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?"