Hoping to learn a little more about the galling ghost, Sam sat down in the library for a couple of hours, waiting for a sudden flash of white or signs that the vodka on the sideboard was beginning to diminish. But she waited in vain.
As she rose to leave, sighing, a little kitchen etiquette reminded her that a watched pot never boils, and a mad, bad Russian monk who had been a ghost for almost a century would probably appear when she least expected it. He'd want to get the drop on her so to speak.
"Ha!" A ghost would have to get up pretty early in the day to get the drop on her. She was a good egg but a hard-boiled ghost detective, and she hadn't lived with her uncle so long without some of his detecting skills rubbing off on her. "Mr. Rasputin, you don't stand a ghost of a chance with me," she warned the empty room—just in case the malevolent monk was playing hide-and-seek. "I'll be back, and then you can just make my night."
Five People You Meet at an Orgy
Shaking her head, Sam glanced again around the castle's large library, which was filled with the Prince's servants. Everywhere people were in states of undress, with the loud strains of "The Stripper" blaring from a CD player. The room was now filled with candles of all scents and sizes, and was oozing lust like a leaky sieve. The mood, Sam reasoned was supposed to be one of romance, with buckets of champagne littered here and there, but it would be a cold day in hell before she would consider this group romantic.
Sam was too stunned to be totally repulsed, and a faint curiosity was wending its way through her brain. She watched in morbid fascination as if watching a train wreck in slow motion.
"Well, well. This is certainly a hot time in the old castle tonight. And it isn't even a demon convention, just a devilish ghost with lust on the brain," Sam muttered, her fingers pattering a beat on her jeans. Yup, Rasputin was at it again, and it appeared that his old black magic, that same old feeling he had engendered while alive, was alive and well even though he was dead.
The beyond-plump housekeeper, Mrs. Winters, who was not a day under sixty, was dancing a tango in her slip for the head gardener. Mrs. Winters, a woman who had greeted and treated Sam with a frosty civility, had evidently begun to thaw considering the way she was gyrating her hips. To make matters more bizarre was that the good-looking gardener wasn't resisting; he seemed more than willing to plant some seed in such an abundantly fertile and willing field, even though Mrs. Winters was December to his May-ish twenty-four. But then, in orgies, anything went. At least, that was what Sam thought. She really wasn't up on her orgy etiquette.
Glancing to her right, Sam spied the aging butler, Mr. Belvedere. Usually the epitome of everything proper and regimented, he now had his coat off along with his tie. He was licentiously taking a garter off the cook's assistant's shapely leg, and Beverly was giggling and blowing kisses at him or a bust of Napoleon; Sam wasn't sure which.
Tomorrow, Sam thought wryly, Mr. Belvedere was going to regret finding out that the butler had done it—and in front of a roomful of people. But tonight his libido was apparently on fire, and he stood leering at the sexy cook-in-training.
Sam had heard of orgies. Roman, mainly. But she had never before had a front row seat. Pinching herself with one hand helped to remind her of her duty to save the day and to stop normally circumspect people from faux fornication due to one mad monk's infamous inclinations. "Rasputin always loved to corrupt the innocent—or hell, even the wicked for that matter."
Subconsciously Sam fingered the amulet around her neck, Bustin' ghost-protection amulet given to her by her mother when she was five. The amulet protected her from all kinds of nasty poltergeist spells and was a required trinket for all serious Paranormalbusters.
As Sam played with the amulet she continued to survey the massive room, trying hard to catch a glimpse of the shadowy spook of the moment; Rasputin had to be around somewhere, most likely conducting the orgy like an orchestra maestro, complete with his big stick. Narrowing her eyes, she caught a glimpse of a luminescent shape off to her right.
"Gotcha," she muttered. The rotten phantasm was fading in and out, blinking on and off like a neon sign, and catching her first glimpse of him, she couldn't help but stare.
The Russian ghost was dark-haired and dark-bearded and very tall. He had bright scarlet eyes, was dressed in monk's robes and sat on the steps of the library's oak ladder, high amidst a stack of books, his big baton in hand. His smile was so cold that Sam shivered.
Once again touching her amulet for good luck, she started forward, willing herself not to fall under his spell. She was still worried, even though her amulet was top of the line. Like condoms, amulets weren't foolproof. An extremely powerful spell could affect the wearer, and since Rasputin was a prime phantom Sam had a right to worry. Luckily her amulet worked and she appeared immune to the spell, with only the faintest twinge of desire tugging at her hormones.
"Now, how to stop a full-scale orgy," she muttered. They hadn't covered this in her college class, Ghostly Enchantment 102. "Things are heating up and quickly. It's every female for herself." If she didn't want to end up down on the floor or the top of a desk with her feet in the air like a dead bug and doing the horizontal mambo, she needed to figure out a solution and quick. "Double-time quick," she mused as she saw Mr. Belvedere go for his pants.
She made a moue of distaste. She loved and respected older people, since they had seen and done things that she hadn't. "But I don't want to see old people naked. No way!"
Frowning, Sam concentrated hard on her dilemma. She could ring the fire alarm, but the way these people were moaning and carrying on, she didn't think they would even pay attention. Perhaps she would just turn on the fire sprinklers she spotted on the ceiling. Thank goodness the renovation of the castle had included safety issues!
"Yes, extinguishers might work. Rain on their parade, so to speak." It worked with dogs in heat, so maybe the same principle would apply with Rasputin's lust-driven stooges. Now, if she could just get Rasputin off that ladder, she could climb up and hold a candle under the sprinklers.
Sam made her move, her attention focused on the ghost, but she ran smack-dab into a hard chest. Her nose and breasts smashed against a muscular build. Startled, she stepped back and glanced up into the face of one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, the stuff that dreams were made of. He was tall, dark and devastatingly masculine, with thick wavy hair the color of deep midnight. He wore it several inches below his shirt collar. It was hair that made the hairdresser in her itch to run her fingers through it. The man had a physical strength as well. His expression was arrogant, in command, but he wore it well, along with an armor of cynicism.
The breath exploded from her lips in a rush. This man she had just tangled with was all male sexuality, a sexuality that curled her toes. And that was just the highlights. He was clearly a heartbreaker, able to section a girl's heart before breakfast and serve it like a grapefruit. No doubt, this was Prince Petroff Varinski in the flesh.
He was the night—nothing more and nothing less, she thought as the air around her began to hum with some strange current. Suddenly she felt like she had her own personal electrical storm stationed right above her head. Taking a deep breath, she scented him. He smelled all male, the odor of frost and damp woodsy earth, and some scent uniquely his own that tingled her senses.