While the Prince guided Sam away from the library and his meek disorderly servants, she found herself wound up tighter than a watch. She waited for the other shoe to drop, waited for him to order her out of his home into the cold, cruel night—or else into his hot, soft bed. Even though she ached to have his lips on hers, she wasn't easy, and she didn't intend to go to bed with this fiendish Don Juan of the Undead; not within fifteen minutes of meeting him.
Whether her sexual ache was the lingering effects of his lust-filled library, his bloodsucker charm or the man within the vampire, she didn't know, but she did know one thing, one very solid thing: She never mixed business and pleasure. No matter how sexy a vampire prince might be, she couldn't move this fast. Going to bed with Varinski might be one small step for him, but it was one giant leap for Samkind.
With those thoughts clacking around in her head, Sam pulled at the Prince's hand. "Thanks, but I don't need an escort," she said.
"But I insist. After all, I'm a gentleman, Samantha. You don't mind me calling you that, do you?"
"It's Sam. But you know who I am, don't you?" she continued without equivocation. "What I do for a living?"
"I suppose it's too much to hope that you're a high-priced call girl."
"Please," she said. "I saw the recognition in your face when Belvedere introduced us. You know I'm a Paranormalbuster." Who did he think he was, letting her pretend to be his girlfriend when he knew damn good and well that she wasn't? This crafty Nosferatu was up to something, but whether it was getting into her pants or somewhere more nefarious, she didn't yet know. But she would know, or her name wasn't Samantha Sabrina Hammett.
"Perhaps. And you can call me Petroff," he remarked, an odd quality to his voice.
"Aren't you curious why I'm here? And what are you doing here? I thought you were out of state. Don't you read calendars?" What kind of bad luck was this? If she didn't watch it, she was going to end up losing Prince Varinski's business before she even had it.
"Daily and I decided matters here at the castle needed attending to immediately. Isn't that fortunate for us?"
"There is no us."
"But there could be," he said, grinning wickedly.
Sam Hammett had a beauty that was definitely classic, the Prince decided. Such a shame she was who she was; not to mention that she was a liar and a sneak. Those were two traits he hated in females he intended to bed. But he would overlook them somehow.
"I'm here to help you," she remarked; then seeing his grin widen into a knowing leer, she added quickly, "with your phantom pest problems." Now, if he would only let go of her arm so she could scamper off into the darkness and get away from his touch.
"Perhaps you're the pest," he suggested wryly. He wanted to make her sweat for her subterfuge, and for making him want her. For being Sam Hammett, scourge of the ghost world and havoc-wreaker on the Strakhov Brothers.
"Thanks a lot. I know this looks bad, me barging in and all, but I have a plan to help you out," Sam replied. "Yes, I admit this looks bad. But it really isn't."
He smirked, feigning ignorance. "The orgy?"
Sam scowled. "I meant me being here, pretending to be something I'm not." The vampire was too good-looking for his own good. It must be true: a liquid diet was good for the system.
"But you could be," he interrupted seductively, his voice caressing her, "my mistress." The Prince added with a wicked grin, "I seem to be momentarily without one, and you're here. I'm a firm believer in answering the door when opportunity knocks. Or on knocking, myself."
It shouldn't have surprised her, his willingness to knock her up; vampires were notorious for seizing the night. Fast on their feet, they had to provide their own opportunities, pounding on doors and entering people's homes with only the slightest invite.
"Well, don't hold your breath," she advised him coolly. This vampire prince might be wily and domineering, but he would have to rise out of his coffin pretty early in the morning to put the bite on her.
The Prince grinned at her; he did so love a challenge, and Samantha Hammett was proving the ultimate.
Noting his cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Sam narrowed her eyes. She wasn't in the mood to be lunch. His proposal had been lacking in charm, and was highly insulting if slightly erotic. She wouldn't be anybody's plaything, although she might fantasize a bit sometimes. "Look, Prince V., you've got worse problems than not having a mistress at the moment. Let me make this short. You've got three ghosts in your castle that are devious, deranged and downright dangerous."
"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.