Insatiable

“Wulf?” Holtzman seemed startled by his protégé’s sudden activity. He hurried after him. “Wulf. I was kidding about whacking off the Antonescus’ heads. They could still prove to be vital sources of information to us. Let’s not do anything to tip our hand. They don’t know yet that we’ve discovered them. Lucien might not really have seen us or figured out who we are. Don’t do anything rash-”

Alaric strode up to the red carpet in front of 910 Park. As soon as he stood in front of the double brass-framed doors, they opened with a whoosh, and the doorman in the dark green livery, reading a textbook entitled The Art of Sensuous Massage, looked up from it and smiled.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” Alaric said, gri

“Lucien Antonescu?” The doorman kept right on smiling. “Lucien Antonescu? I’m afraid we don’t…Oh, you must mean the tall gentleman who was visiting Mr. and Mrs. Antonescu tonight! Yes, yes. There was a Mr. Antonescu on the list.”

“I knew it,” Alaric said, just as Holtzman came hurrying in behind him. “I knew that was Lucien!”

The doorman, whose nameplate said Pradip, looked down at a list on his desk. “That’s right,” he said. “There was a Lucien Antonescu at Mr. and Mrs. Antonescu’s party tonight.”

“See, Dad,” Alaric said, turning to Holtzman. “I told you it was him.”

“Dad?” Holtzman said. Now it was his turn to be taken aback.

“And that beautiful young lady, the one with the dog, who was with him,” Alaric said, turning back to the doorman, “must have been his wife. I can’t believe it. He never told me he got married!”

“Oh,” Pradip said, laughing. “No, that was Miss Harper. She lives here in the building. Oh, no. No, Miss Harper’s not married.”

Alaric let his face fall. “Are you serious?” he asked. “That wasn’t Lucien’s wife?”

“No, no,” Pradip said. He was having a grand old laugh now, as if the thought of Miss Harper marrying Mr. Antonescu was the fu

Alaric’s estimation of 910 Park Avenue went up another notch. Pradip the doorman was observant, indeed, but a little too forthcoming with total strangers about the personal lives of his tenants… Alaric now knew that the woman accompanying Lucien Antonescu tonight was named Meena Harper, that she lived in the building, and that she lived with her brother. No small amount of information considering that all he’d volunteered about himself was the lie that he’d been Lucien Antonescu’s college roommate.

“Well, I’m sorry I missed him,” Alaric said. “You know what? I’m going to see if I can look him up on Facebook.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Pradip said. “You know, you can get in touch with practically anyone on Facebook these days. I was on there the other day, and I managed to get in touch with an old friend of mine I hadn’t seen since kindergarten. Can you believe that?”

“You see, Dad?” Alaric gri

Holtzman looked dazed. “Facebook?” he echoed.

Alaric winked at the doorman. “Thanks, Pradip,” he said. “You wouldn’t have any idea where Lucien is staying while he’s here in the city, would you?”

“Oh, no. But if you’d like to buzz up to the Antonescus,” Pradip said as he lifted the receiver to the intercom, “I’m sure they’d be happy to-”

“Not necessary,” Alaric said, stretching his hand out in the internationally recognized sign for stop. “I wouldn’t want to trouble them this late. Maybe I’ll drop by again some other day, thanks.”

And he turned and left the building, Holtzman following closely behind him.

“Impressive,” his superior said to him. “Nice to see you using one of the techniques I taught you for a change, instead of simply swinging that sword of yours around.”

“I try to avoid killing the civilian population whenever possible,” Alaric said, shooting his boss an irritated look. “You taught me that as well, remember?”

“I remember,” Holtzman said. “But what exactly did you accomplish there, aside from very likely alerting the Antonescus that we’re aware of them? You know that doorman is going to tell them we were there. And we’re no closer to finding him.”

“No,” Alaric agreed. “But we have the name of the girl.”

“And what earthly good will that do us?”

“Oh,” Alaric said, “quite a lot of good, I imagine. Because she’s going to lead us straight to him.”

Then he added thoughtfully, “If she lives through the night, that is.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

1:00 A.M. EST, Friday, April 16

Metropolitan Museum of Art

1000 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York

Meena had spent quite a lot of time in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, back when she’d first moved to the city. She’d been especially drawn to a portrait of Joan of Arc by an artist called Jules Bastien-Lepage, which hung in the nineteenth-century wing.

The painting showed Joan standing in the yard of her parents’ cottage, staring off into space, apparently listening to the voices of saints. Ethereal, haloed figures floated behind Joan’s back, seemingly whispering to her.

The painting wasn’t anything that special. Compared to other treasures the museum held, it was considered one of the collection’s lesser works.

Still, Meena always made the canvas her primary destination upon entering the museum and would, when she was feeling especially disheartened or hopeless, stand for nearly an hour looking at it, in the company of similarly downtrodden souls.

But Prince Lucien didn’t lead Meena toward the nineteenth-century wing when he pulled her into the Metropolitan Museum that night.

Instead, he guided her toward the medieval art exhibit on the main floor, through the darkened, hushed Great Hall.

It was strange being in the museum after it was closed. Meena had never seen the halls so empty…or so quiet.

She could actually hear her own heart thumping steadily with the excitement of what they were doing-despite Lucien’s insistence that it was fine, she felt that there was something illicit about their being there. Of course there was!

And now Lucien was holding her hand again.

His grip wasn’t exactly warm-his fingers always seemed a bit cool to the touch-but it was oddly reassuring, the way it had been that night outside of St. George’s Cathedral.

And yet there was an almost boyish excitement about him, too, an eagerness with which he seemed to want to show her the treasures the museum held. He playfully held a finger to his lips as he guided her along.

“Are we going to set off any alarms?” Meena asked nervously, holding a squirming Jack Bauer in one arm.

“Only if you try to steal something,” the prince jokingly replied.

“Oh, well, I guess I’ll have to restrain myself then,” Meena said, teasing him back. She was pleased to see that a lively side to him was coming out. He may not have watched much television, but he knew how to have fun.

Soon they were surrounded by hauntingly beautiful triptychs of the Mado