by Meg Cabot
Meena bit her lower lip. Lucien couldn’t help noticing the way the blood rushed into it, making it even lusher and redder than before. “That does sound a little prejudiced,” Meena said. “Would you think ill of me if I admitted that I don’t like werewolves-or hobbits-either?”
Lucien reached out and laid his hand over hers where it rested on the bar. Her skin looked temptingly smooth and soft. It felt as good as it looked. “I could never think ill of you,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, raising her glass to her lips with her free hand and taking a fairly large sip of her wine. “Trust me. You could. You don’t know everything about me. Yet.”
Her voice sounded a little sorrowful.
“And if I told you I was a vampire?” Lucien asked, tracing a little circle on the back of her hand. “Would you hate me?”
“Ha,” Meena said, laughing. “You’d make a terrible vampire.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I would?”
“Of course you would,” she said, still laughing. She put down the wineglass, then slipped her hand out from under his to take hold of his tie instead, swinging toward him on the barstool until her knees were between his thighs. “You had plenty of opportunity to bite me that night with the bats-and then again in that big, dark, deserted museum-and you didn’t. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
She placed her other hand on his barstool, directly between his legs, so she could balance herself as she leaned forward and, using his tie to gently tug his head down so it was just inches from hers, she said, in a voice so throaty from the wine that it was almost a growl, “The thing is, I’ve already been with a boy who bites…figuratively speaking, of course. I was kind of hoping to avoid guys like that in the future.”
Lucien wondered just who, exactly, was in danger here. Her eyes were twin pools, dark as midnight.
He felt as if he were drowning.
And he didn’t think he minded.
“I’ll never bite you,” he whispered. “Unless you give me permission to, of course.”
Then he was pressing his lips against hers.
And Lucien wasn’t certain if he’d failed…or succeeded more spectacularly than he could have hoped. He’d told her what he’d felt honor-bound to share.
Was it his fault she didn’t believe him?
Yes. It was. Because he hadn’t offered her the proof she’d said she needed.
But Lucien wasn’t about to do that now…not when her hand was resting so dangerously close to his inner thigh. The part of him that was a man may have longed to be redeemed by her.
But the part of him that was a monster wanted something else entirely.
The man would have to wait.
His arms went around her waist, dragging her to him with a possessiveness that seemed to surprise her, if the little gasp she let out against his mouth was any indication.
But he’d gone past the point of civility. He pulled her from her stool and onto his lap, crushing her against him, draining with his lips and tongue what he couldn’t drain with his teeth…the essence of her, what he hoped-what he’d dreamed for so long-might save him.
He knew from the soft sound Meena made-whether of protest or pleasure he didn’t know, and the signals he was getting from her mind were cloudy, as usual-when his lips came down over hers that this kiss was even more proprietary than the one inside the museum had been, as if he were claiming ownership of her.
But he couldn’t help it. There he’d kissed her reverently, as if he were afraid she might break.
This was a different kind of kiss…a demanding kiss, a kiss that, he knew, was laying his soul bare in front of hers…
And yet at the same time laying claim to hers.
And Meena didn’t seem to mind. She hadn’t flinched or tried to push him away when he’d pulled her toward him. The opposite, in fact. She’d parted her legs to straddle him beneath the wide skirt of her dress, only the black lace of her panties and his suit trousers separating their skin, her arms going around his neck. She clung to him, the heat emanating from her mouth and slim body seeming to consume him. He could feel her heart pounding against him through the thin material of her dress, a rhythmic pulse coming from her body that raced in his temples and drove him to kiss her harder than ever…
…then slide his mouth over her lips, down her chin, toward her throat. He reached up to lay a hand over the curve of one of her breasts and felt her heart beating beneath his fingers, racing like a greyhound’s, before lowering his head down to where his hand lay, replacing his fingers with his lips, pressing his mouth against the silken flesh he revealed by pushing away the neckline of her dress, then the lacy cup of her bra.
Meena reacted by threading her fingers through his hair, straining to bring his mouth closer to her. Her appreciative gasp at the touch of his tongue, delicately tasting her skin, caused him to tighten his grip on her hips…
And this pressed those black lace panties more firmly against the front of his suit trousers.
Lucien jerked his lips from her breast. He could take it no more. He abruptly pulled her from him, slipped one arm beneath her waist and the other beneath her knees, and then rose, lifting her with him.
Meena let out a delighted laugh and tightened her grip around his neck.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You’re taking me to the bedroom to ravish me.”
“Yes,” he ground out.
And turned resolutely toward the darkened bedroom door.
He would be damned for what he was about to do.
But then, he was damned anyway.
Chapter Twenty-nine
9:15 A.M. EST, Friday, April 16
15 Union Square West, Penthouse
New York, New York
Meena woke to the smell of frying bacon.
For a few seconds, she thought she was back home in the house in which she’d grown up in New Jersey. That was the last time she could remember waking to the smell of real bacon.
But when Meena opened her eyes, she found herself not in the purple and white bedroom of her youth, surrounded by her childhood Beanie Baby collection, but in Lucien Antonescu’s ultrachic urban penthouse, all soothing tones of gray and brown, with her dog, Jack Bauer, standing on the mattress beside her head, panting anxiously into her face.
“Jack,” Meena said woozily. What had happened last night? “Get down.”
What had happened last night began to return in bits and pieces as Meena lifted the dog and plopped him onto the black tile floor, on which his claws made a hectic skittering sound as he turned and then made a running leap to bound back up onto the bed.
The countess. She had gone to the countess’s apartment with Jon-because he’d made her-and he’d been there…
Lucien, the man from St. George’s Cathedral, the man who’d saved her life. They’d talked and laughed, and afterward, he’d asked if he could join her while she walked Jack Bauer.
And then he’d broken into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And they’d kissed in front of the portrait of St. Joan. And he’d invited her back to his place. And she’d gone with him.
And then they’d…
They’d…
Oh, God, they’d…
Meena bolted upright in bed, then seized her temples-head rush!-and collapsed back against the pillows.
Had she really made love with Lucien Antonescu all night long?
And was he really-if what she was smelling was any indication-making her breakfast?
A huge smile broke out across Meena’s face. At least until her dog launched himself strategically against her midsection.
“Oof!” Meena said. “Jack! That’s not funny.”
But Jack didn’t seem to be trying to be funny. He was whining and pawing at her-not a pleasant sensation, since Meena was completely naked beneath Lucien’s dark gray sheets-while attempting to shower her face with anxious licks.
Why, out of all the dogs at the New York City ASPCA, had Meena had to bring home the most maladjusted on
e?
“All right, all right,” she said. “I’m getting up.”
A glance out the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that led to Lucien’s massive terrace showed her that it was a beautiful spring day. The glass seemed to be slightly tinted, but Meena could tell it was already late morning.
And a glance at her cell phone, which she dug out of her bag, sitting at the floor of the bed, confirmed it. She was late to work. Great.
She also, she saw, had seven messages, four of them from Leisha, two from her mother, and one from Jon (probably warning her that their mother had called the apartment looking for her). Meena didn’t really go missing all that often (all right…ever).
But when she did, she did it in a big way.
Meena sat on the edge of the bed and texted I’m fine back to Leisha, whose messages had gotten consecutively more and more frantic as Meena neglected to respond. More than fine. I’ll call you later.
To Jon, all she wrote was, U didn’t tell Mom anything, did u? PS I ‹3 Romania
She wrote nothing back to her mother. She’d have to call her later. Her mother didn’t know how to text.
She wondered what to do about work. What day was it? She couldn’t even remember… Oh, right. Friday. What was happening today? Something about someone reading for something…
“I thought you were up,” a deep voice said from the doorway, startling her. Jumping, Meena turned and saw the most delectable sight she could remember seeing in a long time:
Lucien Antonescu wearing only a pair of gray silk pajama bottoms, holding a crystal champagne flute filled with what appeared to be orange juice.
“Mimosa?” he asked.
Meena would have thought she was still dreaming if Jack Bauer hadn’t chosen that moment to hurl a paw into her kidney.
“Ow,” she said, giving the dog a gentle shove off the bed while holding the gray sheet to her chest. Jack let out a little yelp as he fell onto a tangled pile of Meena’s and Lucien’s clothes. “How thoughtful of you, Lucien. I’d love one.”
Lucien came toward her with a loving-there was no other way to describe it-smile on his face, and Meena was able to observe his half-naked body in the daytime. It was perfect…as perfect as it had seemed the night before, large but without a hint of fat, athletic without seeming muscle-bound, thrillingly masculine. Meena remembered running her fingers down that broad back and circling her arms around that lean waist, trying to hold him more closely. She even recalled-and now the blush grew distinctly deeper-kissing the trail of dark hair along that firm belly.
Her blush deepened.
“Good morning,” he said, leaning down to kiss her as he handed her the champagne.
“Is that bacon I smell?” Meena asked, trying to change the subject…of her own sinful thoughts.
“It is indeed,” he said. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“I should be,” Meena said, sipping the drink he’d brought her. The oranges had been freshly squeezed. “Being an animal lover and all. But I’m just a hypocrite, instead.”
“I like a girl who eats,” he said, running a finger along her cheekbone. “I’m making eggs, too. How do you like yours?”
Meena could not recall any man ever asking her this in her entire life, including her own father.
“Um,” she said, “scrambled?” She smiled up at him, relishing his touch and trying to ignore her dog, who was growling from the opposite side of the bed.
“Then they’ll be ready when you are,” Lucien said. “I thought maybe you’d like a hot bath. I’ve run one for you in there.” He pointed toward a doorway opposite the one through which he’d just entered. Meena noticed for the first time that white curls of steam were wafting from it.
“Oh,” she said, stunned. “You did? That’s so sweet. Really, you didn’t have to do all this.”
“No,” Lucien said. “Really. I did.”
He cupped her face, leaned down, and kissed her deeply. Meena was reminded of how much kissing they’d done the night before. Her lips felt a little bruised by it all. In fact, all of her felt a little bruised. In a good way.
Jack Bauer, from the pile of clothes he’d fallen into, gave a low growl.
“Oh,” Lucien said, breaking the kiss and throwing the dog an inscrutable look. “And I’ve walked your dog.”
Meena raised both eyebrows. This was too good to be true. “You have?”
“Well,” Lucien said, “perhaps I should have said I’ve had him walked. He seemed to want to go out, and the doorman was happy to take him. In any case, you needn’t worry about him. Now go.” He pointed a little imperiously at the bathroom door. “Before you distract me even more than you have already.”
Meena laughed. It was kind of fun to be bossed around by a handsome man in a pair of gray silk pajama bottoms.
Especially one who had done the things to her last night that Lucien had done.
So, gathering the sheet to herself, she popped off the bed and headed into the large, brown marble bathroom, Jack Bauer trotting at her heels. What she saw in the vast mirrors there reassured her. She didn’t look like a total train wreck. She actually looked sort of…good. Maybe because for the first time in a long time she’d had a good night’s sleep? Well, what little sleep she’d gotten had been good.
And for once, Meena had actually woken up happy. She hadn’t even missed her night guard. She didn’t think she’d ground her teeth once during the night.
The huge Jacuzzi tub was half filled with steaming hot water. She wondered what Romanians considered a comfortable bathing temperature and turned on some cold water to even it out, then sank into the deep water when it felt just right.
Bliss. Except for Jack Bauer, nervously sitting beside the tub. She could see the tips of his ears, just over the side, tilted toward her alertly. She tried to ignore him and bathe in peace.
But his anxious, foxlike little face peering up at her when she stepped out and reached for one of the thick fluffy white robes she’d found hanging on the back of the bathroom door made her feel guilty. Where had Jack Bauer spent the night? Had she really locked him into this bathroom? At least the bath mat was as thick and fluffy as the robes and had probably served as a comfy bed.
That was it, though. She’d been a horrible pet owner. She was going to have to give him a good, long walk to make up for her bad behavior…
She slipped into the robe-it was so big on her, she had to roll up the sleeves to keep her hands from being lost inside them-then rinsed with some mouthwash she found. She had some makeup in her purse. She put some on, but her cheeks and mouth were so red from the chafing they’d endured at the assault of Lucien’s lips that she needed only a little mascara and eyeliner.
She discovered her dress slung over a black leather ottoman and her underthings strewn across the floor. She pulled them on, thinking about how later, after work, she’d have to do the walk of shame in front of her doorman. Would whoever was on duty realize she was wearing the same clothes she’d left in the night before? She prayed Pradip wouldn’t be there when she got home. Not that she cared what her doormen thought of her.
But what if she ran into Mary Lou in the elevator? Not what if. She would run into Mary Lou in the elevator.
But maybe, given what had happened last night, her luck was finally starting to change.
She refused to think about whether or not Lucien was going to ask her out for tonight. Friday night. She wouldn’t mention it, either. No game playing. They were both too old for that. He was in town on business. She wasn’t going to seem needy…
“Are you free tonight?” Lucien called from the kitchen, where the smell of bacon, now joined by coffee, was stronger than ever.
She called, “Uh, I think so,” and followed the sound of his voice. Lucien had set the glass and steel dining-room table with one place. One dark gray cloth napkin, one set of silverware, one cup of coffee, one glass of orange juice, one everything.
Lucien, noticing her curious gaze from the other
side of the pass-through, said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I had mine earlier. I went for a run and I was famished after. I didn’t want to wake you…you were sleeping so sweetly. Like an angel.” He winked at her.
Meena said, “Oh, no. That’s fine.”
That’s just weird, she thought.
She slipped onto the chair behind the table setting just as he came out of the kitchen holding a plate. He presented it to her with a flourish. On it sat three curls of perfectly cooked bacon, two eggs scrambled to a golden yellow, a slice of delicately toasted whole wheat toast with apricot jam, a few paper-thin slices of orange, and a plump, perfectly ripe strawberry.
Meena stared down at it with her mouth hanging open.
Lucien pulled out the chair beside hers. “I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee. There’s sugar and cream on the table.”
“Thanks,” Meena murmured when the ability of speech finally returned.
He’s a prince, she told herself. This isn’t so unusual. All princes probably do this to impress their girlfriends the first time they spend the night.
Maybe, she thought, lifting her fork and idly admiring how his biceps looked in the daytime, the thing about his going running already isn’t so weird either. He has to work out to stay looking so nice. I should start working out, too. We could work out together. Before he goes back to Romania, I mean.
“I thought tonight we could go to the symphony,” he said. “If you’re free. I have tickets for the Philharmonic. Masur is conducting Beethoven. I don’t think you’ll hate it too much.”
Meena looked at him primly over a forkful of eggs. “I won’t hate it at all. I happen to like Beethoven.” She wondered how long it would take for him to catch on that she had no idea who Masur was. She supposed she could use the time during the concert to think up some good dialogue for the new vampire-hunter proposal she was going to pitch to Sy.
“Excellent,” he said. “Unfortunately I have an early dinner engagement with a colleague. Shall I meet you by the fountain at Lincoln Center at seven thirty?”