Sam sought Nic in his room at the Transylvania Hotel, leaving Alex to explain to Prince Varinski and the rest of the group what had transpired at the Statue of Liberty. Pounding on his door, she tapped her foot impatiently while waiting for Nic to answer, which he did in a pair of jeans and nothing else.
Shoving her way past, Sam searched the room. With relief she saw that Nic was totally alone.
"Where's that Irish potato biter?" Sam snapped, her back to Nic. She had plenty to say, but as she turned and saw his hard muscular chest, and the thin line of dark hair disappearing into his low-slung jeans, her mouth had a mind of its own. She wasn't made of stone. Although, if Nero had his way…
"Forest is down on six, with Petroff and the others in my cousin's room. Why? Did you think she'd be up here with me?"
"Where else? She's all over you like a fungus."
Nic laughed. He moved closer, and his laughter died as he saw her beat-up face and the blood in her hair. She looked like death wanned over, and by someone who didn't know how to cook.
He tenderly touched the cut on her forehead, where a purple knot was forming. "You're hurt."
"A lot you care," Sam retorted. She wasn't sure why she was acting so hostile.
"But I do. If you only knew. You're like some kind of disease I didn't want to catch, but I can't shake the bug now that I have it," he said. He smoothed a strand of lose hair behind her ear.
Sam batted his hand away. "Oh, great! I make you sick, is that what you're saying?"
"That's not what I mean and you know it. Now, what happened? How'd you get into trouble? If you didn't go to the Statue of Liberty—"
Stabbing a finger down at her muddy and ripped jeans, Sam interrupted, "I did. And, Mr. Know-It-All Nic, guess where Nero was tonight?" He had made light of her hunch, but her hunch had been right on the mark. He should have backed it.
Nic started cussing in Russian, German, and maybe Chinese—Sam wasn't sure, not being a scholar of Asian languages.
"I can't believe it. The one place I felt sure you'd be reasonably safe, and you got attacked!"
Glaring at him, hands on hips, she said caustically, "Poor you, being wrong. All things considered, I would have preferred being at American Gothic with you and Ms. Pining-for-You Forest. It's lots more fun standing around than being tossed on my head by some snake-haired man."
Nic felt a blast of terror. "What happened? Is Alex alright?"
Observing the worry in his eyes, Sam quickly explained what had occurred outside the Statue of Liberty; she didn't want him to fear for his brother. She could wait to blast him for his wolfish secret, since everything was relative.
Taking things from the beginning, she led Nic through the night's events, telling him all that had happened, with a few minor exceptions: She left out her seeing Alex naked and Alex's head in her crotch.
As Nic listened, his fists clenched and unclenched in anger, and the muscle in his jaw began to tick. The two of them might have been stoned tonight! He was furious; but then, so was Sam. And to be honest, Sam didn't seem nearly as angry about almost being made a rock woman and losing her quarry as she was about Alex turning into a werewolf. Suddenly a thought struck him, hard, smack-dab and dead center, and he was aware of just how mad Sam really was. And why. She knew he was a werewolf.
A little late, Nic tried to gather Sam into his arms. She backed away, shouting, "You secretive sneak! You four-footed beast! You impersonating impostor! You're a wolf in creep's clothing and you didn't bother to mention it!"
She'd called him worse, Nic realized. There was yet hope. He had a lot riding on what he said next, and he needed to proceed with caution to take the bite out of his words.
Hands on hips, eyes flashing, she snarled, "You… Marxist werewolf, you!"
Nic shook his head like a dog shakes off water. Of all the names she could have shouted, he wasn't expeering that. "I've been called names before, but never that. I'll have to give you an A for originality." He laughed.
"You cold-blooded Russian werewolf! You royal coldblooded Russian werewolf! What other secrets are you keeping? Do you have a wife somewhere? Do you moonlight as a spook? Do you wear women's underwear? Were you alive during the Russian Revolution? Do you get dipped for fleas once a month?"
Nic addressed the second to last question; the others were not deserving of an answer. "I was a young boy during the Revolution, yes."
Sam's mouth opened to continue her rant—she was just getting started—but his words stopped her dead in her tracks. He'd been a boy in 1918, which made him really old. "You… look younger," she muttered finally. Was he too old for her?
Nic stared at her, as if reading her mind. "For an expert about these things, you really aren't using your head. You know we age slower than humans—about a year to your three."
Now it was Sam's turn to shake her head—like a dog, even though she wasn't related to any. Nic was too old for her; decades too old. He'd probably fought in World War II and knew Stalin personally. He'd actually had to live behind the iron curtain—not a pleasant situation for a werewolf, as they were allergic to iron. Yep, this man was old. If only he weren't also such a rugged, virile, magnificent male. "I hate your lying werewolf guts," she snapped.
She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. Well, wasn't that mature, she thought. She should have just settled for a left hook to the groin.
She clasped her fist and raised it, then lowered it again.
"Why stop pulling punches now?" he growled.
Sam sniffed. "I believe in keeping something in reserve."
"Come on, Sam, don't be mad at me."
"Mad? Oh, I'm not mad. I'm howling furious. Or I would be howling if I were one of your kind. You should be horsewhipped," she stated emphatically, then hesitated a moment and corrected, "wolf-whipped, for all the secrets you've kept from me. And now you say you care? What a dog you are."
She was wound up and going strong. "How can I ever trust you? First you pretend to be Prince of the Playbats. Well, you really are a Prince, just not Prince Varinksi, who happens to be your cousin. Later I think you're a wolfish competitor, my arch business rival. Now I find out you're a werewolf, pretending to be human, who once pretended to be a vampire. Just what will I find out next?"
When Nic opened his mouth to defend himself, Sam sliced her hand through the air. "Don't answer. I know what you are—a first-rate jerk!"
Nic thought for a minute she might punch him, but she didn't. He didn't know why he found this ranting and raving fascinating, but he did. He didn't know why he liked these violent tendencies in her, but he did. Probably it was due to his werewolf DNA. "Come on, Sammy, you're making a mountain out of a mothball."
"That's a molehill!" she shrieked. "Trust is not a molehill!"
"You know you can trust me, even with your life. I only pretended to be something I'm not because of the business situation. But that won't happen anymore. You know all my secrets," he swore, his gray eyes smoldering with sincerity and concern. "Honestly, I'm telling you the truth and nothing but the truth now."
He looked so good, standing there half-naked. He smelled so good, too, with his woodsy, musky scent. She weakened. "I might trust you now and then."
Nic smiled.
Annoyed, Sam added one final thought. "But you'll just have to guess when. Maybe I'll trust you tomorrow, maybe next year. Maybe the year 2075. Of course, I'll be dead by then, but you might still be around—alive and licking."
Eyes darkening in anger, Nic cursed. Why was she not more forgiving? It seemed he would have to crawl, something a Strakhov just did not do. "I know what you want, Sam. You want me to crawl on my hands and knees and beg your forgiveness."
"In human form," she agreed. Somehow, a begging werewolf would use its puppy dog eyes and she'd cave in and rain kisses all over his handsome snout.
Pride always went before a fall. Nic fell. Dropping to his knees, his expression taut with disapproval at what he was doing, he said, "I'm truly sorry, Sam, for hurting you, for lying to you, and for not telling you about my heritage. And that is the whole truth."
"You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you on the behind," she grumped.
Controlling his anger, Nic explained, "I meant to tell you sooner about my heritage, but I wanted to wait until you had forgiven me for all the other stuff. Stuff you had every right to be angry about." He nuzzled her hand. "You've got me down on my knees, and you can have me eating out of your hand if you just whistle, Sam. I'm yours—beast and all."
Sam almost gave up, gave in; the man had too much animal appeal. But then, that was the nature of this beast. With willpower she didn't know she possessed, she backed away, maintaining her dignity. "Get up, Nic. I'll accept your apologies, but I won't forgive you."
Nic was on his feet in less than a second, accepting her challenge. He moved quickly, gracefully, and caught both her hands and forced them around behind her back. He hauled her resisting body against his own, took swift advantage. "Whistle for me, Sam—whistle because you're going to be mine."
Lowering his head, he kissed her long and hard, a ruthless kiss. It was a kiss of possession that devoured her, tasted and lastly cherished her. He had been too long without her, and the wolf in him had finally recognized its mate.
Sam didn't want to respond, but she couldn't help herself. He tasted of the richness of the earth and dark pleasure. His arms were strong and warm against her, holding her to him, pinning her. She could feel his desire, which increased her own. She was ready and able.
Unfortunately, she wasn't quite willing. Making a monumental effort, she pulled away from his questing lips. "It's too much, Nic. I need time to think. I… You hurt me bad."
Glancing down at the huge bulge straining the zipper of his jeans, he remarked, "I'm hurting myself. How do you expect me to get any sleep?"
She grinned impishly. "You could try counting sheep. If you don't eat them first." And then she walked out of his hotel room, trying to feel proud of her self-control.