by Minda Webber
"Right, you're right. It's been a really bad deal for you."
"No, it hasn't been good at all," the Prince went on. Last night and this morning might have been fun if she had been playing with him, rather than haunting the castle for those other haunts. "Nor fun."
"Look here, Pete, I am first-rate at what I do. The best. I have a ninety percent success ratio on the extraction and removal of ghosts. You can't beat those odds, and I'll get these ghosts. Don't you worry."
He smirked, as if he didn't believe her. Maybe he considered her a human pest.
"I'll work on both Jules and Andy to start. I know I can make headway with Andy this morning, now that I know what not to say. He may be a modern artist, but his heart is in the sixteenth century. He wants his art to be associated with the greats, like Michelangelo and da Vinci. He wants to make his soup can as timeless and elegant as da Vinci's Mona Lisa."
Petroff raised a brow, his expression one of disbelief.
Sam held up a hand. "I know, I know—soup cans weren't even invented during the Renaissance. Besides, I didn't say he could do it. It's just what he aspires to."
"Is this ghost psychology at its finest?"
"Yeah, it is. So just can your disbelief and remember I'm the professional. I know what I'm doing."
Glancing at the kitchen and then down at his soup-splattered shirt, he said tartly, "Are you sure? So far, all I see is a recipe for more disaster."
"I must be doing something right. Need I remind you that I didn't end up in my birthday suit with Rasputin last night? And I'm not the one wearing paint on my sweater." As Sam fought back, she began to feel better. She was feeling light on her feet. She was dodging his punch lines with the grace of Joe Louis.
Petroff leered at her breasts. Smiling, he quipped, "But you could wear it so well. Mmm-mmm. Soup is good food."
Whoops, she might be down for the count if he kept it up. His perseverance was deadly, especially aided by a left hook like his smile.
Sam frowned, knowing full well when to retreat. Sometimes withdrawing from a fight left a person a leg to stand on. "You really are the fresh type, aren't you?"
The Prince shook his head in the negative, but a slight grin cracked the austerity of his features. "Well, I'm not canned."
Sam grinned back at him. Fresh was fresh, and a wolf was a wolf—even if this wolf was a vampire. "I warn you, buster, I pack a mean punch."
This time, Petroff's grin broke through completely. "Well, you can bring it when we picnic. And thanks for the alert, but I happen to like challenges. And sassy-talking females are my favorite."
"Let me put on my surprised face."
The Prince shook his head at her outrageousness. With a grin still on his face, he cocked his head to indicate the kitchen. "What about Jules? Do you really think you can manage to gain any rapport with him?"
"Is my name not Sam Hammett? Not to brag or anything, but I've done some top-notch work with some low-down ghosts. I'll manage Jules, and Andy, and then I'll go on to Rasputin."
Petroff shook his head. "I hate to suppress your natural talents, but I'll deal with Rasputin personally."
Sam blinked, incensed. Nobody did her work, although she did let her brother help out, and her uncle in emergency situations. Then there was that time when Larry the Leprechaun had chipped in. But that was neither here nor there. "It's my job, I'll do it," she said.
Petroff shoved away from the wall, his features rigid. "I will handle Rasputin myself," he commanded. "Being Russian, I understand him. Besides, he owes me a debt that I intend to personally collect."
Sam didn't like anyone telling her what she could do or not do, but something about the Prince's firm and rather loud conviction convinced her that she wasn't going to win this battle. Besides, she probably wasn't going to get paid for this job anyway, and so if her employer wanted to dispatch the mad, bad Russian Monk himself, more power to him. As long as it wasn't the Strakhovs.
"All right. You win. As they say, the client is always right."
"How quaint. Another American saying?"
"You bet." He gave her an odd look, and she swallowed. "I bet you always get what you want anyway."
His grin was wicked, his eyes dancing. "Yes."
"Well, that must certainly be sweet. But it's probably just because you're a royal pain," Sam added in a mutter.
"Did you say something?"
Oh, you heard, Sam thought waspishly. This Nosferatu was definitely too big for his britches—although they fit him to a T, showcasing his tight butt and muscular thighs. "You know, it's guys like you who give creatures of the night a bad name."
"And you Americans have such a way with words. It almost makes me want to relocate," the Prince retorted mockingly. He walked off down the long marbled floor of the hallway, but eight feet away he stopped and turned back to Sam. "Dinner tonight is at eight. Don't dress…" He hesitated again, in both his step and words, just enough to give Sam's inside a heated quiver. "Up."
Then he continued walking. He refused to glance back. Samantha Hammett was quick-tempered and quick-thinking, but in a business she had no business being in. If she were his mistress, she wouldn't be staking her life on stalking the supernatural to stake them. And if luck were with him tonight, he knew exactly whose bed she would be in; only, she wouldn't be doing any sleeping.
Watching him walk away with lust in her heart, Sam decided that Prince Petroff really should be declared a masculine menace. Any female within walking distance was going to get her heart banged up seriously, if not downright broken into small gritty pieces. "Never give a sucker an even break—especially a vampire," she whispered, thinking hard about her uncle's words of otherworldly wisdom.
Sticking out her tongue at the handsome vampire's retreating back made her feel better, until she thought she heard his snicker as he disappeared up the marble staircase. Impossible! Vampires didn't have eyes in the back of their head; only goblins did.
"Well, wasn't that mature," she muttered. He really did heat up her emotions and bring out both the best and worst in her. Cursing her foolish fantasies of a feast of flesh—naked flesh, all his—Sam doddered distractedly in the direction of the south tower, where earlier this morning she had found Andy's stash of paints.
"Petroff thinks I'll roll over and play dead with him? Ha! Fat chance." Lust was lust. Just because she had never experienced anything as overwhelming as what she felt for this fornicating foreigner, Sam still knew where her bed was buttered. And tonight, she wasn't going to be anywhere near that particular vampire's coffin.
"Here's Lusting after You, Kid"
Sam wasn't anybody's fool. She knew life could be hard and a person didn't risk their heart until they absolutely had to take the plunge. She wasn't going to play Russian roulette with the vampire prince considering what the stakes were, she reminded herself as she made her way to the north tower for dinner.
As she walked under the stone archway, she stopped momentarily, taking in the understated elegance of the dining room and its occupant. Huge circular windows provided a breathtaking panoramic view of the coastline below. A small round table stood near the center of the room, with an intricate lace tablecloth of pristine white. On top was a golden candelabrum giving off a soft glow. Large floral arrangements of various hues were everywhere.
Standing by the buffet table, the Prince appeared the perfect gentleman, dressed all in black—the usual attire for the undead. He looked better than the food, and promised to show her a new meaning to the phrase le petit morte. But despite the flowers and his attractiveness, Sam was no innocent victim to be led down the garden path. Nobody had to knock her on the head. She could smell setup a mile away.
Frowning slightly, she mused that the male gender were all alike, whether human or vampire, seduction dominating their limited brains. For humans it had to be an evolutionary design, something ingrained in their DNA to keep the human race from becoming extinct. With the male vampire, Sam felt their desire for sex, sex and more
sex had to be related to their taste for oral gratification. They mixed fornication and ingestion to heighten both experiences, like some humans did by smoking a cigarette after making love or after eating a meal.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched boldly into the room. Petroff's eyes reflected amusement as he studied her, then he clearly decided that the best offense was a strong defense.
"I must apologize for my behavior this morning. I'm not at my best when bested by a neurotic phantom," he stated. He could tell by her wary pose that she thought he had seduction on his mind. Smart lady.
She nodded, taking in how the Prince's smile transformed his features from ruggedly handsome to just plain gorgeous. "I see your afternoon batnap did you some good. Woke up on the right side of the bed, did we?"
He would rather have woken up atop her, but smiling devilishly, he shrugged. "Well, I did manage some sleep, though mostly I plotted ways to be rid of that mad monk."
"Any clever plans yet?" She stopped by the huge bay window on the east side of the room, a good four feet away from Petroff. The view was breathtaking—just like her undead dinner companion. "You know that he won't be a pushover. He'll fight dirty."
Petroff nodded. Walking over to the table, he poured a glass of wine for each of them.
Sam noted that his movements held an inhuman grace, were pure poetry in motion. She sighed. "Since you aren't wearing a soup can on your shirt or carrots in your hair, I would lay odds that you haven't run across Andy tonight—or Jules. And probably not Rasputin, since you're fully dressed," she added.
Petroff grinned, and let her wonder what he was smiling about.
She shrugged and leaned back against the window frame. "Yes, I hate to brag, but I'm one smart cookie." She grinned impishly, trying to downplay the chemistry between them. Chemistry she would have gladly studied if certain things were different.. It was hard ignoring her body's urgings, which had first begun as whispers but were slowly growing to shouts. Soon she would have a hormonal riot on her hands. Better to give him the lowdown on what she'd found out.
"You don't have the worst spectral situation I've ever seen, but it's not pretty," she remarked, managing to drag her attention away from the Prince to find herself staring at the southern wall. A can of chicken noodle soup had been recently painted there, left open to reveal the chicken and noodles inside. Only, Andy had decided to paint it rather abstractly with the soup being a flaming pink with dark purple noodles.
Shaking her head ruefully, she commented, "Your Andy is rather paranoid."
The Prince raised an aristocratic brow.
"He's afraid of people stealing his work," she explained. Both Sam and the Prince glanced at the garish soup can on the wall.
"That's the straight dope," she continued after a moment. "It's why he paints on stone—so nobody can steal his work," she explained, grimacing at the artwork in question.
"As if any thief in his right mind would!" the Prince commented.
Shrugging, Sam nodded. To be honest, she agreed with his assessment.
"What about the galloping gourmet?" the Prince asked.
"My philosophy is to never give a ghost an even break. My take on Jules is that he's a crabby old chef with a penchant for disliking everything. He and Andy don't get along at all, since Jules hates the soup cans all over the place—he says that no real cook would even use anything in a can. He dislikes dull knives and don't get him started on microwave ovens. He feels they're the devil's design. Also, Prohibition. Jules can go on for ages about that time period in history."
"What's your take on Rasputin?"
"Dangerous, paranoid delusions of grandeur—and he's a sexual deviant. He's just plain evil."
"Well, thank you for your candor on my problems. I'm so glad you're having dinner with me," he added with a hint of a seductive edge. "I do so dislike dining alone."
Subconsciously Sam put a hand to her neck. She glanced back at the dinner table, and a sigh of relief escaped her as she saw two dinner plates and one steak—rare of course—on each. Sam had never been bitten by a vampire before, in spite of her oft-dangerous occupation. She intended to keep that the status quo. "What kind of guest would I be if I hadn't shown up? Especially after you've been so swell in hiring me and all."
"Perhaps an uninvited one," he said teasingly, amusement lingering in his smoke gray eyes.
"Jeez, Pete, what a lousy thing to say," Sam said. Before he could comment, she quickly added, "But I have good news and bad news. Nuts!" she exclaimed, bopping her forehead with her hand. "I always hate it when people do that to me. Good news, bad news—like anybody ever wants to hear the bad part."
"Do you always say the first thing that pops into your head?" Prince Petroff asked, noting that Sam looked flustered at her gaffe, but even more fantastic. Definitely very sexy. She looked good enough to eat all night, and he was suddenly starving.
"And second and third. Honesty is a virtue!" she said.
"Isn't that rather ironic, coming from you?"
Sam sniffed disdainfully. "I always tell the truth. Er, unless I don't," she added.
"I see," he remarked. "It's often easier to honor the idea of what's right than to act correctly. Honesty and honor are concepts this world still needs. And yet… sometimes lies are necessary. Now, let's sit down and you can impart your bad news first."
She nodded. "You looked like a man who would take the hard knocks first."
Sitting himself across from her, he said. "Life in Russia taught me that. It's a magnificently enormous country, with people whose hearts are just as immense. But it's always been troubled, plagued by outsiders trying to conquer. Yet all conquerors forget the spirit of the Russian people, which is as untamable as our wild steppes or our frostbitten Siberian landscape. We Russians show no mercy to our enemies or to any who try to hurt or dishonor us. You see, vengeance for us Russians is like breathing."
"That almost sounds like a warning."
He lifted his elegant hand, expertly sidestepping the issue. "Now, what would you and I have to be enemies about?"
Briefly Sam thought she saw his eyes darken, then the illusion was gone and he was smiling again graciously.
"Except, of course, in the age-old battle between males and females," he added honestly. "And that battle is to be tasted, savored, swallowed and digested. The journey is almost as exciting as the destination."
"I think we better skip this part of the conversation," Sam suggested. She knew a challenge when she heard one. But this was a challenge she couldn't win. She was his employee for the moment, and had nowhere near the experience this seductive bloodsucker had in affairs of the flesh.
"Coward," Petroff challenged, clearly enjoying the denial and desire he saw in her eyes.
"No, wiseguy, I'm just smart. I know a no-win situation when I see one. There's no way to win against a vampire prince, a playboy who has probably known enough women to fill Madison Square Garden. Besides, you can't have everything your heart desires."
"Who says?"
"Me."
"I see."
Revamping her strategy, Sam changed the subject. "You have an excellent command of the English language," she remarked sincerely.
He brushed the compliment aside. "I have traveled a great deal, and spent time in both England and America."
"While the Iron Curtain was up? How did you manage to leave Russia during that time period?" Sam asked curiously.
"With a great deal of caution."
Sam began to relax. She took a sip of wine, savoring both the tart berry flavor and the Prince's arresting gray eyes. "And now the Iron Curtain is gone, and you've moved here. Do you miss your homeland?"
"At times. But I travel back and forth. I like America for its uniqueness, and for the ingenuity of its people. A very independent people. This country is also large and very beautiful. But I do find some of the customs strange."
"Such as?" Sam was genuinely curious. She also loved hearing him speak, his slight accent giving the wo
rds a sexy spice.
"Sometimes I am watching television and I see people wearing cheese on their heads."
"Football games in the great northern states," Sam acknowledged, grinning. Cheeseheads did look kind of funny.
"And New York. I like to walk around in New York and study people. Sometimes I see certain persons running around with bags and picking up their dogs' waste. Odd custom, that. Where are they planning to take it? I even saw a mugger accost one such woman, and he stole the bag!"
Sam snorted. "I bet he got the surprise of his life when he opened it. I wonder if he was caught. I'd love to see the judge's face when that came to court."
Petroff shared her smile a moment. "I also find American business odd."
"How?"
"I didn't invite you to this castle to do business, and yet here you are. I didn't invite you to remove my ghosts, but that's your plan. You do know I could have you arrested for trespassing. Were you even worried about that? Are you so reckless in your actions, or are you relying on your pretty face to save you?"
Sam gulped. "I look terrible in stripes, so jail time just wouldn't do. But you wouldn't send me there, anyway. In spite of your reputation, you really are a gentleman. I can tell. And my plan wasn't reckless, it was just good business sense. You have a bunch of ghosts you don't want, and I'm a Paranormalbuster!"
Damn, why had Prince Pete had to bring up her sneak attack now? The night had been going so well. She'd hoped to have him eating out of her hand by dessert—well, not literally, but at least to have stirred his interest enough to discuss his other homes and whether he had uninvited intruders at them.
"Why would you think I wouldn't have you arrested for trespassing?" he asked crisply, clearly surprised.
Sam shrugged. "You're too smart to get rid of one who'll provide a service free of charge. You've heard of my reputation, and you know I'm the best in the business," Sam returned confidently.
Her logic annoyed him, though it was correct. Prince Varinski did employ only the best, and he did prefer freebies. "Still, what you've done has given you an unfair advantage over the competition."