Bustin'

by Minda Webber

  Tough taffy, she thought. What the competition had done to her had been unjust, unfair and unethical. Too bad she couldn't directly bad-mouth Monsters-R-Us. But clients rarely liked to hear the dirt on one business dished out by their competition—or rarely trusted it.

  "Monsters-R-Us has been very busy lately," she hedged. Retaliating against the Strakhovs' own sabotage had been taking the Russian bull by the horns, but she drew the line at publicly calling them cheats or corporate crooks when it hadn't been proven, even if the shoe of sabotage fit; her father had taught her better business ethics than that.

  "And you aren't?"

  "You've just offended me. Triple-P Inc. has a lot of business. I just happen to be sharp enough to want yours too, to know how important it is, even though I'm swamped. Fortunately for you, I happened to have a short break, so I decided the best way to advertise was to show up in person and offer my services."

  His eyes danced with amusement. "Well, I am most willing to enjoy your expertise. I would bet a kingdom that you're… great."

  Trying to backtrack, to protect herself, she added hastily, "I believe the client's got a right to know what he's getting."

  Petroff did a slow scan of her body, sending heat flooding through her, and nodded. "Right now I can only imagine," he replied.

  Flustered, Sam blushed. "Well, I am an expert after all. The consummate professional—always ready and willing." Seeing the hunger leap in his eyes, she wanted to curse herself for her awkwardness and stupidity. "I mean, ready and willing to trap ghosts and move them or lay them to rest."

  She reached for her glass of water and quickly swallowed a sip. Jeez, it was hot in here. How much could a girl stand of one vampire hunk and his blatant sexual magnetism? She was only human, and he wasn't. That was the problem!

  "Laid to rest. I'd love to see that…" He trailed off suggestively. "Perhaps we can compare notes," he suggested, enjoying her embarrassment. "I would love to chat all about laying—or perhaps we could stage a demonstration," he added wickedly, watching her blush deepen from pink to red. How he enjoyed sparring with her! Just as he would enjoy making love with her. He reached for a glass of water and took a long, cool drink, wondering when the room had gotten so impossibly hot.

  "Um, I don't think so. Laying a ghost"—she stressed the word—"is a personal job, between the apparition and the… layer."

  "Such a shame. And I'd so wanted to learn."

  Suddenly, Sam laughed. She was horny, the Prince was horny—but they were both going to bed alone. "Sorry, Pete, but I'm not buying what you're trying to sell. But if you ever get kicked out of the royalty business you should try selling ocean-front property in Oklahoma. You'd make a fortune."

  "I'll keep that in mind," he replied, almost choking. Sam was a character. He forced himself to act normal. "And you? What would happen if you had to change jobs?"

  She shook her head. "Not happening," she stated firmly.

  "I've heard that Monsters-R-Us is fast becoming the number-one supernatural hunting and relocation company in America, and they're Russian-born. I must say, I feel bad not using them."

  "Ha! That's a lie. Er, not that you feel bad, and not that they're Russian, but that they're number one. Puh-lease! They haven't been in the country long enough," she argued, her eyes narrowed in irritation. "Besides, I heard they lost a bunch of trolls on their last expedition. And trolls are fairly easy to capture if you handle them right and dodge all foreign flying objects." Nobody was going to compliment those shady sinister Stakhovs in her presence and live. Though, the Prince was already dead… "Besides, I could tell you a thing or two about them. But I won't, being the fair-minded person that I am."

  "Go ahead," the Prince urged coldly.

  "Let me just say that the Strakhov brothers' business ethics make me look like Snow White."

  From his comment, Sam knew the Prince still wanted to show loyalty to the Russian rat brothers.

  For a vampire as meticulous and renowned for good taste, he obviously needed to learn a thing or two about who should deghost his domiciles.

  "Why, what have they done?" he pressed.

  "Skip it. It's water under the bridge—and not trolls. Besides, I promised to do this ghost removal for free, so why should you care who rids your castle of ghosts? As long as it's not costing you the big bucks—"

  "Loyalty to my countrymen," he interrupted.

  "Well, you're an American now, and you're better off with my services than those sneaky guys," she stated unequivocally.

  "You sound like you hate them."

  "Could we just drop the subject of the Strakhovs? It's too nice an evening to ruin."

  Staring into her eyes, he seemed to see instantly that she wouldn't budge another inch. "All right for now," he conceded tersely. "Perhaps you'll enlighten me to the bad news you mentioned earlier."

  Sam frowned and buttered some bread. "Jules went on the lam after his temper tantrum."

  Petroff raised a questioning brow. "Was it lamb stew?"

  She kept forgetting his Russian roots. He wouldn't know being on the lam from stuffed up the turkey. She herself wouldn't if it wasn't for Humphrey Bogart and her uncle. "Jules was a no-show," she translated. She put down her bread and held up one finger. "However, the good news is that Andy and I had quite an animated discussion. He's leaving tomorrow to go to London. Satisfied?"

  Hmm, the Prince thought dryly. Satisfied? Not with her sitting all the way over there while he was sitting here solo. "How did you manage that?" he finally asked, impressed in spite of himself. She appeared to be living up to her reputation.

  Sam smiled, trying hard not to appear to be patting herself on the back. "I've gotta admit that Andy was a tough nut to crack. We talked all afternoon, and he gave me painting lessons." Sam now had a stack of Vegetable Beef and Chicken with Stars soup can paintings to carry back home—to her dumpster. "But I sold him by offering to get him an agent."

  Slightly confused, the Prince asked, "An agent?"

  "For his art."

  "An agent for a ghost painter who paints soup cans?"

  "You've heard of ghost writers? Well, there are ghost agents," Sam explained.

  "Is the agent a ghost?"

  Sam shook her head. "Nope. He's alive. Though he's a warlock. I've used him before when I ran across these creative types. The agent offers a wide spectrum of services for spectrals, so Andy will be treated fairly, and hopefully his career in soup can painting will take off. Who knows, one day he might be labeled the ultimate in commercial artistry!"

  The Prince raised a disbelieving eye.

  "Well, vive le difference. One man's soup may be another man's nuts. Andy's both. Either way, dealing with him was much easier than I anticipated. So… one down and one to go."

  Finishing his steak, the Prince asked what she intended to do about the run-amok chef. As she explained, he snorted. But Sam did have talent, galled as he was to admit it.

  "So, you're going to set up Jules with a cooking show on the Ghost Channel?" he asked. "You think that will be enough to tempt him to leave here?"

  "Piece of cake. As soon as I can catch him when he's not throwing the stuff."

  Petroff chuckled at her unpredictability. Such quirkiness! Not only did she know her business, she was inventive. That'd be hell on the competition. Which caused his smile to fade.

  "You seem to know a lot about ghosts."

  "Yeah, much ado about nothing, my uncle always says, but then I grew up with the Bus tin' business. I can recall going to haunted houses with my parents when I was just seven or eight, wearing my ghost-busting sweatshirt. It was treated with Scotchgard to protect the fabric against Glaswegian ghosts. Clutching my protective magic amulet, I'd wander through the hallways—"

  "I see you're wearing that same amulet now, no? You wore it last night. What kind of amulet is it? It looks German."

  Sam nodded. "Good guess. Ban Protective, Inc."

  He nodded. Everhard and Company had made his protective amul
et. They also made jock straps. He figured that any company that could protect the family jewels against soccer balls or errant limbs could just as well protect the rest of him from ghostly enchantment or spells.

  "You have one too?" she guessed, maybe from the look on his face. "Although I would imagine vampires are protected from most malicious mischief."

  Her words caught him off guard. "Most, but not all," he said. "A very powerful ghost can overcome a vampire, if he doesn't wear some protection," he admitted with a small smile. Then he poured more red wine in their glasses.

  "I'll admit to being surprised that you didn't know that fact, since you're supposed to be the expert on the supernatural. At least, that's what you keep telling me," he sallied.

  The Prince's comment stung Sam's pride, but she didn't let on. "Expert enough to be alive and kicking at almost thirty," she growled.

  "What is 'almost thirty'?"

  She shrugged. "Not there yet."

  He hated to admit it, but he had the sense she was going to last a lot longer than that.

  Rasputin's Monk-ey business

  Romance was in the air. Damn that Rasputin, Sam thought as she gazed over at Prince Petroff. They had just finished their steak dinners and skipped dessert—or, rather, he had skipped dessert. She figured he was still hoping that she would be his cherry jubilee.

  He was staring at her with a half smile on his face,. his eyes smoky, smoldering, making her feel hot and bothered. If she were a man, she'd take what the Prince was offering. Of course, if she were a man he wouldn't be offering, and she wouldn't have these conflicts of interest with herself or even have this stupid conversation with herself, either. Sam shook her head in disgust.

  "Cat got your tongue? Or are you nervous being up here all alone with me?" the Prince asked.

  Shifting her position on the low-backed sofa, she determinedly touched her amulet. She would not be seduced, even if Rasputin was practicing his ghostly enchantments. Nor would she be just another notch on the Prince's coffin lid. No deranged, horny ghost would get her involved with an oversexed vampire; she'd overcome worse before.

  "I'm not a coward, but I'm also not stupid. Being alone with an experienced vampire at night is not something a good girl finds easy."

  He shifted closer. She inched away.

  Petroff shook his head, amused. "So, my vampire powers worry you? In your line of business, I would have thought you well-used to dealing with the undead."

  "Most of my business deals with the peskier, more petite creatures of the night, wiseguy. But I'm not in virgin territory here. I dated a vampire or two when I was young and foolish." To be honest, she had never been all that attracted to the walking dead; she'd been more in tune with hotter-blooded creatures like shapeshifters.

  No, Sam had dated exactly two vampires in her life, and she had never gotten seriously involved with either. She didn't want to end up being one of them, more or less immortal. What could be worse than sleeping in tight spaces under a pile of mud? Or drinking blood, when she really didn't even care for tomato juice! And no way in hell was Sam going to live for hundreds of years without Hershey bars or chocolate-covered strawberries. That was just plain inhumane.

  The Prince arched a brow in surprise. "You dated vampires? What happened?"

  She laughed. "Now, I ask you: Do I look like the kiss-and-tell type?"

  He looked both miffed and intrigued. "I wouldn't have thought you to be a girl interested in being anyone's food," he said.

  "I wasn't. I said that I had a date or two in college, not affairs with your nocturnal comrades. They took me to dinner, not as dinner."

  "So it wasn't love at first bite?"

  "No, definitely not."

  "Unusual. They could have used their vampiric charms," Petroff said, intrigued. "Why didn't they?"

  Lifting up the amulet from around her neck, Sam explained: "It's also bespelled to ward off Nosferatus' nefarious designs."

  "So, you resisted their allure," he remarked slyly. "But then, you hadn't met me."

  Dropping her amulet back into her sweater, Sam pointedly moved farther away. The Prince scooted closer. Like a wolf on the hunt, moving ever closer to his goal, his prey. He grinned in lupine delight. Sam inched against the sofa arm, a hand span between them. She gave him a look of supreme indifference, although she could feel her breasts standing to attention. He was the quintessential bat-ass lover.

  "I've heard that you have known thousands of women," she said.

  Petroff pulled back. "What is this, twenty questions? Perhaps I'm like you. I don't go for the old bite-and-snitch either," came his response, mocking her own earlier reply. He leaned in closer, reaching across the slight space between them, and ran one tantalizing finger over her slightly quivering lips.

  Leaping off the sofa, Sam put a half-dozen steps between them. It was as if the room was closing in on her. The air felt electrified by his energy, and she was tempted, so very tempted.

  "Well," she began, her heart pounding in her chest. "Somebody is talking. I've heard people say that if you eat a meal with a woman more than once she is expected to be the main course the next time you dine."

  The Prince looked annoyed. "I'm surprised you believe everything you hear. I don't pay much heed to gossip. I'm surprised you do. I thought you said you were smart."

  "Well, goody for you, not listening to gossip. But it pays to listen in my business."

  The Prince narrowed his eyes in patent disbelief.

  Sam narrowed hers right back. "My business success depends on listening when people blab. So I listen and even pay for information. And I listen to the best—demons most of the time. They're the best gossipmongers around, and generally correct. They have to deal with all those contracts for souls. They get a lot of weird wishes to fulfill—confessions almost. Kind of like a priest—except demons can't be Catholic. Still, the little buggers always know the juiciest gossip. They know heaps about vampires—especially royal vampires," she added.

  The Prince was leaning against the sofa, elbow bent, his head on his hand as he listened. "Demons, eh? You appear to know quite a bit about them. Do you deal with many in your line of work?"

  She shrugged. "My brother minored in devil deportation at university, so I've done quite a bit of reading while helping him with his studies. Fascinating stuff, if you're interested. Some of the best books are How to go to Hell in a Hand-basket, edited by K. Reeves, or Ageless Confessions of Serial Sinners, compiled by Dr. Faust. And if you don't mind using a legal dictionary while you're reading, then D. Webster's book, How to Beat the Devil at His Own Game, is quite good, too."

  She also had quite a bit of firsthand knowledge, since she had to dance with the devils on more than one occasion in her career. Fast on their cloven feet they were, which was one reason they were great at spreading gossip. They also did a mean tango, if you could stand their stinky breath—a vile and sulphurous odor she found intolerable. Demons also cursed up a blue streak when she sent them back to hell with her "Beam Them Down, Scotty" devil-vanishing kit.

  The Prince was distracted once again from his pursuit of Sam's glorious body. Sam, with her odd but unique comments had a way of doing that: making him reassess her abilities. He found he didn't like this particular skill, as she was good at distracting him both sexually and mentally. He decided to go for broke: "Sam, I don't want to talk anymore about demons or ghosts or anything else that goes bump in the night. I want to talk about making love with you."

  His words danced like the' proverbial pink elephant through the room. There was a stillness in the air as Sam stared at the hungry need in his smoldering gray eyes.

  "Business and pleasure don't mix," she finally replied, trying hard to listen to the voice of wisdom and ignore the voice of horny. She took a step back toward the door, a tiny step, but a step nevertheless. It was one step down the road to sainthood—or at least toward keeping her principles and panties intact.

  Petroff sighed as she gave him a Mona Lisa smile. "
You do know that most women head toward me, not away," he said.

  "I'm not most women."

  "I believe I've noticed that."

  Taking another step backward, she cursed her ethics. The Prince was everything sexy. But she had to be strong. "Uh… thanks for the meal. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow morning." And then she turned from the promiscuous prince, to make her escape by the skin of his teeth.

  Quicker than she could say "Jack Frost" or "What the hell are you doing?" he grabbed her, turned her toward him, and his arms flew around her like bands of steel. Before she could open her mouth and put her adorable foot in it, he leaned in and kissed her.

  The kiss was hot with possession. To Petroff it tasted of intimacy and of Sam, like a good fine brandy on a cold winter's night and a hint of sage honey; so golden, so sweet. His arousal stirred, and his hunger grew. She tasted as good as she looked.

  The Prince's lips were soft, like sweet velvet, caressing her, making her want more, and as he deepened the kiss, Sam sighed into his mouth. Her longing was betrayed by both the sounds she made and by her body seeking his, like a hand seeking the warmth of a glove on a snowy day.

  Grabbing his hair, Sam ran her fingers through it, transported to seventh heaven, though not ever having seen the first six. His hair was as thick and luxurious as it looked. She could do this forever. Would he let her trim it?

  Boy, oh boy, did this vampire know what he was doing. His kiss was dynamite, and it was more than apparent he'd been around the block a time or two. Hellfire! He'd been around the whole damn world by the way he kissed, and that thought agitated her at the same time as she went all hot and melty inside.

  Her sigh nearly sent Petroff over the edge. She had dreamed about just such a sound last night, dreamed that he had made her make it as she climaxed under him. Moving his hand to her breasts, he slowly began to massage, plucking at the nipples, feeling them harden underneath her sweater. He was fully tempted to take her down to the nearest flat surface and explore her completely in every position known to man, and possibly some that hadn't been invented yet; he'd always been an inventive male. His other hand slipped under her sweater and quickly unfastened her bra strap.