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 thing 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 with 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.
"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.