After sending Andy and his art supplies on their way to London, Sam spent half the next day and part of the night playing hide and seek with the temperamental but sly Chef Jules. It wore her out. It also left her slightly tipsy.
She had tracked the crafty spectral from the kitchen to the north tower and back to the south tower, and just when she was about to give up, she'd discovered him in the wine cellar. The Chef had been Machiavellian in his negotiation, and for a short time she had been afraid that she was going to have to give up the ghost. Fortunately, Sam's spunk and mule-stubborn nature outlasted the galloping gourmet's jackass nature, and four bottles of wine later, she had her deal signed and sealed.
Out of the four bottles, Sam had consumed one. Her logical arguments had become increasingly illogical as the night wore on. Still, she managed, and in spite of the overwhelming problems associated with dealing with the grasping ghost, she had finally worked out a deal juicy enough to be worth the phantom chefs wily while.
You see, Jules confided that he'd always wanted to go to Paris, which was where his cooking show would be produced. He was quite happy that the Ghost Network's regular host was Casper, whom he had long admired. Jules had also been impressed with the large quality of the mediums who would appear in small guest spots to do a little cooking, like Allison Dubois, and there were also going to be guest spots by the deceased alumni of Saturday Night Live.
It was a sweetheart of a deal. Still, Chef Jules, the picky phantom, had demanded yet more. He was a tough poltergeist with an insanely overinflated self-worth. So with her Bustin' business reputation on the line, Sam had quickly formed a brilliant scheme that probably, seen in the naked light of day and without the wine's influence, would not be as brilliant as she thought: She'd conceded to Jules—actually, bribed him with—five cases of fine old wine from Prince Petroff Varinski's wine cellar.
It was a fact she would mention to Petroff later; much later. Like, maybe when the pompous Petroff was in one of his better states: absent. Or when hell froze over.
Still, she laughed out loud. She couldn't wait until the sneaky Strakhov brothers found out she'd ousted two tenacious phantoms from their Prince's castle. Oh yeah, she'd show those slimeball Strakhov brothers who was the number one ghost-getter in town.
Sam took a moment to enjoy her victory. After finally ridding herself of the greedy, grasping ghost chef, she lay back on a barrel of wine with a pinstriped chair cushion propped beneath her shoulders and head, and she began to hum. A bottle of Zinfandel was balanced on her big toe, sticking out like a sore thumb. Well, no, it was more like a sore big toe.
Choosing a song, she let rip. "Ninety-nine bottles of wine on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of wine…"
When she reached thirteen bottles, the cellar door burst open and in stalked the Prince. Pointing a long elegant finger at her, he growled, "There you are. I've been looking all over this monstrosity of a mausoleum for you. You missed dinner with me!" He was clearly angry at being stood up; his dignity was dented.
She didn't know it, but Petroff was also angry because Samantha Hammett wouldn't quit walking around in his mind. He enjoyed women and lovingly lusting after them. But that lust was reserved to short spells when he would see them, and it generally lasted only until the morning light. He didn't enjoy thinking about a female during his daylight hours. He needed his rest. He was a busy preternatural predator. But busy or not, the image of Samantha Hammett didn't care; she kept popping up in his mind like a demented fishing cork.
Sam wrinkled her nose. The Prince was not at his friendliest, and was using his North Pole voice. If she weren't so warmed by all the wine she'd consumed, she might feel a chill.
"You only want to eat with me so you can have sex with me after," she explained as well as she could with a bottle of wine in her system and a hiccup punctuating the end of her sentence. "Besides, I know vampires don't really need food all that much. You just want to suck my blood. Have you sucked on… anyone else tonight?" Closing one eye, she looked him over. "You look well fed, all pink and rosy. In fact, if I were a betting broad—and I am—I would almost bet you weren't a va-vampire."
Petroff stared at her warily. "What are you mumbling about?"
"You're too dark to be vampire," she realized. "You have a tan."
He snorted derisively. "I have olive skin."
"Oh," Sam said. Another hiccup overtook her, then she gave him her best one-eyed pirate look, studying him like a bug under glass.
His wary expression faded as he finally grasped what he was seeing. Sam's lovely golden hair was a mess, and she was lying on a barrel of wine, her back braced by some sort of cushion. She was slurring her esses, and she had a bottle of wine balanced on her big toe. Sam wasn't just in her cups; she was in her casks. And he had evidence of her transgression in spades. "You're drunk!" he accused.
"Brilliant de-deduction, Sherlock." Hiccup.
"You're drunk on the job and you have a bottle of wine on your toe," he added judiciously as he came to stand by her side.
"Your powers of observation are a-astounding. Maybe you should be a spy. You could spy for America on the Russians. Or, as a Russian spy, you could spy on some other countries. But not on America. That wouldn't be American. And we wouldn't want that. Even though you're Ru-Russian, you do want to be an American, even if you are a spy, right? Can vampires be spies?"
"I believe you Yankees call this drunk as a skunk," Petroff said. Lifting his eyes to the heavens, he slowly shook his head.
"Ha! Skunks don't drink, they just stink. Hey, that rhymes. And I'm not drunk, merely in-intoximated," she said seriously, her prim demeanor belied by another hiccup. "Intoxicated."
Ignoring her, he asked, "Why do you have a bottle of wine on your big toe?"
Never at a loss for words, she answered, "I was ne… negoat… negotiating with Jules. You know what a sot he was in human form. Well, in ghost form that goes ditto. It took three bottles of wine for him and one for me to get him to agree to move. He's leaving tonight, three sheets to the wind."
Hiccuping again, she pushed her hair out of her face. "Probably he's already gone. Vanished. Gave up the ghost digs. Rode the old ghost train out of the castle. He tried to drink me under the table, but. I foo… fooled him," she explained grandly as she pointed to the barrel she was sitting upon.
Petroff's lips twitched. Gesturing to her foot, he asked, "I'm a bit confused. You got him to go because you stuck a wine bottle on your foot?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, again slurring the 5. "He told me his hobby was building those ship-in-the-bottle things. I said I could do it, too," Sam explained. She looked sadly at her foot with the large green bottle attached. "But I didn't have any b-boats."
Swallowing back a laugh, he had a flash of understanding. "I get the picture. You used your big toe in lieu of a ship. And now it's stuck."
"And now it's stuck," she repeated. "My gosh, you are bril… brellant. Oh, damn. Smart," she corrected as she leaned over to pat him on the shoulder.
"Even more than you know."
Sam grinned lopsidedly and pointed at him, missing by about two feet. "You should say 'thank you' and 'you did a swell job, kid.'" She hiccuped.
"Sam, oh Sammy," he admired. "You did a fine job of ridding the castle of two of the ghosts. If only you hadn't managed to get yourself plastered in the process."
"Oh, damned with faint praise! Come on, Petey, admit it—I did a fantastic, fabulous, fu-funking fine job. Oh, whatever! Now you'll want me to do any other critter removal you may need in the future. I will of course be de… delighted. I am the number-one Paranormalbuster in Vermont. Hell, the best in the whole northeastern part of the U.S.—maybe even the world!"
Hiccuping and smiling brightly, Sam patted herself on the shoulder and almost fell off the cask.
"Sam, you're good. But you're not that good. Monsters-R-Us is just as formidable," the Prince replied.
Sam's smile froze on her face, and she hiccupped again while shoving her hair out of her eyes. Those eyes flashed fire as she snapped, "Mea culpa, you lout. I have two ghosts down and gone, to your one in the hand—or should I say in your castle!"
Smiling enigmatically, he remarked, "While you were working on the chef, I hammered out a solution for Rasputin. He's also leaving," the Prince bragged, proud of the deal he had made with the appalling apparition, and also proud that the castle would now be ghost-free. Business was good. Life was good. All that could use a lift was his sex life. Well, not a lift, he thought wryly; Samantha Hammett managed to "lift" him just by breathing. Still, she was inebriated, and he didn't take advantage of drunken ladies.
Yes, he was relieved that the galloping gourmet, the bad mad monk and the atrocious artist were all gone. Of course, he was reluctant to tie up the loose ends too quickly if that meant Sam would leave tomorrow morning. He had sampled her Bustin' skills; now he wanted to sample her bustier skills.
"How?" She appeared all ears—well, and breasts and legs. Her curiosity was rampant in spite of her sluggish mental processes. "That malicious monk was the worst of the bunch."
"I promised to send him to the land of milk and honey," the Prince explained.
Sam looked confused.
"Not really milk and honey, but to his own personal paradise. A land of champagne, caviar and orgies. Hollywood."
Sam's expression changed from perplexed to proud. "You're almost as smart as you're handsome!" she said. And with another hiccup out of the way, she leaned clumsily over and kissed him passionately on the chin.
Undeterred by her lousy aim, she added grandly, waving her hands in the air, "Nobody gets the better of Sam Hammett!"
Her second try had better aim: Her lips burned into his, making his heart pound like thunder. He could feel the beating of her heart, too. She tasted like berries and wine—tart and sweet and wonderful.
Kissing Pete felt wonderful. Sam ran her hands over his broad shoulders, thinking how safe he made her feel. He made her feel all woman—and horny as hell, if hell could get horny.
Sam had decided earlier to let the vampire make love to her. As she'd pleaded with Jules the wine in her bottle went down, along with her willpower. In her line of work, all she ever really had was the moment. If she was burnt to a French fry by a fire-breathing demon, killed by a lunging gargoyle or slimed to death by a plasm-pitching ghost, she would deeply regret not taking Pete up on his offer.
"Let's go to bed," she suggested as their kiss broke, feeling a connection that she had never before felt, a fierce compulsion to be all she could be for him. To share her thoughts and hopes with him and to hold him close and deep within her, giving of herself at the same time she received everything he had to offer.
He didn't make a move, only stared at her with grim determination.
"Where's all that seduction you've been throwing at me? Gone with the ghosts?"
"Let's get that bottle off your foot first," he offered instead. He wanted her desperately, but not drunk. He was ruthless when crossed, a hard, calculating man to do business with; but he didn't take advantage of women, even ones as adorable as Sam. Although, why he should consider her cute when she was got up to the gills, a deceitful wench wearing a big fat wine bottle on her toe, he couldn't quite figure out. In fact, he was stumped.
With a hard yank he jerked the bottle off her foot. A resounding pop filled the air and Sam screamed.
"Ouch! You big bully, you did that on purpose!"
"Of course I did. I had to get the bottle off," the Prince explained patiently, without any trace of remorse.
"Well, I won't go to bed with any vampire who hurts my big toe, even if his kiss knocked my socks off." And with those faintly damning words of praise, Sam closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Petroff picked up the sotted female, sighing as he realized what a hard day's night this was going to be. It appeared that Samantha Hammett was never going to go easy into any bed, let alone his.
Carrying her to her room, he pulled back the covers of her bed with one hand and gently deposited her on the mattress. Trying hard not to think about what he was doing, he removed her jeans. He sighed again.
Sam was short in height, but her legs were perfectly proportioned for her size and well muscled. She was very toned and fit. He bit his lip, his body at full attention.
This was murder: standing here staring at her luscious legs and the paradise between. Cursing softly in Russian, he unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons and slipped her sweater off her shoulders. She was wearing a low-cut lacy bra in dark blue, which matched her lacy panties. Pale, rose-colored nipples peeked through where the lace was sparse.
Oh, she was beautiful, half-naked and he was hungry, horny and dying to do what a man did when a woman was dressed only in her underwear: unzip his Levi's and hump away.
But reaching for his zipper, he struggled with his conscience, damning both himself and Sam. He couldn't take her like this.
Sam woke up to see the Prince standing over her, his expression taut. She smiled sleepily. He was better than the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus all rolled into one, and she could only imagine the gift he had for her. "You're pe… peeping."
He seemed genuinely offended, his voice harsh. "I'm not peeping. Russian princes don't peep."
Sam looked down at her half-clad body and giggled. "Looks like you're peeping to me."
"I wasn't peeping," he repeated huffily. "I was helping you undress. I reasoned that you would be more comfortable undressed."
"Imagine, a Russian vampire prince getting all hot and bothered about peeping." It had clearly wounded his dignity, and she regretted that. "Jeez, I'm sorry I accused you of peeping, and I'm sorry I fell asleep. But I'm not sleepy now." She yawned.
He arched a brow. "You drank too much. Now go back to sleep." His expression dark and hungry, he turned away. His conscience had won against his nether brain, and he was not a happy prince.
She yawned again, patting the bed beside her. "I don't want to be alone. I want you to make love to me. All night long. All through the night, and with that rather impressive bulge I see making a dent in your jeans, Peter." She grinned at her own silliness.
Unfortunately, the Prince didn't share her smile. It appeared that he was hard to make laugh. Well, he was at least hard.
"I told you time and again that my name is Petroff!" he warned grumpily, watching every move she made. His body was tense and aching.
"Peter, Peter, vampire feeder. Had a guest and couldn't keep her… satisfied." Sam giggled.
"Is this some kind of new American torture? You get drunk, ask me to have sex with you and then insult me with childish nursery rhymes?"
"What can I say? I'm a fun kind of girl." For a man who had been hunting her since the moment they met, his reluctance struck Sam as rather old-fashioned. It was sweet, but just plain stupid.
"Hellfire!" he said. "You're a pain in the ass and other more important regions. Besides, I thought you didn't get involved with your clients, mix business with pleasure." But if she jiggled her breasts just, one more time, he just might forget honor and give her the most wickedly wonderful ride of her young life, his conscience be damned.
Sam shrugged, her hair falling into her eyes. She pushed it sloppily back. "You are technically no longer a client. The business is done. You are ghost-free as of tomorrow."
"Hmm. It would appear so," he agreed.
She stared at him, then asked softly, "Did you know you're a hunk? Even if you are undead. Every now and then I can still see some of the boy in the man and the man in the vampire. And I'm lonesome," Sam pouted. She pushed herself up on her elbows, causing her breasts to squeeze together, a feast for the eyes and mouth. She hoped the Prince was paying attention. With rapid movements made messy by her inebriated state, she patted the mattress beside her one more time.
"I don't take advantage of women," he said, his voice hoarse with need. "But I must admit, you don't seem as drunk as you were in the wine cellar."
She wanted him, but she was suddenly sleepy and a little bit dizzy. "I have a weird metabolism. Alcohol moves fast through my system. Give me a couple of hours and I'll be good as new. So if you come to bed now, you can wake me later with a surprise. How about it, Peter?"
He growled at the use of his name and the image she created with her hot little mouth. Still, he held his ground, searched her face for the truth. He could both see and smell her lust for him. The dizzy, unfocused look she was wearing earlier had receded. Now she merely looked tired.
She dropped back down on the pillows, opened the covers and sighed, "For Pete's sake, come to bed."
He almost shredded his clothes getting undressed. For Peter's sake he would come to bed. He grinned as he climbed in, then laid down beside Sam and pulled her close, holding her tight and breathing in her spicy sweet scent. She was again asleep. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was close to midnight. He would give her three hours and then she was in for the longest, hottest ride of her life.
All for Pete's sake. Wasn't Pete a lucky boy?