by Minda Webber
"So you decided to come here and hunt them, since you're from a family of renowned ghost removal experts. You install yourself at my castle, pretending to be my lover—"
"Girlfriend," she interrupted.
"Why quibble over words? You came here to do some Bustin'."
"Yes. I came here to get rid of your ghosts," she agreed.
"Without me hiring you. What if I have decided on another firm? Is this justice and fair play? Is this how business is done in America?" he taunted her.
Sam hawed and hemmed, then finally answered: "Haven't you ever heard of Yankee ingenuity?" With her dying breath she would fight to the bitter finish, and not under any condition, not under any circumstance, would she let Monsters-R-Us keep the Prince as a client. Especially not after the illuminating episode of skullduggery the dirty rotten scoundrels had perpetrated against her.
The Prince scowled, shifting his legs as he stood, hands on hips, waiting and watching her like a big spider. And she had walked willingly into his web. "Perhaps I like to choose my Bustin' companies without any help."
She shrugged. "Then I guess I owe you an apology. I meant well, really. And I wasn't expecting any payoff for capturing and removing your ghosts. I just wanted to show you what Paranormal bustin' Pest Pursuers Inc. can do. What I can do."
He was dying for her to do just that. But in the bedroom. All night long. Forget the ghosts.
"Hmm," he began thoughtfully, examining her like a succulent piece of meat. "How did you learn about my little problem?"
"I make it my business to know these things. And your problem's not a little one. Not with Rasputin."
"No, the problem isn't a little one," the Prince admitted. "And you seem to be one of the only Busters available to help." She was making him aroused just with her delicious scent. Rubbing his thigh muscle, dangerously close to his growing erection, he noticed that her eyes had focused on what his hand was doing. She blushed.
Sam froze, mortified to see that he had caught her staring at his crotch. She never blushed; and at the same time a morbid curiosity had her questioning if all Russians had a Peter this great or if it was just a vampire characteristic.
Searching her thoughts, she scrambled for mental purchase in a quagmire of lusty images. Back at university she had taken a vampire physiology class, only her professor had been timid, skipping over the interesting parts—like vampire sexual organs. Now she wished she had taken an advanced class or two, for knowing vampires' sexual habits and endowments would come in handy.
Jerking her eyes and her smutty thoughts away from the Prince, she said; "I will be more than happy to rid you of your ghosts free of charge, Prince V."
"Only ghosts, then? You can't help with anything else?" he asked playfully. He found it hard to believe that Sam Hammett was still resisting his will.
Sam stepped back twice, putting more distance between them. "Ghosts. I said ghosts."
He took two steps closer, lifted her chin with his finger. Her skin was very soft. He enjoyed the feel. He wanted to savor so much more of her silken sweetness, but this lying, luscious jade was playing hard to get, while he was just plain hard. "Well, we must be upfront with each other. Not knowing what's a lie and what's the truth can cause confusion. And you must call me Petroff."
"So, you'll allow me to work… ?"
"For now. We can discuss it further tomorrow—perhaps an early morning affair." But he dropped his hand when she quickly stepped back, jumpy as a newborn colt.
The Prince sighed. He knew she was extremely attracted to him, but that she was fighting the attraction; she was a complex woman with a mind of her own. Obviously, in spite of his good intentions their first meeting would not lead to a mating. He grimaced. He wanted her, this deceitful human; but sometimes a long journey could be more thrilling than the destination.
Sam smiled up at her host, giving thanks that she hadn't been booted out on her butt or brought within an inch of her life—or twelve inches of her dignity. Even though she was a hard-boiled preternatural pest controller, a nemesis to nasties everywhere and nobody's pushover or sure thing, she found Prince V. to be temptation on the fang, Rasputin's spell or not. But she had a company to save, and save it she would. Petroff Varinski would be glad he had hired her in the end—if not in the beginning.
Waving good night, she started for the stairs. Petroff watched her walk off.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To bed. Solo," she answered resolutely, continuing up the magnificent beige-and-ivory tiled staircase. Her body's subtle beauty, the tautness of her buttocks showcased by her faded jeans did not escape him.
"Just like that?" he asked. Those worn jeans fit her backside like a glove, like he wanted to fit himself to it.
"Yep, I've found that the shortest farewells are the best." And with that, she fled.
The Prince laughed. This woman wasn't quite Machiavellian, but her plot was devious. He should give credit where credit was due. Still, he wouldn't. He had caught the flash of triumph in her eyes when he agreed to let her catch his ghosts, and so while she thought she was winning, she had already lost the game. She just didn't know it yet.
No, Samantha Hammett had lost, and she deserved exactly what she was going to get. But he intended to seduce her before the truth was revealed in all its glorious colors and harsh black and white. The seduction, they would both enjoy. The betrayal, only he would appreciate.
Goldilocks and the Three Ghosts… and the Prince
Sam heard cursing the next morning, in both American and Russian. It didn't take her three guesses to know who was doing it. The Prince was up and royally pissed.
She continued carefully down the stairs, wondering how to deal with a cranky vampire in the morning; she rarely met vampires over six hundred years old and capable of being awake at that time.
Turning a corner, she saw his royal majesty stalking toward her. He was dressed in worn-out jeans and a pale blue sweater, which highlit the flecks of deep blue in his smoldering gray eyes. His expression was grim, no doubt due to the fact that he was wearing a partial painting of a can of tomato soup on his chest. The bright red oil was noticeably wet.
"Gives new meaning to the expression 'soup's on,'" she said.
He halted abruptly before her, his eyes narrowed. "I thought you were supposed to be some kind of big shot Bustin' professional. Why aren't you doing your job? That lunatic ghost, Andy, just attacked me! I don't even like tomato soup! I detest it!"
Deciding a poker face was the best response, Sam suppressed her grin. "I only got here yesterday. What do you think I am, a miracle worker?"
He arched a brow, his haughty aristocratic demeanor returning. "Excuses. Not much of a Paranormalbuster, are you?"
Prince Petroff hoped his words would make the woman mad. She had to feel as put out as he did. She needed to strain and toil to capture these ghostly phantoms infesting the castle. She needed to have her day start out the way his had, by being attacked by a crazy painter with a can fetish. Yes, Miss Samantha Hammett needed to be brought down a peg or two, needed to be taught a lesson—and he was just the instructor for the job.
Those were fighting words, as far as Sam was concerned. She forgot her amusement at the haughty Russian's dishevelment and snapped, "Greater men, spirits and demons than you have criticized me. And you know what I say?"
He watched and awaited her next words, noting how pretty she looked in the morning light. She had a great set of breasts; not too big or too small, just right.
" This is what I say," Sam retorted. Then, glaring up at him, she thumbed her nose.
It was a rather adorable nose, not too big and not too small, but just right. In spite of his ill humor, he grinned. "Take it back," he warned teasingly. "Nobody thumbs their nose at me!" But he was now reasonably optimistic that this grumpy Goldilocks would be sleeping in his bed by nightfall.
Sam rolled her eyes. "Who would dare, right? You don't think too much of yourself, do you? It's a good thin
g princes don't wear crowns these days, because yours wouldn't fit that swollen head. I think it's called megalomania."
He arched his other brow. "Is that any way to speak to your employer?" He knew he had scored a hit when he saw her wince. Good. She needed to be put in her place. Too bad that place wasn't under him. Yet, hope sprang eternal.
Sam sniffed and conceded. She needed this job, and she needed the Prince to be impressed with her work. She should be sweet-talking, not antagonizing him. Still, who the hell did he think he was—King of the World? He could use someone to bring him down out of his ivory vampire tower—or black wooden coffin or whatever. But she backpedaled anyway.
"Sorry. It's just that I majored in ghost, goblin and gremlin psychology. And I can be a grouch when I have to wake up early. I usually spend eight hours a night on the job, so mornings are mine to do what I want. Which is inevitably, sleep. By the way, I've been up since six this morning hunting your haunts. Unfortunately, these three wise ghosts are doing a disappearing act. Three hours later, and I have to admit that they have run me a merry chase. At least, Andy and Jules have."
She rubbed her forehead wearily. "I had Andy cornered and was making headway when I made a slight…" Sam hesitated, noting her employer's grim expression. "A very slight, very, very slight, miscalculation."
"How slight?" Petroff inquired.
In the abstract, Sam always felt that the truth was the best way to go in any given situation. Of course, most situations didn't deal with an obsessive-compulsive ghost. And she hated to tell the truth now, especially when she was the one who had made the blunder.
"I was talking to Andy about art and happened to mention that his work reminded me of Pablo Picasso's early work. Who knew that he would find that comparison an insult? He vanished in a haunted huff right before yelling 'Philistine' at me."
Petroff grinned. This woman was so cute discomposed. He was glad she wasn't decomposed, though.
"It's probably why he went off on a rampage and started to paint your chest," Sam went on feeling a slight twinge in her heart. Seeing the Prince's lopsided grin, she understood absolutely why women lined up for this devastatingly desirable vampire. She was also smart enough to know that whatever feelings she had for him had come on hard, fast and would likely be, lethal.
The Prince's grin faded, replaced by a tightening of his lips. He glanced down once again at his ruined sweater.
Sam sighed. If he didn't like the first bit, he really wasn't going to like what she had to say next. Pointing to the kitchen, she continued, "I got an urgent message from your cook. It seems that Jules is on the warpath again. Prince Varinski—"
"I told you to call me Petroff," he interrupted.
Conceding the point, she said, "You know, too many cooks in the kitchen… well, in this case, it seems too many cooks spill the broth. Your cook ended up wearing it. Let's go see if we can view the damage. Then I'll go back to shadowing the ghosts, Pete."
The Prince scowled at the Americanization of his name. "Not Pete. Petroff. It's a good, solid Russian name."
"Petroff's too stuffy," Sam suggested. "But if you insist."
Before Petroff could argue, she pointed to the kitchen. "You can follow me, in case you're worried about getting a pie in the face."
Swiftly she walked to and shoved open the door to the kitchen. Might as well get it over with quickly, she decided. But once through the door, Sam's mouth rounded in an "O". Forgetting momentarily, that she was a good deal shorter than the Prince, she valiantly tried to block his view of a disaster that would terrify even Mr. Clean.
The mess was not too big; it was not too small—it was enormous. The two cooks had evidently both been working in this kitchen. One had apparently been trying to make eggs and ham; only, the eggs had been slimed, big-time. They were a bright lime green. Fortunately, the ham had caught a lucky break and been missed, but still, this ripped it for Sam. She had been hungry earlier, but no way was she eating green eggs and ham.
Goo dripped from the ceiling; the floor was awash in goop.
Sneaking a quick peek at the royally pissed Prince, Sam asked, "You're mad, aren't you?"
He turned to stare at her with an expression of high dudgeon. "Yes, Sam, I am. I cannot believe my own distress, I cannot believe this awful mess."
Cooked potatoes and stew meat were splashed across the black and white tiled floor and cabinets. Pots and pans were littered here and there. Splashes of wine and smashed grapes decorated the kitchen walls and countertops.
"I caught you were mad right off the bat," Sam said.
"Are you being flip?"
"Who me? No way. I'm not gymnastic. But you're kidding, right? Your nice new kitchen is a big mess, and I'm starving. That makes me mad, too," she said, hoping he couldn't read the humor in her eyes. Turning away before he could spot it, she couldn't help but grin.
The Prince's servant hadn't fared well in this cook-off catastrophe; Mrs. McCutcheon was now busy with a mop, and was wearing what looked like pieces of cooked carrot in her bun, along with a slathering of green slime.
"Yep, plastered by ectoplasm," Sam muttered, trying to keep the revulsion from her face. Being slimed rated right up there with having a tooth drilled without laughing gas. Of course, being slimed was just one of the many hazards of her job.
"It's horrid. Just horrid," the assistant cook Beverly complained, wiping the tears off her face along with streaks of stewed tomato.
Sam didn't know why the woman was upset; she hadn't gotten her hair slimed. But she patted Beverly on the back anyway. Some people just weren't up for ghostly visitations and such tricks of the trade. Sliming was generally one of the first cards a ghost played.
"I thought Jules would have had more class than to slime food. It's kind of like throwing your peas in the lunchroom in middle school," Sam remarked disgustedly. "He must be a real attention hound. Who'd have thought?" she asked the whole room.
"I thought you would. After all, aren't you the expert?" Petroff pronounced caustically, wearing the most exasperated of expressions.
She might have mouthed off, but she figured that the Prince had a legitimate beef—though his kitchen had little else left to eat.
On the sideline appeared a very leery Mr. Belvedere, his shoulders visibly shaking. He looked the color of old milk, as if his goose were about to be cooked. Reluctantly he faced Prince Varinski, his voice almost a whisper.
"I'm afraid Chef Jules was angered because I hid the wine. You see, he had already been drinking rather heavily, consuming a great deal of your stock, my lord."
The cook huffed, breaking in to say, "That stuffy, pompous Frenchman was angry because I was making soup. Imagine, that ghostly wino told me my soup was just plain blasé. I've won awards for it, mind you!"
The woman continued, clearly burning up. "He wanted to cook eggs for lunch! How foreign is that? Him, with his fancy spatula and fancy French ways. He had the audacity to scold me, telling me this isn't a soup kitchen. What does he know? Beans, that's what! He's stewed half the time on Claret. He's French and he's a ghost! Soup kitchen? Well, I never heard anything so silly in my life." Mrs. McCutcheon seemed to suddenly come back to herself, recalling who her audience was. "Begging your pardon, my prince."
Sam pursed her lips, keeping her mouth shut and her chuckles in. She wasn't going to laugh at the expression on Pete's face. She wasn't going to make a smart remark or find absurd humor in this kitchen catastrophe or even the carrots in the cook's hair. She absolutely would not make a wisecrack when she took another peek at Pete, who was wearing a can of soup on his chest. "Looks like the plat du jour, is soup."
Her words went unappreciated. No one laughed and Prince Pompous only glared, his slate gray eyes deepening to charcoal.
"Isn't it a lucky thing that my girlfriend"—he stressed the word—"has a degree in ghost psychology." He looked pointedly at her and moved close to put an arm around her shoulders.
"Really?" Rebecca McCutcheon asked, her face alight w
ith hope. "I know you said you had some experience, but if you have a degree, then you must be a pretty smart cookie. Can you help us get rid of that puffed-up excuse for a chef?"
Petroff snorted, but Sam nodded. Tamping down her burgeoning desire, she ducked back. His close proximity, his embrace was too exhilarating; his smell was so fresh and invigorating that she could hardly stand it. In defense, she matched him sardonic look for sardonic look.
Turning back to the cook, she smiled a patently sweet smile, the expression she used to entice little goblins out from under beds. "Of course I will. I wouldn't want to let down my prince, now would I?"
Petroff snorted again.
"You make mincemeat out of him, dearie, that's what you'll do," the cook stated firmly.
Mr. Belvedere nodded. "Miss Samantha is a jolly good fellow, you know."
Sam smiled, then tilted her head to indicate the open doorway to the hall. "Pete… troff, I think we should discuss strategy."
The arrogant aristocrat held out his arm. "Whatever you say, sweetheart. Lead the way."
Outside in the hall, Sam stood uncomfortably while the Prince leaned against the wall. His expression was grim, his manner one of one royally outraged.
"You really aren't a morning vampire, are you?" Sam noted.
He scrutinized her carefully. "You really think I should be bright-eyed and cheerful after an employee orgy, a kitchen thrashed by a ghostly drunken chef, and a ruined wardrobe?"
Well, when it was put that way, Sam felt bad about criticizing him. "I know it hasn't been the best of mornings, or nights—" she backtracked.
"A terrible morning, really," he agreed. His lips looked so soft, and she wondered whose coffin he was sleeping in these days. Who was his current arm candy, and was she a sweetheart or a Tootsie Roll? Pete was everything she might want in a man and then some—except he was a vampire, and that did throw her for a loop or two.