He seemed affronted. "Princes are never boyfriends. But don't worry, my dear. I haven't forgotten you. How could I? Not when we've shared so many happy times." He grabbed her arm and held it, though not painfully. "I'll escort you upstairs, myself. After all, we have lost time to make up for."
Although she didn't like the sound of his words or the underlying threat, Sam kept her mouth shut.
Glancing grimly back at Belvedere, the Prince stated in a voice dripping with derision, "Make sure I don't interrupt another scene like this, not ever again." He held up his free hand to stop the complaints and excuses he saw coming from the butler. "I will deal with Rasputin. Now, no more orgies behind library doors—or any doors for that matter. I don't approve of this mischief."
"Mischief?" Sam muttered under her breath—but obviously not as quietly as she'd intended, since the Prince sent her a gravity-defying look. If he considered naked servants, an insane malicious ghost and library orgies mischief, she wondered what he'd call bigger problems.
Turning her attention back to the servants, she watched in disbelief. They all bowed and scraped so low, she was sure some of them were going to have backaches come morning and be in desperate need of some heavy duty painkillers.
The Prince's X-rated Diaries
While the Prince guided Sam away from the library and his meek disorderly servants, she found herself wound up tighter than a watch. She waited for the other shoe to drop, waited for him to order her out of his home into the cold, cruel night—or else into his hot, soft bed. Even though she ached to have his lips on hers, she wasn't easy, and she didn't intend to go to bed with this fiendish Don Juan of the Undead; not within fifteen minutes of meeting him.
Whether her sexual ache was the lingering effects of his lust-filled library, his bloodsucker charm or the man within the vampire, she didn't know, but she did know one thing, one very solid thing: She never mixed business and pleasure. No matter how sexy a vampire prince might be, she couldn't move this fast. Going to bed with Varinski might be one small step for him, but it was one giant leap for Samkind.
With those thoughts clacking around in her head, Sam pulled at the Prince's hand. "Thanks, but I don't need an escort," she said.
"But I insist. After all, I'm a gentleman, Samantha. You don't mind me calling you that, do you?"
"It's Sam. But you know who I am, don't you?" she continued without equivocation. "What I do for a living?"
"I suppose it's too much to hope that you're a high-priced call girl."
"Please," she said. "I saw the recognition in your face when Belvedere introduced us. You know I'm a Paranormalbuster." Who did he think he was, letting her pretend to be his girlfriend when he knew damn good and well that she wasn't? This crafty Nosferatu was up to something, but whether it was getting into her pants or somewhere more nefarious, she didn't yet know. But she would know, or her name wasn't Samantha Sabrina Hammett.
"Perhaps. And you can call me Petroff," he remarked, an odd quality to his voice.
"Aren't you curious why I'm here? And what are you doing here? I thought you were out of state. Don't you read calendars?" What kind of bad luck was this? If she didn't watch it, she was going to end up losing Prince Varinski's business before she even had it.
"Daily and I decided matters here at the castle needed attending to immediately. Isn't that fortunate for us?"
"There is no us."
"But there could be," he said, grinning wickedly.
Sam Hammett had a beauty that was definitely classic, the Prince decided. Such a shame she was who she was; not to mention that she was a liar and a sneak. Those were two traits he hated in females he intended to bed. But he would overlook them somehow.
"I'm here to help you," she remarked; then seeing his grin widen into a knowing leer, she added quickly, "with your phantom pest problems." Now, if he would only let go of her arm so she could scamper off into the darkness and get away from his touch.
"Perhaps you're the pest," he suggested wryly. He wanted to make her sweat for her subterfuge, and for making him want her. For being Sam Hammett, scourge of the ghost world and havoc-wreaker on the Strakhov Brothers.
"Thanks a lot. I know this looks bad, me barging in and all, but I have a plan to help you out," Sam replied. "Yes, I admit this looks bad. But it really isn't."
He smirked, feigning ignorance. "The orgy?"
Sam scowled. "I meant me being here, pretending to be something I'm not." The vampire was too good-looking for his own good. It must be true: a liquid diet was good for the system.
"But you could be," he interrupted seductively, his voice caressing her, "my mistress." The Prince added with a wicked grin, "I seem to be momentarily without one, and you're here. I'm a firm believer in answering the door when opportunity knocks. Or on knocking, myself."
It shouldn't have surprised her, his willingness to knock her up; vampires were notorious for seizing the night. Fast on their feet, they had to provide their own opportunities, pounding on doors and entering people's homes with only the slightest invite.
"Well, don't hold your breath," she advised him coolly. This vampire prince might be wily and domineering, but he would have to rise out of his coffin pretty early in the morning to put the bite on her.
The Prince grinned at her; he did so love a challenge, and Samantha Hammett was proving the ultimate.
Noting his cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Sam narrowed her eyes. She wasn't in the mood to be lunch. His proposal had been lacking in charm, and was highly insulting if slightly erotic. She wouldn't be anybody's plaything, although she might fantasize a bit sometimes. "Look, Prince V., you've got worse problems than not having a mistress at the moment. Let me make this short. You've got three ghosts in your castle that are devious, deranged and downright dangerous."
"So you decided to come here and hunt them, since you're from a family of renowned ghost removal experts. You install yourself at my castle, pretending to be my lover—"
"Girlfriend," she interrupted.
"Why quibble over words? You came here to do some Bustin'."
"Yes. I came here to get rid of your ghosts," she agreed.
"Without me hiring you. What if I have decided on another firm? Is this justice and fair play? Is this how business is done in America?" he taunted her.
Sam hawed and hemmed, then finally answered: "Haven't you ever heard of Yankee ingenuity?" With her dying breath she would fight to the bitter finish, and not under any condition, not under any circumstance, would she let Monsters-R-Us keep the Prince as a client. Especially not after the illuminating episode of skullduggery the dirty rotten scoundrels had perpetrated against her.
The Prince scowled, shifting his legs as he stood, hands on hips, waiting and watching her like a big spider. And she had walked willingly into his web. "Perhaps I like to choose my Bustin' companies without any help."
She shrugged. "Then I guess I owe you an apology. I meant well, really. And I wasn't expecting any payoff for capturing and removing your ghosts. I just wanted to show you what Paranormal bustin' Pest Pursuers Inc. can do. What I can do."
He was dying for her to do just that. But in the bedroom. All night long. Forget the ghosts.
"Hmm," he began thoughtfully, examining her like a succulent piece of meat. "How did you learn about my little problem?"
"I make it my business to know these things. And your problem's not a little one. Not with Rasputin."
"No, the problem isn't a little one," the Prince admitted. "And you seem to be one of the only Busters available to help." She was making him aroused just with her delicious scent. Rubbing his thigh muscle, dangerously close to his growing erection, he noticed that her eyes had focused on what his hand was doing. She blushed.