Sam came awake with the bright morning sun shining in her face. Without opening her eyes, she stretched slowly, her arms high above her head, savoring her sore muscles and the afterglow of being sexually and emotionally satisfied. She had never had a night like her last, and she had discovered an amazing fact: Sex was better than chocolate. Who'd have thought?
She felt wonderful—both after last night and because she had done a first-rate job getting rid of the ghosts. Maybe now she could consider meeting the enemy Strakhov face to face. She couldn't wait to tell him how she had stolen business right out from under his big fat Russian nose.
And not only had she gotten a big account with all the Prince's many homes around the world, she had made love with a passion she hadn't known she had possessed. She was still tingling from it.
Yes, Pete was a very special vampire. For one thing, most bloodsuckers went with the old adage If you got it, flaunt it, but she had never even seen Pete flash his fangs. A toothy smile, yes; fangs no. And last night had been terrific, leaving her aware that she and the Prince had connected on a very emotional level. In fact, their lovemaking had been even more terrific because of that—magical, special, the best ever—because there had been no serious biting or blood loss. Her and Petroff's souls had communed. For the first time in her life, Sam felt cherished.
Comparing other lovers to Pete was like comparing a broken down pickup truck to a Ferrari. He made her feel utterly female and impossibly special. Yes, indeed, he himself was better than chocolate.
Finally managing to open her eyes, she saw that her prince was gone. Patting the pillow beside her, she felt the blue silk. It was cool. Pete had been gone for more than a few minutes then. She frowned slightly, feeling slighted. Still, if he had left her bed, he obviously had business to attend before he had to go to ground and the sleep of the dead. And yet she had hoped for a morning wake up call: one more round of hot, lusty sex.
Climbing out of bed, she winced at the muscles of her thighs and in between. Those muscles hadn't been used in over four years.
Stepping into the shower, she hurried through the motions of washing, dressing just as quickly so she could find Pete and see his morning-after expression. Was he feeling sated and content? Was he edgy, the bite of sexual tensions urging him to spend the morning in his coffin in spite of the work he'd had scheduled for today? Did he feel guilty sleeping with a human who wouldn't let him drink her blood, and an ex-employee? Did a man like Prince V. ever feel guilt? Most vampires didn't.
Sam stuck her head into the Prince's bedroom, which was undisturbed. Next she tried the library, but no sign of Pete was to be found. Hurrying toward the kitchen, her heart beating fast, she fought the urge to skip with undiluted joy. She wondered what her uncle and brother would say about her dating a corpse? Hopefully she could convince them that she was happy, and that Pete was really quite lively for someone who had seen both the Franco-Prussian War and the French and Russian Revolutions.
Sticking her head into the kitchen, she found that Pete wasn't there either. Spying Mr. Belvedere in conversation with the cook, Sam explained eagerly, "I'm looking for Pete… Petroff. Do you know where he is?"
Mr. Belvedere smiled. "Prince Varinski left early this morning," he said.
Stunned, Sam felt her mouth drop open. It was like she had taken a sucker punch to the gut.
"Did he leave me a note or anything?" This couldn't be happening to her. She had finally found love—at least, she'd thought that was the feeling she was experiencing with Pete. She couldn't believe he would hurt her like this, not when she had been busy spinning daydreams in the shower. Now her freshly spun dreams were cobwebs, ashes and nightmares. Why had he left without saying anything?
Mr. Belvedere shook his head. "Prince Varinski said that his business here was finished, and that he had an emergency." The butler beamed and congratulated Sam, "And may I say how happy we all are for your help in getting rid of those atrocious ghosts? We think you're amazing. And the Prince agreed. Yes; you were quite efficient in the way you managed to rid Mandelay of two of its unwanted guests."
Sam gulped. Pete—no, Petroff—had abandoned her without a word of farewell; no rose on her pillow or even a lousy good-bye kiss. No asking to see her again. The affair had ended without a bang or a whimper. Well, she was thinking about having a whimper.
Her stomach was churning and her heart hurt. Yeah, she thought sourly, she should have been smart about the whole business, knowing better than to go to bed with such a promiscuous playbat. She should have expected this long sensual trip to paradise would end up nowhere, and she should have kept her jeans zipped tight.
Willing her face to remain expressionless, she nodded to the butler. She couldn't let anyone know how Petroff's defection had wounded her. Logically she knew their time together had been short, but the heart was a strange master, and it felt what it felt and loved who it loved, whether that occurred in three days or thirty years.
"I'm sure the Prince will call you as soon as he's able—he's such a busy vampire. But since you're his girlfriend, I imagine he'll be giving you a call sometime soon. He mentioned that you had a tiring night last evening, and that you needed your beauty rest."
She winced at Mr. Belvedere's words, guilt eating at her like a parasite. She had never been his girlfriend, and apparently never would be.
"I see," she said, and she did. She had given herself to him in joy and affection, with possibly the first stirrings of true love, and she had been cruelly rejected. No wonder he hadn't drunk her blood. She'd thought it was in consideration of her feelings, but rather it appeared the playboy prince hadn't wanted that close a connection. So much for their supposed communion of souls. He had made her into a one-night stand, three words Sam hated with a passion.
Using up her remaining self-control, she kept her face stoic though she was becoming aware of a pulse slamming somewhere in her temple. It was as if someone was repeatedly knocking a hammer there.
Trying to seem nonchalant, she smiled the smile of a wax dummy, thanked both the cook and the butler for their help, and explained she would be leaving. Scenes of Humphrey Bogart forcing Ingrid Bergman to go away with her husband in Casablanca flashed through her mind. She added; "I'm leaving and not looking back."
Packing her bags in haste, she left Mandelay behind in a cloud of dust, driving fast and furious, tears stinging her eyes. She would never forgive its bloodsucking lecherous leech of an owner—even though, in this case, she'd been the sucker.
No, she certainly wouldn't ever forget him; not since he had used her cruelly with nothing more on his mind than a quick pump in the night. How stupid of her to think that she was different, that he might actually care for her. Sam Hammett, master of her emotions, who generally kept a tight rein on her sexual urges, had ended as what she had never wanted to be: another notch on Prince Petroff Varinski's coffin lid. She'd give him the cold shoulder next time she saw him if she ever did!
As her car rounded a curve in the graveled road, Sam felt a chill bone-deep within her. She started to shiver. Oh yes, she was beyond hypothermia.