.

And no wonder: no man had ever offered Meena his arm before. David hadn’t exactly been the most gentlemanly of suitors, being more interested in his dental textbooks and Toastmasters meetings than manners.

Meena wasn’t certain if she was supposed to slip her hand through the crook of the prince’s arm or lay her fingers over it, the way she’d seen Jane Austen heroines do in BBC productions.

She actually felt just the slightest bit light-headed…but whether it was from the prince’s proximity or the champagne, Meena wasn’t sure. She wondered what was wrong with her. It wasn’t as if she had never been around a handsome man before. She worked with some of the hottest actors in television, for heaven’s sake.

Maybe it was just that none of them had ever shown any particular interest in her.

Or maybe…just maybe…it was because for the first time since David had left, she’d actually met a man to whom she felt attracted who wasn’t already married, wasn’t gay, and didn’t have certain death looming over him.

She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm-in case she had to lean on him for support if the light-headedness got worse-and smiled up at him.

“So,” she said. “Where were we?”

9:00 P.M. EST, Thursday, April 15

Outside of 912 Park Avenue

New York, New York

What are you doing here?” the blue-haired old woman asked as her Pekingese lifted a leg not far from where Alaric Wulf was standing. “And don’t try to lie to me, young man. I’ve been watching you from my window. You’ve been standing out here for an hour.”

“Just waiting for my wife, ma’am,” he said. “She has an appointment with Dr. Rabinowitz.” He nodded toward the brass plate on the building he was leaning against that said Dr. Rubin Rabinowitz, Obstetrics.

The Blue Hair followed his gaze, then turned back toward him. She wasn’t, he saw from her expression, having any of it.

“This late?” the old woman demanded. “And why aren’t you in the waiting room?”