Meena stared up at him. Since he was obviously a foreigner, she thought maybe he’d misunderstood her.
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “I meant that I don’t happen to like men who come barging uninvited into women’s apartments, waving swords.”
Now he was running his fingertips-from the hand that wasn’t clutching the sword-along the length of her arm. He was doing it seemingly absently, as if he couldn’t resist the feel of her skin.
But he evidently had understood her.
“I know,” he said. “I meant I know your type. Lucien Antonescu is your type. That’s why I’m here. All I want is for you to tell me where he is. Then I’ll go.”
Meena would have frozen if she hadn’t already been rendered immobile by his body weight. Lucien? This was about Lucien?
She supposed it made a crazy sort of sense. Men with swords had certainly never come bursting into her apartment before Lucien had come into her life.
And Roger had said the flowers were from Lucien.
“You know Lucien?” she demanded.
She should have known. It had all been going so well. Too well. The amazing night they’d passed together. The note, saying he was hers. The bag.
She should have known it was too good to be true.
It ought to have been as obvious to her as the sword in front of her face. Leisha had even suggested it:
Lucien was married.
Of course he was. No single man his age was as perfect as he was. They were all gay, completely baggage ridden, or taken.
Obviously, Lucien’s crazy wife had hired this man to scare the living daylights out of her.
Well, it had worked.
“Actually,” the man said-he was still absently stroking her skin, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it-“we’ve never met personally, the prince and I.” She realized he was still answering her question about whether or not he knew Lucien. “But I’m certainly acquainted with his work.”
“His work?” Meena was more confused than ever. She tried to picture this man attending a course in Eastern European history and failed. He obviously wasn’t a scholar. A homicidal maniac, maybe. But hardly an academic. “You mean his books?”
The man laughed shortly. “No. I was referring to his extracurricular activities.”
Meena had no idea what he was talking about.
But she didn’t miss the insinuation in his tone. He meant that he knew that she and Lucien…
Well. What they’d done together, last night.
God. Had he taken pictures? Wasn’t that what private detectives hired by wives did?
She wanted to die.
Clearly, the Lucien she knew and the Lucien this man knew were two different people. She’d known Lucien had secrets-which was all right. She was keeping secrets from him, too.
But she was furious that Lucien’s secret was that he was married. He just hadn’t seemed the type. She’d even asked him straight out if he had a wife, and he’d said no. If she ever saw him again-and she certainly would, because as soon as she got rid of this blond-haired mammoth on top of her, she was packing up the Marc Jacobs bag and heading straight over to Lucien’s apartment to return it, preferably with some of Jack Bauer’s excrement smeared all over it-she was going to tell him exactly what she thought about men who cheated on their wives with innocent dialogue writers.
“Look,” she said in what she hoped sounded like a strong, firm voice. Irritated by the man’s laughter, Meena twitched her shoulder away from his hand.
For the first time, he seemed to realize he’d been touching her skin. He looked almost surprised and instantly drew his hand away.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” she said. “But you can’t come bursting in here with…with…medieval armaments and boss me around. You can tell Lucien’s wife from me that it’s over. I don’t want anything more to do with him. Okay? So her little attempt to scare me away from him, or whatever this was, has had its desired effect. She can have Lucien back. I don’t even want him anymore.”
He was frowning now. He seemed displeased.
But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking down at his hand.
“Did you hear me?” Meena demanded. She was conscious that the sword blade was still very close to her throat. Very close, and very sharp.
On the other hand, he seemed a little distracted, looking down at his hand, then back at her skin. Now, she thought, might be a perfect moment to knee him in the nads. Then, while he was curled up in excruciating pain, she’d grab that Pottery Barn lamp over there and smash it over his head…
“Did he even bite you?” the man demanded, swinging his blue-eyed gaze back at her.
Meena, who’d been formulating the third part of her plan-the part where she went for her Wüsthof knife set in the kitchen-froze. “What? Bite me? What are you talking about?”
The man did something then that totally astonished her (not that anything he’d done since she’d opened the door hadn’t thoroughly astonished her). He grasped her chin with the hand that wasn’t holding on to the sword and turned her head first one way, then the other, examining her neck the way her general practitioner checked for swollen lymph nodes.
“What are you doing?” Meena demanded. It would have been one thing if he’d been going to kill her.
But with every passing moment, Meena felt less and less that this was actually what was going to happen.
Especially when he threw the sword aside entirely-it fell to the hardwood floor with a musical clang-sat up, and, still straddling her, pulled down the front of her slip, along with a sizable portion of her bra.
“Hey!” Meena yelled, bucking beneath him.
“Shut up,” he said. “Lie still.”
“I will not,” Meena raged, punching him in the chest.
“He bit you,” the man said, laying a hand upon her clavicle and shoving her back down to the floor. “He had to have bitten you. He couldn’t not have. Look at you. Your skin is like silk. I want to bite it. The question is, where did he do it? Not the carotid artery, obviously. You don’t have any bruising. Sometimes they go for the heart. Have you looked?”
Meena, her bra and slip straps dangling around her shoulders, just lay where she was, staring up at him.
She could never even have written a scene like this. And even if she had, Fran and Stan would never have let it air.
Because no one would believe it. It was just too bizarre.
“Who are you?” Meena asked.
“I am Alaric Wulf,” the man said patiently. He didn’t actually sound like a lunatic. Or look like one…sword aside. He was good looking, if you liked tall blond muscular types who dressed well and spoke with a slight Germanic accent.
Which ordinarily Meena supposed she would have. If he wasn’t sitting on top of her, calmly checking out her chest for some kind of mystical bite.
“And I work for an organization that’s very interested in finding Lucien Antonescu. So if you would kindly just tell me where he is, I’ll gladly leave you alone, Miss Harper.”
He looked like he meant it. He looked like he really didn’t like her very much at all.
Which was fine with Meena, since the feeling was 100 percent mutual.
“I’d like the name of this organization,” Meena said, “so I can report you to your superiors. Does your employer know this is how you treat women, terrifying them to death and then sitting on them? Get off me-” She twisted under him, punching him in the chest some more.
And then, as he was warding off her blows with open palms, there came the sound of a key being turned in the lock to the front door.
In a blur of motion, Alaric Wulf leapt to his feet, simultaneously yanking Meena to hers by the wrist with one hand and grasping his sword in the other.
By the time Jon had the door unlocked and was standing in the entranceway, Alaric had Meena thrust behind him and his blade pointed just inches from Jon’s throat.
“Shit!” Jon said, and dropped the bag of Chinese food he’d been holding, along with a DVD.