Insatiable. Meg Cabot

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ them think,” Alaric asked in Italian, “that this has anything to do with our prince?”

      Martin sounded annoyed. And no wonder. It was nap time in Rome, at least for Martin’s daughter, Simone. And probably for Martin, too. He’d been sleeping a lot while recovering from his wounds, thanks to all the painkillers he’d been prescribed by the Vatican surgeons.

      “They’re checking the passenger manifests of every incoming flight, private as well as commercial, to New York City, and there was a Lucien Antonescu, professor of ancient Romanian history, on a flight from Bucharest last night. First-class seat.”

      “So?” Alaric was bored already. His kill the day before hadn’t been all that exciting—except for the part where Alaric had crashed through the window, which of course he’d enjoyed. And the breakfast buffet, which he’d checked out on his way back to the room from the pool, had been uninspiring, to say the least.

      “They’ve looked into this Professor Antonescu,” Martin said. “Rumor has it he’s been teaching at this university—night classes only—for thirty years. But they got hold of a copy of his last author photo … the guy looks thirty-five, at the oldest.”

      Alaric snorted. “Oh,” he said sarcastically. “His author photo. Well, that cinches it. No writer would ever use an outdated author photo.”

      “He has a summer place in Sighişoara,” Martin went on. “A castle, people say.”

      “Who doesn’t own a castle in Sighişoara these days?” Alaric asked. He picked up the remote from his hotel bed and began flipping through the channels. The Tennessean, which had promised to be a luxury hotel, offered only one premium cable channel, HBO, and there was nothing good on it, except, predictably, a show featuring vampires. Alaric watched the Hollywood vampires for a while, smirking at how attractive and self-restrained they were. If only people knew the real story.

      “I think this one might be legitimate, Alaric,” Martin said. “The woman who sent it, her last name is Antonescu. She’s a Manhattan socialite. Her husband’s a big real estate wheeler-dealer. We’ve never had any reason to suspect them before, except that the techno geeks got a hit with the names, the word prince, and the flight today. Anyway, it can’t hurt to check out the party, is what they’re saying from above. Everyone says this guy is a royal. He’s got to be the prince from the e-mail. I mean, this woman claims her husband’s descended from the Romanian royal family, and that she’s a countess. They’ve got property in Sighişoara as well.”

      “Romanian royal family.” Alaric’s finger froze as he was flipping away from the Hollywood vampires.

      “Exactly,” Martin said. “That’s why Johanna sent it my way. She thought you’d want to see it.”

      “Why didn’t she just forward it straight to me?” Alaric asked, confused.

      “Why do you think, dumbass?” Now Martin sounded not only annoyed but amused. “It’s not your case. You’re supposed to be finding the serial killer. Besides …”

      Alaric leaned forward. “Besides what?” he asked. He hadn’t slept well. The pillows of his hotel bed hadn’t been very comfortable. He’d piled them all up against one another, and they still didn’t equal the luxuriousness of his goose-down-filled pillows from home. Alaric hadn’t even wanted to think about what he’d find if he ran a blue light over the bed’s comforter. He’d wadded it up and stashed it in the closet anyway along with what had passed for the room’s wall “art.”

      “Holtzman’s ordered that you be kept on the Manhattan serial killer. Johanna says there’s a feeling you might be too personally invested in all this to be allowed to go after the prince.” Martin finished quickly. “Sorry, old bud.”

      Alaric nearly choked on the swallow he’d taken from the bottle of sparkling water he’d plucked from the minibar.

      “I know,” his former partner said soothingly as Alaric spurted out a few choice curses. “Look, I know how you feel. You think it’s not killing me to be out of action while all this is going down?”

      “This is bureaucratic bullshit,” Alaric declared, and hurled his empty water bottle at the place on the wall where the offensively bad art had once hung. Irritatingly, the bottle didn’t even break. It was plastic.

      “I know,” Martin said into his ear. “But look at it from Holtzman’s perspective. You can hardly be considered impartial anymore. And you don’t exactly follow protocol when it comes to demon hunting, do you? Nor is impulse control one of your strong suits. What did you just throw?”

      “Nothing,” Alaric said, getting out of bed and going to pick up his sword. “And I resent the implication that in a one-on-one with the prince of darkness, I’d be anything but strictly professional.” He pointed his sword at the pretty vampire boy on the television screen. “I’m eminently capable of keeping my emotions in check while severing that bastard’s head from his body.”

      “I know,” Martin said. “Why do you think I sent you that e-mail in the first place?”

      Alaric shook his head. Damned bureaucrats. He loved his job, but one thing he could never understand was how the higher-ups couldn’t see that they only made things more difficult with their damned red tape.

      Take Martin, for instance. He still had to keep the fact that he was married to a man a secret from their superiors. Not from Holtzman, of course … Holtzman, like Alaric, couldn’t have cared less who his fellow guards went home to at night, as long as they got the job they’d been trained to do done (although in Holtzman’s case, he preferred them to do it under budget).

      But times—and attitudes—were changing all over the world. One could only hope they’d change soon in the Papal Palace.

      “Look, just remember,” Martin said. “You didn’t get that e-mail from me. Understand?”

      “Yeah,” Alaric said, sheathing his sword. “Thanks. How are you feeling, anyway?”

      “Been better,” Martin said. “Been worse. I gotta go. Simone wants her nap. What are you going to do today?”

      Alaric grinned. “Oh, the usual. Check out. Fly to New York. Save the world.”

      Chapter Nineteen

       2:00 P.M. EST, Wednesday, April 14

       ABN Building

       520 Madison Avenue

       New York, New York

      I already know.” Cheryl’s lower lip began to tremble. Just a little. “Shoshona told me last night.”

      “Don’t cry,” Meena said, plunging her hand into a nearby box of tissues and then passing a wad of them to Insatiable’s leading lady. “Seriously. You know how your makeup runs when you cry. And we’re in high def now.”

      “It’s fine,” Cheryl said. But she took the tissues and dabbed at her eyes just the same. “They can spray it back on. I just can’t believe after all these years, they’re selling out by going with a vampire. For Taylor.”

      “It СКАЧАТЬ