Insatiable (14 page)

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

W
hat 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?”

“Claustrophobia,” Alaric said. He glared at the Pekingese. Its little face was scrunched up in a look of disgust that seemed to echo its mistress’s. “And Dr. Rabinowitz is very accommodating of my wife’s busy schedule as a jet-setting supermodel.”

“Hmph,” said the old woman, and she hurried on her way.

Alaric, standing next door to 910 Park Avenue—but out of sight, leaning against the side of the building where he wouldn’t be noticed by anyone but elderly women passing by as they walked their impossibly small dogs and cast disapproving looks at him—felt that he approved.

Not of Blue Hair, although he’d liked her. He liked women with spirit. They reminded him of Betty and Veronica.

What he approved of was 910 Park Avenue itself, and its tenants.

The living ones, anyway.

It was an elegant brick structure, built on a corner and obviously well maintained. The potted plants on either side of the electronic doors looked healthy and lush. There was a spotless red carpet beneath the green awning above the doors, and the doorman standing under it was young and eager to do his job well. Alaric saw him corner and cuff a Chinese food deliveryman before he’d managed to slink by him, determined to slip menus under unsuspecting tenants’ doors.

The doorman also stopped to carefully check the name of each guest arriving to attend the Antonescus’ party off a list they’d given him before allowing them up.

That was how Alaric had discovered that there was no way he could simply crash the party uninvited…unless of course he used force.

And he wasn’t willing to play that card. Yet.

And because the building was twenty stories high, and the Antonescus lived on the eleventh floor with no fire escape, his “feet first through the window from the roof” trick wouldn’t work, either.

Until he figured out a way to sneak inside through the parking garage in the basement—or possibly using the service entrance—he was going to get to know the parked cars outside of 910 Park Avenue pretty well, he suspected.

But that was all right. He had time. All the time in the world to plan his next move.

Alaric had checked into the Peninsula the night before and was very much enjoying the upgrade from his hotel in Chattanooga. There were several premium cable channels for him to enjoy—on a flat-screen TV, no less, while soaking in a big, deep tub with no rubber slide strips in the bathroom—and Frette sheets, not to mention an indoor pool in a glass atrium on the top floor so he could keep up his workouts; a vast and varied room service menu to explore; and several lounges where attractive women of all nationalities could be found after a day of shopping sipping tea and texting their friends. No, Alaric was in no rush to leave Manhattan.

Except for one small, unpleasant fact.

The reason he was there in the first place.

But then, if the e-mail Martin had forwarded him was genuine, the prince was in town for the very same reason: to make sure no more young girls had their life’s blood sucked out of them.

The file containing all their photos had been waiting for Alaric when he’d checked in.

What that file contained had horrified him.

And it took a lot to horrify Alaric, who was convinced he’d seen everything in his twenty years with the Palatine.

There were no names attached to the victims’ photos. The coroner’s office suspected—due to the girls’ dental work—that they were of Eastern European or even Russian birth and in the country illegally…which would explain why not a single person had come forward to identify them.

Alaric had given them American names to go with the American dreams with which he felt sure each of them had traveled to this country:

First was long-haired Aimee, found early one morning just ten days ago in the Ramble at Central Park.

Then red-haired Jennifer, found a few days later by a park employee in Bryant Park.

The final victim he called Hayley. Her photo was perhaps most disturbing of all to Alaric, because she bore more than a passing resemblance to Martin’s daughter, Simone. Both were dark skinned, with black hair that spiraled around their faces in similar tight corkscrew curls.

She had been found just last weekend in Central Park, like Aimee…. Alaric, studying the photos in his hotel room, had seen what the general public—and few members of law enforcement, beyond the coroner’s office—had not. There was no question of cause of death and no question, once the photos had been e-mailed to the Vatican, who—or rather
what
—was responsible for those deaths.

The only question was, would the Palatine be able to exterminate him—or them, because Alaric, upon seeing the photos, became convinced there’d been more than just one attacker—before the prince could?

It still seemed mind-boggling to Alaric that a vampire could actually be in New York on a mission similar to his own. Not just any vampire, but the prince of darkness.

But, Alaric supposed, the prince didn’t care about the dead girls. To him, the murders of those three girls only meant possible exposure to the public of his kind. Discovery by the rest of humankind that vampires were not some invention of Bram Stoker’s feverish imagination—something that, if Alaric was honest, he had to admit the Vatican was at just as great pains to prevent as the vamps. They didn’t need another panic like the one that spread through Eastern Europe during the 1700s, when ignorant villagers, goaded by charlatan “vampire exterminators,” were led to believe their own family members were actually undead and, after being coerced into buying expensive “vampire weapons,” dug them up from their resting places and decapitated them.

It made a certain kind of sense, Alaric supposed, that the prince would be there, trying to stop the killer—or killers—same as the Palatine. He had to be as worried as the Vatican that word could get out about the truth of his species’ existence.

Still. It made Alaric feel livid, the fact that he might have the same goal as the prince.

Of course, Alaric had another goal, in addition to finding, and stopping, whoever or whatever was doing this: he intended to destroy the prince, as well. Whether his bosses at the Palatine approved or not.

He’d spent a lot of time working out his frustrations over his assignment in the hotel pool but had followed it with an excellent lunch at Per Se.

So while he wasn’t happy with his current circumstances, he was at least eating well.

And he certainly wouldn’t starve to death while he stood around staring at the entrance to 910 Park Avenue, waiting to see if the prince actually showed up.

He was even beginning to think he might—grudgingly, of course—approve of the people he’d assigned himself to watch. The Antonescus were rich—stinking, filthy rich. Like him, they seemed to find no shame in enjoying the finer things in life. They had the summer place
in Romania—not too shabby, judging by the photos—and appeared to enjoy going to upscale restaurants. Last night they’d dined at the Four Seasons.

Well, “dined” was a relative term. Of course they hadn’t eaten much, being the foul breathless beasts of Satan that they were.

The wife was the head of 910 Park Avenue’s cooperative—some kind of board that chose who would be allowed to live in the building—undoubtedly so that she could keep out the “riffraff” (people like himself, Alaric supposed).

Still, no one to whom Alaric had spoken had anything negative to say about her…and none whatsoever picked up on his hints that she might possibly be a member of the undead. (Not that she’d have needed to sleep in her own coffin or have the earth from her grave near her. These were other old myths Stoker had gotten wrong in his book.) Either she wasn’t a vampire, or she and her husband had assimilated better than any demons he’d ever seen. She even served on several charitable boards, one that helped pay for children with cancer to go to summer camp in the countryside.

Children with cancer.
Nice cover, for a bloodsucker.

The husband owned and managed numerous real estate holdings throughout the city and often escorted the wife to benefits, like ones for the cancer camp.

Vampires
who attended benefits to raise money for summer camps for children…with cancer! Hilarious. Even more hilarious than
Betty and Veronica
.

Now, he’d told Martin, he’d seen everything.

Simone had grabbed the phone while Alaric had still been chuckling with her father over the benefit-attending vampires and said, “Uncle Alaric?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are you going to get the people who ate my daddy’s face?”

“Yes,” he’d said, sobering instantly. “Yes, I am.”

Just like he was going to get whatever had killed Aimee, Jennifer, and Hayley…or whatever the victims’ real names were.

Because that was what it was all about. If these Antonescus really
were related to this Lucien Antonescu, and he really was the prince of darkness, Alaric was going to destroy them. All of them. He didn’t care what his superiors at the Vatican wanted or how much money the Antonescus had donated so that children with cancer could go to camp. They were still parasites—like ticks—that had to be exterminated for what they’d done to Martin. To that girl, Sarah, from the Chattanooga Walmart. To those unidentified dead women, lying in the morgue.

And to countless others like them whom Alaric had seen abused and victimized over his years with the Palatine. They had to be destroyed like the vermin that they were. Because they would only create more creatures like themselves, who would in turn victimize more people like Martin and Sarah and those girls.

Vampires were filth. And they spread their filth—and disease—to everything and everyone they touched.

They all had to be eradicated.

There wasn’t much more to it than that.

In the meantime, Alaric would stand there outside of 910 Park Avenue and wait. He didn’t care how many little old ladies walked by him and asked what he thought he was doing. He’d show them the pictures of Aimee, Jennifer, and Hayley if he had to.

And maybe, while he was at it, a photo of where Martin’s face used to be.

That would shut them up.

12:30
A.M
. EST, Friday, April 16
910 Park Avenue, Apt. 11A
New York, New York

M
ary Lou and her husband did an admirable job of making sure Meena’s wineglass was never lower than half full throughout the evening.

But Meena was careful to drink from it only sparingly. The last thing she wanted was to get plastered in front of people she had to see in the elevator every day….

Not to mention in front of the prince.

It wasn’t until Mary Lou was asking if anyone cared for coffee that she realized it was past midnight. Meena noticed her brother, Jon, looking surreptitiously at his watch. Apparently his dinner companion, Becca, hadn’t been able to take his mind off his celebrity crush, Taylor Mackenzie, which was no surprise. Few could.

“Oh,” Meena said with genuine regret. “I’m so sorry. I have to go. I have work in the morning. And I still have to get home and walk my dog.”

“I’ll do it.” Jon volunteered, hopping up from his place on the couch with a speed that Meena found a little embarrassing.

“I’ll join you, Meena, if you don’t mind some company,” Lucien said, setting down his wineglass. “I’d enjoy stretching my legs a bit after that delicious meal.”

Meena felt her cheeks turning red. She couldn’t believe she was blushing. That was something she hadn’t done in ages.

Until tonight, that is.

“I’d be delighted,” she said. She didn’t point out that Lucien had hardly touched a bit of that “delicious meal.” He’d said he still had a little jet lag.

Jon sank back down into his place. “Oh,” he said, struggling to hide his disappointment. “I guess you guys have it under control, then.”

Becca had taken out her cell phone and was scrolling through her applications, looking everywhere but in Jon’s direction.

“What a great idea,” Mary Lou said enthusiastically. “You two go out for a walk. It’s such a lovely night. Isn’t it a lovely night, Emil?”

“It’s a lovely night,” Emil said.

But Meena couldn’t help noticing he looked a little worried as he sent the maid to collect the prince’s overcoat.

“We’ll just go up the street,” Lucien was saying.

“Let me run and get Jack,” Meena said.

She slipped across the hall, aware that Jon had hastily made his good-byes and followed her, not seeming to care that his escape had been so awkward.

“What are you doing?” he asked when she’d unlocked the door and let them both into her apartment, then closed the door again behind them. “Are you actually into that guy or something?”

“Um, let me see,” Meena said. She plucked her coat off the rack by the door and slipped it on, cinching it tightly around her waist, while Jack Bauer, over the moon at seeing her, danced around her feet excitedly. “What’s not to like, exactly? His old-world manners, his dark good looks, or the fact that he’s way into me and is probably going to be the father of my children someday?”

Jon had slunk over to the couch and collapsed onto it. Now he lifted his head off one of Meena’s Pottery Barn throw pillows and stared at her. “I thought you didn’t want kids,” he said, “’cause you don’t want to be the worst, most smothering mother in the world, always following them around with Bubble Wrap and needles filled with adrenaline.”

“Fine,” Meena said with a sniff. “That was a figure of speech. I don’t
really want to have his children. Seriously, though. What do you think of him?”

“He’s all right, I guess,” Jon said, leaning his head back down and picking up the remote. “If you like the brooding, mysterious type.”

“Honestly.” Meena took Jack Bauer’s leash off the hook on the wall and clipped it to his collar as he jumped around. “You have to get off that couch more, Jon. Lucien Antonescu is the perfect guy.”

“I’m just saying,” Jon said, flicking on the TV. “Don’t blame me if he tries to ravish you in a dark doorway.”

“I should be so lucky,” Meena said. “And you could have been a little nicer to Becca. She seemed really sweet.”

Jon looked confused. “I thought her name was Becky.”

Meena rolled her eyes. “If I’m not back in an hour,
don’t
wait up,” she said.

“Practice safe sex,” Jon called after her.

Meena threw him a disgusted look over her shoulder.

“Remember our conversation approximately five seconds ago regarding my not wanting to ruin the lives of any future progeny with my constant harping on their impending deaths? I never have anything
but
safe sex.”

“Good,” Jon said, and turned up the volume of
Top Gear.
“Because I’m too young to be an uncle.”

Meena turned away with another eye roll…although at the last minute she grabbed her
other
purse—the big one that had the stash of condoms in it left over from her ill-fated date with the high-cholesterol guy, which had of course been wishful thinking on her part—and left the apartment.

It never hurt, she supposed, to be extra careful. And prepared. Even though nothing was going to happen, of course. He was a prince! Princes didn’t do things like that. Not on the first date.

Lucien was waiting alone for her in the hallway, looking exactly as Jon had described him…brooding and mysterious. Meena’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

“Hi,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. Okay. What was she
doing
?

“Hello,” he said.

His gaze seemed to penetrate straight through her. Those dark eyes didn’t seem so sad anymore. She was convinced now that he knew not only that she’d grabbed her purse that had condoms in it, but that he knew exactly what she looked like without her dress on.

The strange thing was that she didn’t mind.

It was too bad that Jack Bauer did. Or at least she thought he did, judging from the way he carried on, tugging at his leash and growling.

“Sorry,” she said, embarrassed by her dog.

“It’s all right,” he said, smiling. He pushed the Down button. “He seems a bit high-strung.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” she said. “That’s why we call him Jack Bauer.”

“Jack Bauer,” he said, gazing down at the dog, who continued to growl up at him. “Oh, I see. After the character on the television program.”

“Right,” Meena said, pleased that he finally got an American popular culture reference. “You’ve seen it?”

“Enough of it,” he said. There was a world of condemnation in his tone. He did
not
like the show. “I don’t tend to watch programs with torture in them.”

“Oh,” Meena said. She felt mortified. His tone implied he had personal reasons to dislike these kinds of story lines. Had he himself been tortured while serving in the military or something?

It was entirely possible. Meena knew next to nothing about the history of Romania, much less its military.

But she thought she remembered something about…oh, something awful. Why hadn’t she Googled Romania really fast when she was in the apartment? Then at least she could have been informed.

“Well,” she said uncomfortably. “I can understand that. I don’t like to watch things where people die.” That touched a little too close to home for comfort. “But, anyway, Jack Bauer only tortures bad guys.”

“But can you be as certain as Jack Bauer is, Meena,” Lucien asked as the elevator doors slid open and he smiled down at her while politely holding them, “that you always know the good guys from the bad guys?”

This caused Meena to hesitate before stepping into the car. Jack Bauer, on the end of his leash, was backing away, growling, reluctant to leave the hallway. For some reason, Jon’s remark about dark doorways slipped into her mind, as did her flippant reply.

Did
she know the difference between good guys and bad guys? Leisha insisted that David, whom Meena had always thought was a good guy, had been a bad guy…although Meena had never really been able to agree with her. In the end, hadn’t he just been following his own heart?

And truthfully, Meena was much better off without him. If she’d stayed with David, she’d now be a housewife in New Jersey, where David had moved to start his new practice, with his new wife and his new house. And his baby on the way.

Meena loved her job and her life in New York City, even if they weren’t perfect.

Given all of that, things with her and David had turned out all right in the end, hadn’t they?

And here was Lucien, who had saved her life. That made him a good guy, didn’t it? He was
definitely
a good guy.

All right, Jack Bauer might not have liked him.

But Jack Bauer had never liked Mary Lou or Emil, either…not since the day Meena had brought him home from the animal shelter.

And they’d always been lovely—except for making incredibly boring conversation on the elevator. But look at all the money they’d raised for charity.

Smiling back up at Lucien, Meena stepped carefully over the gap between the elevator car and the hallway floor, conscious of her high heels.

“I think you’re a good guy,” she said deliberately as Lucien joined her in the car. “And Jack Bauer does, too. He just may need a little more convincing than I do, because his brain is the size of a walnut.”

Unfortunately, the dog illustrated this fact by not quite making it all the way into the car before the elevator doors started to close. Meena had to turn and give his leash a tug. The dog let out a startled yelp and careened into Meena’s legs, which sent her lurching forward, right into Lucien’s arms.

“Oh,” Meena said, mortified. “Excuse me.”

“No need to apologize,” Lucien said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Meena said, suddenly unable to tear her gaze from his.

Neither of them, it seemed, was able to let the other go.

Instead, they stood looking into each other’s eyes for a good five seconds. Meena’s breathing felt a little shallow. She wondered if he felt the electrical charge that seemed to be pulsing between them…or if it was just her overactive imagination again. Her heartbeat was definitely quicker than usual and a little unsteady. The only sound, besides Jack Bauer’s panting, was that of the elevator dinging off the floors as they descended.

She didn’t want to break the silence between them, because it was the type of silence during which anything might happen.

He might, she felt, even tilt his head down and kiss her…if she kept her mouth shut long enough to let this happen.

But she couldn’t, of course.

“What happened to you that you can’t watch things where characters get tortured?” she asked in a voice that had gone a little hoarse.

She watched his face carefully to gauge his reaction.

But there was no discernible reaction in his features. Instead, he countered her question with one of his own.

“What happened to you,” he asked, “that you can’t watch things where characters die?”

She dropped her arms from his at once and turned toward the elevator door just as the letter L lit up and the door slid open to reveal the lobby.

“Oh,” she said with an airy laugh as she dragged a badly misbehaving Jack Bauer out into the lobby. “I just love happy endings. That’s all.”

“So do I,” Lucien said, following her with a smile. “Tomorrow I’m going to start watching this television show of yours.”

“Oh,” Meena said, delighted. “That’ll be a good episode. Cheryl is making out again with Father Juan Carlos, and the town gossip sees them, and all hell breaks loose. Definitely not to be missed.”

Lucien laughed. “Then I’ll be glued to the screen.”

They breezed past Pradip, who waved to them cheerfully with a “Good evening, Miss Harper!”

Then they strolled out into the evening air, which had a briskness to it now that night had fallen. Meena, feeling happier than she could remember being in ages, started in the direction she and Jack Bauer usually walked.

But Lucien took her by the arm and gently steered her in another direction.

“This way,” he said. “I have something I want to show you.” Surprised, she smiled. “Really?”

Then she realized he was walking her away from two men who appeared to be having something of an argument in front of 912 Park…and also in the opposite direction from St. George’s Cathedral.

And her heart swelled. He was protecting her!

It had been ages since a man (aside from her doormen, who didn’t count, because she gave them generous tips at Christmas) had cared anything about her physical protection. Jon seemed to think she could more than adequately take care of herself (and besides, he didn’t count either; he was her brother). Her father had pretty much given up speaking to her about more than perfunctory matters once she’d developed her ability to envision people’s future deaths (including his own). Both her parents seemed to view her as some sort of biological freak. Whenever she visited them in Florida now, Meena overheard them arguing in hushed whispers over which side of the family she’d inherited her ability from (there’d been more than a hint that Great-Aunt Wilhelmina might be responsible).

And while it was true that she
could
take care of herself—the odd bat attack aside—it was terribly gallant of Lucien to try to protect her. It made her feel warm and feminine.

Who said chivalry was dead?

“What sort of surprise?” Meena asked, containing her glee with effort.

“One I think you’ll like,” he said. They were headed up Seventy-ninth Street, toward Fifth Avenue. That part of town was devoted exclusively to deluxe apartment buildings, hotels, and Central Park….

And one other building, located at Eighty-second and Fifth, which they were fast approaching.

“The Met?” Meena looked up at Lucien curiously. He’d reached for her hand as they crossed Fifth Avenue and started toward the enormous building, sitting so imposingly lit up against the night sky. A few people sat along the steps, chatting, smoking, even reading books in the glow from the illuminated columns. Trying to ignore the tingle of excitement that shot up her arm at the touch of his skin to hers, Meena stammered, “But…but the Met…it’s closed this time of night.”

She wasn’t certain that as a foreigner—even one who taught at a university and read the classics for fun—he fully understood.