Sam froze, mortified to see that he had caught her staring at his crotch. She never blushed; and at the same time a morbid curiosity had her questioning if all Russians had a Peter this great or if it was just a vampire characteristic.
Searching her thoughts, she scrambled for mental purchase in a quagmire of lusty images. Back at university she had taken a vampire physiology class, only her professor had been timid, skipping over the interesting parts—like vampire sexual organs. Now she wished she had taken an advanced class or two, for knowing vampires' sexual habits and endowments would come in handy.
Jerking her eyes and her smutty thoughts away from the Prince, she said; "I will be more than happy to rid you of your ghosts free of charge, Prince V."
"Only ghosts, then? You can't help with anything else?" he asked playfully. He found it hard to believe that Sam Hammett was still resisting his will.
Sam stepped back twice, putting more distance between them. "Ghosts. I said ghosts."
He took two steps closer, lifted her chin with his finger. Her skin was very soft. He enjoyed the feel. He wanted to savor so much more of her silken sweetness, but this lying, luscious jade was playing hard to get, while he was just plain hard. "Well, we must be upfront with each other. Not knowing what's a lie and what's the truth can cause confusion. And you must call me Petroff."
"So, you'll allow me to work… ?"
"For now. We can discuss it further tomorrow—perhaps an early morning affair." But he dropped his hand when she quickly stepped back, jumpy as a newborn colt.
The Prince sighed. He knew she was extremely attracted to him, but that she was fighting the attraction; she was a complex woman with a mind of her own. Obviously, in spite of his good intentions their first meeting would not lead to a mating. He grimaced. He wanted her, this deceitful human; but sometimes a long journey could be more thrilling than the destination.
Sam smiled up at her host, giving thanks that she hadn't been booted out on her butt or brought within an inch of her life—or twelve inches of her dignity. Even though she was a hard-boiled preternatural pest controller, a nemesis to nasties everywhere and nobody's pushover or sure thing, she found Prince V. to be temptation on the fang, Rasputin's spell or not. But she had a company to save, and save it she would. Petroff Varinski would be glad he had hired her in the end—if not in the beginning.
Waving good night, she started for the stairs. Petroff watched her walk off.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To bed. Solo," she answered resolutely, continuing up the magnificent beige-and-ivory tiled staircase. Her body's subtle beauty, the tautness of her buttocks showcased by her faded jeans did not escape him.
"Just like that?" he asked. Those worn jeans fit her backside like a glove, like he wanted to fit himself to it.
"Yep, I've found that the shortest farewells are the best." And with that, she fled.
The Prince laughed. This woman wasn't quite Machiavellian, but her plot was devious. He should give credit where credit was due. Still, he wouldn't. He had caught the flash of triumph in her eyes when he agreed to let her catch his ghosts, and so while she thought she was winning, she had already lost the game. She just didn't know it yet.
No, Samantha Hammett had lost, and she deserved exactly what she was going to get. But he intended to seduce her before the truth was revealed in all its glorious colors and harsh black and white. The seduction, they would both enjoy. The betrayal, only he would appreciate.
Goldilocks and the Three Ghosts… and the Prince
Sam heard cursing the next morning, in both American and Russian. It didn't take her three guesses to know who was doing it. The Prince was up and royally pissed.
She continued carefully down the stairs, wondering how to deal with a cranky vampire in the morning; she rarely met vampires over six hundred years old and capable of being awake at that time.
Turning a corner, she saw his royal majesty stalking toward her. He was dressed in worn-out jeans and a pale blue sweater, which highlit the flecks of deep blue in his smoldering gray eyes. His expression was grim, no doubt due to the fact that he was wearing a partial painting of a can of tomato soup on his chest. The bright red oil was noticeably wet.
"Gives new meaning to the expression 'soup's on,'" she said.
He halted abruptly before her, his eyes narrowed. "I thought you were supposed to be some kind of big shot Bustin' professional. Why aren't you doing your job? That lunatic ghost, Andy, just attacked me! I don't even like tomato soup! I detest it!"
Deciding a poker face was the best response, Sam suppressed her grin. "I only got here yesterday. What do you think I am, a miracle worker?"
He arched a brow, his haughty aristocratic demeanor returning. "Excuses. Not much of a Paranormalbuster, are you?"
Prince Petroff hoped his words would make the woman mad. She had to feel as put out as he did. She needed to strain and toil to capture these ghostly phantoms infesting the castle. She needed to have her day start out the way his had, by being attacked by a crazy painter with a can fetish. Yes, Miss Samantha Hammett needed to be brought down a peg or two, needed to be taught a lesson—and he was just the instructor for the job.
Those were fighting words, as far as Sam was concerned. She forgot her amusement at the haughty Russian's dishevelment and snapped, "Greater men, spirits and demons than you have criticized me. And you know what I say?"
He watched and awaited her next words, noting how pretty she looked in the morning light. She had a great set of breasts; not too big or too small, just right.
" This is what I say," Sam retorted. Then, glaring up at him, she thumbed her nose.
It was a rather adorable nose, not too big and not too small, but just right. In spite of his ill humor, he grinned. "Take it back," he warned teasingly. "Nobody thumbs their nose at me!" But he was now reasonably optimistic that this grumpy Goldilocks would be sleeping in his bed by nightfall.
Sam rolled her eyes. "Who would dare, right? You don't think too much of yourself, do you? It's a good thing princes don't wear crowns these days, because yours wouldn't fit that swollen head. I think it's called megalomania."
He arched his other brow. "Is that any way to speak to your employer?" He knew he had scored a hit when he saw her wince. Good. She needed to be put in her place. Too bad that place wasn't under him. Yet, hope sprang eternal.
Sam sniffed and conceded. She needed this job, and she needed the Prince to be impressed with her work. She should be sweet-talking, not antagonizing him. Still, who the hell did he think he was—King of the World? He could use someone to bring him down out of his ivory vampire tower—or black wooden coffin or whatever. But she backpedaled anyway.
"Sorry. It's just that I majored in ghost, goblin and gremlin psychology. And I can be a grouch when I have to wake up early. I usually spend eight hours a night on the job, so mornings are mine to do what I want. Which is inevitably, sleep. By the way, I've been up since six this morning hunting your haunts. Unfortunately, these three wise ghosts are doing a disappearing act. Three hours later, and I have to admit that they have run me a merry chase. At least, Andy and Jules have."
She rubbed her forehead wearily. "I had Andy cornered and was making headway when I made a slight…" Sam hesitated, noting her employer's grim expression. "A very slight, very, very slight, miscalculation."
"How slight?" Petroff inquired.
In the abstract, Sam always felt that the truth was the best way to go in any given situation. Of course, most situations didn't deal with an obsessive-compulsive ghost. And she hated to tell the truth now, especially when she was the one who had made the blunder.