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 words 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."
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 amulet. 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.