She forced a politely inquisitive look on her face as she turned to face him. Well, his chest. She’d forgotten how tall he was. Wow. Had he always been so...built? She forced herself to lift her gaze to his.
Er, wow. His eyes were still that stunning azure color. Nope. Not getting distracted. At all. She pulled her lips into a cool smile.
“Yes?”
He blinked. Gaped. “You! You—You’re Professor Natalie Segova?” Recognition battled with confusion. She hoped confusion won.
Showtime. “Yes?” she inquired innocently.
“Natalie?” he repeated.
She kept her expression bland as she nodded. “Yes, I’m Natalie Segova. How can I help you?”
“It’s me—Lucien,” he said. “Lucien Marchetta.”
She continued to look at him blankly, then gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.” Not in this lifetime, anyway.
He gave his head a little shake. “It can’t be...”
She raised her eyebrows, her expression turning expectant. “I am Professor Natalie Segova,” she assured him politely. “Was there something you needed?”
“Oh, I’d be happy to help,” Terry said suggestively.
Natalie shot him a grim look before turning back to the hunky, gorgeous vampire in front of her.
He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as though trying to make sense of the insensible. “Uh, sorry, you—you remind me of someone.”
She shrugged again. “I get that a lot. I must have one of those faces.” She slid the strap of her tote up to her shoulder and started to turn away.
“Wait—uh, Professor. Please. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions? About your studies,” he clarified in that rich, deep timbre.
God, it still had the ability to draw her attention, to suck her in and make her forget everything else around her. She remembered that voice murmuring softly to her in the darkness.
Yeah, she remembered a lot of damn things.
She started to back away from him, her expression still polite. “I’m sorry, I really have to go—but if you’d like to call my office, my assistant can make an appointment for you,” she suggested. And she had absolutely no intention of keeping it. She’d be halfway across the Red Desert before he realized she’d fled town, fingers crossed.
This time his confused gaze turned serious, intent, and he met her gaze directly. “Wait,” he said in a tone that took his voice to an even deeper timbre. “You want to talk with me. Now, as a matter of fact.”
She could feel something fluttering along the edges of her mind and her smile tightened. He was trying to compel her, damn it.
Well, that put her in quite a position. If she resisted the compulsion, he’d realize something was up, that she wasn’t the human she pretended to be, which would lead him to the next realization, that she could very well be the person he thought she was. She couldn’t have that.
She tilted her head back, easily ignoring the shadowy effect trying to cloud her brain. “I’d love to talk with you,” she lied. “Why don’t you walk with me? My place is only a couple of blocks from here.”
He smiled at her and she glanced away. He still had that sexy smile that was all mischief.
“After you,” Lucien said, gesturing for her to lead the way.
She smiled through clenched teeth. Great. She just needed to play along with this farce long enough to get to her home, to safety. Okay, she could do this. She could act normal, even flirt if she had to, if it gave her enough time to get in her front door. She slid her hand inside her bag to clutch the handle of her blade as she walked out into the cool evening.
* * *
Lucien strolled along Main Street, surreptitiously glancing at the woman at his side as they went.
It was remarkable. She looked so much like Nina—but it couldn’t be. Nina was dead. Years ago—it had made front-page news, everywhere. Besides, even if the papers had gotten it wrong, Nina would be in her sixties now. This woman looked to be in her twenties. Blond hair that fell in soft, barely-there waves to her shoulders, hazel-gray eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, and a pale complexion that was currently just the slightest bit flushed. She was pretty. Hell, she was more than pretty, but...well, it felt weird, thinking of her like that, particularly with the confusing mishmash in his mind with Nina. He frowned.
“Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t really look old enough to be a professor,” he remarked tentatively. He kept his tone light, perhaps there was even a hint of flirtation, but there was also some doubt. She looked like she should be a student, not the lecturer.
Her lips tightened briefly before curling into a smile. “I’m older than I look,” she said. “Used to be a problem when I was younger and trying to get into bars.”
Her response was light, but he got the impression his remark hadn’t been received as a flattering compliment on her youthful looks.
“You wanted to ask me something?” she reminded him as she turned a corner down a tree-lined street.
“Uh, yeah. I hear you’re an expert on all things mystical and mythological?” He still couldn’t quite believe it. He’d thought, when Dave had mentioned this woman, that she’d be much older. He frowned. Hadn’t Dave said she’d been here for some years? How did that work?
She nodded. “I’ve spent some time studying the old stories and legends,” she conceded. “What did you want to know?”
He glanced around the street. He wasn’t exactly eager to discuss his mission in public, but he’d detected a wariness in this woman and sensed this might be the easiest way to get her attention—and her assistance. He didn’t have the time to leave it until some assistant managed to find an empty slot in the professor’s schedule.
Fortunately the street was mostly clear of people. A woman walked her dog further along the block and a man carried two big bags of trash out to a bin on the curb.
“I’m wondering if you are aware of any myths or legends that discuss survivors of lycan attacks,” he said casually.
Her eyebrows rose. “Well, yes. There are any number of ancient legends that include a lycan survival story. Particularly before the time of The Troubles, when humans still viewed werewolves as creative fiction. For a time, there was a belief that if one did manage to survive a werewolf’s bite, one also turned into a werewolf.” She smiled briefly. “We know that’s not true now, though. We know that there has to be a bloodline, for example, for lycanism to develop.”
“What did people do to survive the lycan’s bite? In those legends, I mean,” Lucien amended casually as she again led him around a corner. This street was quieter. Lights were on in some homes and the streetlamps gave a charming glow to the wide street. Shadows stretched between the lamps and colored leaves littered the sidewalk and gutters. He scuffed at a pile as he walked along, the movement almost instinctive. His lips curled briefly. Nina used to love the leaves. He glanced up and down the street. She’d love this neighborhood. He sighed. God, he hadn’t thought of Nina in years. That familiar ache was still there, though, edged with regret.
“Oh, they didn’t. Not really,” the professor said. “Usually, the stories showed the victim dying a painful death, often shot with a silver bullet.”
Lucien blanched. “At least they got that detail right,” he muttered. Silver was toxic to both shifters and vampires, and the humans had used it to good effect during The Troubles.
She nodded. “It’s surprising that some of the beliefs manifested in these legends were obviously born from