by Minda Webber
Sam was dissolving like sugar in tea, or really hot water. Waves of desire rode her hard. She was drowning, and she didn't give a damn. She was dissolving like a ghost could when angered, like Rasputin disintegrated last night after infecting the library with lust.
But then the windmills in Sam's mind finally began turning. Lust… Rasputin… Petroff… Playboy… Sex with her client. Mind-numbing sex. He would suck on her nipples and then on her neck. He'd bite her neck and her sweet, plump breasts. He would feast on her thighs and the sweet, hot haven in-between. She would be his midnight snack, his breakfast snack, and brunch. She would be—
"Hold it right there, buster," she warned as she shoved hard against his chest. No luck; she felt like she might have been shoving at a mountain. "I'm here to get rid of your ghosts, not raise your spirits."
Petroff sighed. He should have found her refusal irritating, but instead he found it refreshing. She was wholly her own person. She strained against his hold, wanting to be set free.
Fighting his instincts, he released her slowly, feeling a slight sense of loss as her heat moved away. "I have ghosts you need to put to rest. Let me just show you—"
Sneering she cut him off. "Nice try, bub, but I am not having sex with you."
He arched a brow.
"I mean it. I am not having sex with you," she repeated. "Read my lips." She wouldn't give him an inch or he'd take a mile. And while she might act the tough broad, her heart was just as vulnerable as the next.
"I'd rather kiss them," he replied.
Sam stepped away from temptation. "Boy, you just don't give up, do you?"
"Defeat's not in my dictionary," he agreed, and gave a simple shrug.
"Looks like we're at an impasse, then, because surrender is not a word I've ever used. Well, except just now. Besides, why should I fall for the slick line of a coffin-hopping vampire who's probably laid more pipe than all the plumbers in Pennsylvania?"
He was silent a moment. Finally, he said, "You certainly don't mince words, do you?"
She laughed.
"Well, good. I do so love learning these quaint American sayings." He looked away, clearly annoyed.
"You're just mad because you didn't get your way. But this is one woman who won't be dropping at your feet like a dead fly. I don't intend to be on your hit parade," she added as she took another step toward the door, which suddenly looked a mile away.
"It's hardly a parade," he corrected. "And what a romantic picture you paint."
"Romance has nothing to do with what you have in mind."
He stared at her. "Romance has everything to do with it. Come with me and I'll show you a world of sensual delights—and wicked fantasies. I'll make love to you like no one else ever has. That I can guarantee."
Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. "You and that ego of yours. How old are you? Did you ever meet Freud?"
In spite of his unresolved lust—his jeans were now two sizes too small—he laughed. "No, I'm afraid not."
"Well, I bet he would have had a field day with you. He'd need a field with the size of your self-love. You're a walking textbook on all that egomaniac stuff he wrote about. But it doesn't matter. I'm just not that kind of girl."
"What kind?" he asked.
"An easy lay. I'm nobody's beverage," she said resolutely. And with that, she headed toward the door.
"By all means, Sam, run away." Petroff halted her in her tracks with those provocative words, but he didn't press his assault. "If you need anything at all during the night—and I mean anything—give me a whistle."
Sam clenched her fists. No, surely not. Fate wouldn't be so cruel. This gorgeous hunk of a vampire watched Bogart movies and knew the lines? She glanced back at him, trying dismally to hide her shock.
"You do know how to whistle, don't you, Sam?" he asked impishly, flashing his sharp, beautiful teeth.
She stared at him. "What a crummy thing to say to a girl. If I had a stake—well, I'd whack you over the head with it." And then she fled.
Like a puff of smoke she was gone, leaving her flowery scent lingering in the room. Petroff sighed. This woman would never go gently into his bed. Still, he didn't want things gentle. And since he never lost, he'd have the Sleeping Beauty whistling Tchaikovsky before the week was through, and nutcracker or not, his canon would be accompanying her 1812 overtures.
Yes, We Have No Bananas Today
The next morning brought a new surprise for Petroff as he opened the kitchen door and found Sam with her head in the oven. He was curious to know what the Bus tin' expert was up to now, since she wasn't the suicidal type and the stove was electric. He had to admit that he enjoyed the view sticking up in the air, her jeans showcasing her heart-shaped butt, temptation incarnate.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," she said as she pulled her head out of the oven, her fingers tapping a beat on the kitchen counter. "I know you're here somewhere, Jules. No need to be in a snit. I'm sorry about the bananas." Sam stared at the cabinets in front of her and she opened them one by one. "Really, Jules, there's no need to sulk. Quit monkeying around and come back so we can talk. You know I sent Beverly to the store to pick up some bananas. Tons of bananas."
Grinning, Petroff asked, "What bananas?"
Sam jumped, turning to face him, her eyes narrow. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on a Paranormalbuster hunting for ghosts?"
"Apparently not," he replied with a grin.
She grinned back. "Well, a word of warning: Don't."
"I'll take it under advisement. Now, about those bananas…"
"You do know curiosity killed the cat," Sam teased. She poured herself a cup of coffee.
"When I find the cat, I'll be sure to warn him," he remarked dryly. "I came here to invite you to dinner tonight."
Sam nodded warily. He was watching her with more than a hint of hunger in his eyes, and the vampire would tempt a saint. She was many things, but not a saint.
"It needs to be an early dinner. Especially with Jules being difficult."
Cocking a brow, he neither agreed nor disagreed, asked instead, "Bananas?"
"Okay, okay. Jules was here earlier this morning. I thought, this is great, I can talk to him about the deal with the Ghost Network. Unfortunately, he was in the mood to make banana muffins."
"So, what's the problem?"
"Well, we have no bananas today." She added, frowning slightly, "I suggested blueberry. He took exception to my suggestion."
Glancing around the immaculate kitchen, Petroff asked, "How?"
Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she suddenly dodged. A cream puff pastry fell from nowhere, landing in her outstretched hand, squishing out some of its creamy filling.
"It's raining cream puffs?" Petroff stared, his expression solemn but his eyes dancing with humor. "His retribution is cream puffs? Rather sweet revenge, no?"
"What can I say? He must like me—or at least the castle, which is fortunate. But I don't think he's too fond of the cook or Mr. Belvedere."
"What's not to like?" Petroff remarked as he watched Sam drink her coffee and take a reluctant nibble of the pastry. "Ah… sweets for the sweet."
"I love cream puffs usually, but this morning I've already eaten seven. I truly hope he switches to sandwiches or pizza soon," she remarked wryly. She rubbed her tummy.
"So you've sent the assistant cook to the store for bananas."
"Yeah, a boatload of them, trying to bribe him. But he still won't rematerialize."
"Ah yes, ghost psychology," he remarked with a trace of sarcasm.
Sam growled. "Don't knock it. I use it a lot."
"I imagine you would, since your major in college was—how did you put it?" He looked amused. Holding out a hand, he smiled faintly. "Ah yes, the three G's."
She nodded. "Ghosts, goblins and gremlins. In my work, believe me, the stuff comes in handy. I also studied preternatural biology, though my focus was more on gargoyles, trolls, leprechauns, witches and warlocks. I have a minor in
that. And I took several classes on vampire and werewolf physiology."
He cocked his head and studied her. She was much too pretty to be out chasing things that might cut her face and figure to ribbons, or might rip out her throat in a single bite. "Yours is a dangerous occupation. Didn't anyone ever explain the facts of life or death to you?"
Crossing her arms over her chest, she narrowed her eyes. "This should be interesting."
"Men are born to be strong. They're the ones conditioned to go off to fight wars and monsters, while women are meant to be soft, caring and patch men back together. Men and monsters alike need a soft warm haven to come home to, a soft warm breast to rest their heads upon after dealing with death and pain." His explanation was rational and made great sense, so why did Sam look like she'd swallowed a dozen more cream puffs?
Feeling as if a glass of cold water had been poured over her head, Sam narrowed her eyes into thin slits. The Prince's attitude was so backward-thinking that it had positively reached the Dark Ages. Of course, he'd probably been around at the time.
"You men tear it up and we women fix it? Your attitude could use some serious adjustment, Pete. You need to get with the twenty-first century here."
"I am who I am," he replied mysteriously, letting her feminism slide for the time being. "And you are who you are." He suddenly took her hand. "Why do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Bustin'. I know it's a family business, but do you enjoy what you do for a living?"
Putting her coffee aside, Sam tried to explain her motivating factors in life, something both simple and complex. "Sometimes life just happens when you're living it; choices are made before you're born. Fighting tooth and nail with creatures that have bigger fangs and claws than I have can be tricky sometimes, but I use my head and experience, and I guess I've grown to love the adrenaline high. And I bust my gut to do a good job."
"But it's extremely dangerous. This isn't just dog eat dog. You're risking your neck for a business that could literally eat you alive!"
"Well, that's a drawback," she agreed. She thought a moment and added, "I think living life on the edge like this is part of the pull. I'm rarely bored, and worknights are never dull. Besides, my company has an excellent safety record. Nobody's ever died—except my parents. And that had nothing to do with Paranormalbusting, since a rogue Godzilla killed them when they were on vacation in Tokyo. Kind of ironic, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said.
"It was a long time ago, but thanks. I loved them dearly and still miss them at times. Anyway, Bustin' isn't just all spills and thrills, I also get to help people. I'm kind of like the supernatural Terminex man. But I excel at finding supernatural pests a new place where they're wanted, which is extremely satisfying. Watching ghosts or gremlins find loving homes, or at least homes where they're not cursed or exorcised… I was born to this business. My earliest memories are of my parents traipsing about haunted houses or in cemeteries."
"Thrills?" Petroff echoed, grimacing as he recalled the state of his kitchen and his favorite sweater. "Ghosts can be a cantankerous lot."
"Depends on the ghost. Some spooks really are just high spirits. Others, the static ones, have a problem making contact—you know, projecting their image. With those guys you get a lot of white noise. It's strange, because most ghosts can manifest themselves A-OK. Like the ghost riders in the sky, or the specter that haunts Fort Phantom in Texas. And those nasty little spooks in Tombstone, Arizona. Only problem with those ghosts is that they have a western taste, spitting tobacco and beetle juice—not to mention their jangling spurs in the middle of the night. You try sleeping in any hotel in Tombstone after midnight with jangling spurs strutting up and down the hallway."
Petroff found himself grinning at the pictures she was painting with her words. "If I'm ever tempted to go to Arizona, I'll bring a soundproof coffin," he agreed.
She laughed and continued, encouraged by his interest. "I know a spook that has a thing for poultry. He keeps one around at all times and does a ventriloquist act called the Ghost and Mr. Chicken. Then there's this lady who is human, but her husband is a ghost. Well, they wanted to open a dance studio with both of them as instructors. Problem was, he was a newbie ghost and couldn't manifest himself. I sent him off to school."
"You did? Where?" The Prince fought a wave of hilarity. For someone with a balls-of-steel attitude in business, Sam's dry sense of humor was wonderful.
It was also clear that she loved her job—which was unfortunate.
"The City of Ghosts, where else?"
"Of course. How stupid of me not to figure it out," he teased. "Although, it's hard to believe that ghosts have cities now. Strange, that so many people who die can't find their way into heaven or hell."
"Yeah, and over seventy percent of those ghosts are male! That's why female spooks are at a premium. I can place a female phantom almost anywhere." She gave him a pointed look.
"Why is the percentage so high for men, do you think?" the Prince asked.
Sam grinned. "I was probably about twelve when I asked my mother that same question. I didn't really understand her answer then, but now I do."
"What did she say?"
"That ghosts were spirits who had gotten lost on their way to heaven and hell. They're mostly men because when did a man ever stop to ask for directions?"
Ninety-nine bottles of Beer on the Wall—And One Wine Bottle on the Toe
After sending Andy and his art supplies on their way to London, Sam spent half the next day and part of the night playing hide and seek with the temperamental but sly Chef Jules. It wore her out. It also left her slightly tipsy.
She had tracked the crafty spectral from the kitchen to the north tower and back to the south tower, and just when she was about to give up, she'd discovered him in the wine cellar. The Chef had been Machiavellian in his negotiation, and for a short time she had been afraid that she was going to have to give up the ghost. Fortunately, Sam's spunk and mule-stubborn nature outlasted the galloping gourmet's jackass nature, and four bottles of wine later, she had her deal signed and sealed.
Out of the four bottles, Sam had consumed one. Her logical arguments had become increasingly illogical as the night wore on. Still, she managed, and in spite of the overwhelming problems associated with dealing with the grasping ghost, she had finally worked out a deal juicy enough to be worth the phantom chefs wily while.
You see, Jules confided that he'd always wanted to go to Paris, which was where his cooking show would be produced. He was quite happy that the Ghost Network's regular host was Casper, whom he had long admired. Jules had also been impressed with the large quality of the mediums who would appear in small guest spots to do a little cooking, like Allison Dubois, and there were also going to be guest spots by the deceased alumni of Saturday Night Live.
It was a sweetheart of a deal. Still, Chef Jules, the picky phantom, had demanded yet more. He was a tough poltergeist with an insanely overinflated self-worth. So with her Bustin' business reputation on the line, Sam had quickly formed a brilliant scheme that probably, seen in the naked light of day and without the wine's influence, would not be as brilliant as she thought: She'd conceded to Jules—actually, bribed him with—five cases of fine old wine from Prince Petroff Varinski's wine cellar.
It was a fact she would mention to Petroff later; much later. Like, maybe when the pompous Petroff was in one of his better states: absent. Or when hell froze over.
Still, she laughed out loud. She couldn't wait until the sneaky Strakhov brothers found out she'd ousted two tenacious phantoms from their Prince's castle. Oh yeah, she'd show those slimeball Strakhov brothers who was the number one ghost-getter in town.
Sam took a moment to enjoy her victory. After finally ridding herself of the greedy, grasping ghost chef, she lay back on a barrel of wine with a pinstriped chair cushion propped beneath her shoulders and head, and she began to hum. A bottle of Zinfandel was balanced on her big toe, sticking out like a so
re thumb. Well, no, it was more like a sore big toe.
Choosing a song, she let rip. "Ninety-nine bottles of wine on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of wine…"
When she reached thirteen bottles, the cellar door burst open and in stalked the Prince. Pointing a long elegant finger at her, he growled, "There you are. I've been looking all over this monstrosity of a mausoleum for you. You missed dinner with me!" He was clearly angry at being stood up; his dignity was dented.
She didn't know it, but Petroff was also angry because Samantha Hammett wouldn't quit walking around in his mind. He enjoyed women and lovingly lusting after them. But that lust was reserved to short spells when he would see them, and it generally lasted only until the morning light. He didn't enjoy thinking about a female during his daylight hours. He needed his rest. He was a busy preternatural predator. But busy or not, the image of Samantha Hammett didn't care; she kept popping up in his mind like a demented fishing cork.
Sam wrinkled her nose. The Prince was not at his friendliest, and was using his North Pole voice. If she weren't so warmed by all the wine she'd consumed, she might feel a chill.
"You only want to eat with me so you can have sex with me after," she explained as well as she could with a bottle of wine in her system and a hiccup punctuating the end of her sentence. "Besides, I know vampires don't really need food all that much. You just want to suck my blood. Have you sucked on… anyone else tonight?" Closing one eye, she looked him over. "You look well fed, all pink and rosy. In fact, if I were a betting broad—and I am—I would almost bet you weren't a va-vampire."
Petroff stared at her warily. "What are you mumbling about?"
"You're too dark to be vampire," she realized. "You have a tan."
He snorted derisively. "I have olive skin."
"Oh," Sam said. Another hiccup overtook her, then she gave him her best one-eyed pirate look, studying him like a bug under glass.