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.
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.