"I was talking to Andy about art and happened to mention that his work reminded me of Pablo Picasso's early work. Who knew that he would find that comparison an insult? He vanished in a haunted huff right before yelling 'Philistine' at me."
Petroff grinned. This woman was so cute discomposed. He was glad she wasn't decomposed, though.
"It's probably why he went off on a rampage and started to paint your chest," Sam went on feeling a slight twinge in her heart. Seeing the Prince's lopsided grin, she understood absolutely why women lined up for this devastatingly desirable vampire. She was also smart enough to know that whatever feelings she had for him had come on hard, fast and would likely be, lethal.
The Prince's grin faded, replaced by a tightening of his lips. He glanced down once again at his ruined sweater.
Sam sighed. If he didn't like the first bit, he really wasn't going to like what she had to say next. Pointing to the kitchen, she continued, "I got an urgent message from your cook. It seems that Jules is on the warpath again. Prince Varinski—"
"I told you to call me Petroff," he interrupted.
Conceding the point, she said, "You know, too many cooks in the kitchen… well, in this case, it seems too many cooks spill the broth. Your cook ended up wearing it. Let's go see if we can view the damage. Then I'll go back to shadowing the ghosts, Pete."
The Prince scowled at the Americanization of his name. "Not Pete. Petroff. It's a good, solid Russian name."
"Petroff's too stuffy," Sam suggested. "But if you insist."
Before Petroff could argue, she pointed to the kitchen. "You can follow me, in case you're worried about getting a pie in the face."
Swiftly she walked to and shoved open the door to the kitchen. Might as well get it over with quickly, she decided. But once through the door, Sam's mouth rounded in an "O". Forgetting momentarily, that she was a good deal shorter than the Prince, she valiantly tried to block his view of a disaster that would terrify even Mr. Clean.
The mess was not too big; it was not too small—it was enormous. The two cooks had evidently both been working in this kitchen. One had apparently been trying to make eggs and ham; only, the eggs had been slimed, big-time. They were a bright lime green. Fortunately, the ham had caught a lucky break and been missed, but still, this ripped it for Sam. She had been hungry earlier, but no way was she eating green eggs and ham.
Goo dripped from the ceiling; the floor was awash in goop.
Sneaking a quick peek at the royally pissed Prince, Sam asked, "You're mad, aren't you?"
He turned to stare at her with an expression of high dudgeon. "Yes, Sam, I am. I cannot believe my own distress, I cannot believe this awful mess."
Cooked potatoes and stew meat were splashed across the black and white tiled floor and cabinets. Pots and pans were littered here and there. Splashes of wine and smashed grapes decorated the kitchen walls and countertops.
"I caught you were mad right off the bat," Sam said.
"Are you being flip?"
"Who me? No way. I'm not gymnastic. But you're kidding, right? Your nice new kitchen is a big mess, and I'm starving. That makes me mad, too," she said, hoping he couldn't read the humor in her eyes. Turning away before he could spot it, she couldn't help but grin.
The Prince's servant hadn't fared well in this cook-off catastrophe; Mrs. McCutcheon was now busy with a mop, and was wearing what looked like pieces of cooked carrot in her bun, along with a slathering of green slime.
"Yep, plastered by ectoplasm," Sam muttered, trying to keep the revulsion from her face. Being slimed rated right up there with having a tooth drilled without laughing gas. Of course, being slimed was just one of the many hazards of her job.
"It's horrid. Just horrid," the assistant cook Beverly complained, wiping the tears off her face along with streaks of stewed tomato.
Sam didn't know why the woman was upset; she hadn't gotten her hair slimed. But she patted Beverly on the back anyway. Some people just weren't up for ghostly visitations and such tricks of the trade. Sliming was generally one of the first cards a ghost played.
"I thought Jules would have had more class than to slime food. It's kind of like throwing your peas in the lunchroom in middle school," Sam remarked disgustedly. "He must be a real attention hound. Who'd have thought?" she asked the whole room.
"I thought you would. After all, aren't you the expert?" Petroff pronounced caustically, wearing the most exasperated of expressions.
She might have mouthed off, but she figured that the Prince had a legitimate beef—though his kitchen had little else left to eat.
On the sideline appeared a very leery Mr. Belvedere, his shoulders visibly shaking. He looked the color of old milk, as if his goose were about to be cooked. Reluctantly he faced Prince Varinski, his voice almost a whisper.
"I'm afraid Chef Jules was angered because I hid the wine. You see, he had already been drinking rather heavily, consuming a great deal of your stock, my lord."
The cook huffed, breaking in to say, "That stuffy, pompous Frenchman was angry because I was making soup. Imagine, that ghostly wino told me my soup was just plain blasé. I've won awards for it, mind you!"
The woman continued, clearly burning up. "He wanted to cook eggs for lunch! How foreign is that? Him, with his fancy spatula and fancy French ways. He had the audacity to scold me, telling me this isn't a soup kitchen. What does he know? Beans, that's what! He's stewed half the time on Claret. He's French and he's a ghost! Soup kitchen? Well, I never heard anything so silly in my life." Mrs. McCutcheon seemed to suddenly come back to herself, recalling who her audience was. "Begging your pardon, my prince."
Sam pursed her lips, keeping her mouth shut and her chuckles in. She wasn't going to laugh at the expression on Pete's face. She wasn't going to make a smart remark or find absurd humor in this kitchen catastrophe or even the carrots in the cook's hair. She absolutely would not make a wisecrack when she took another peek at Pete, who was wearing a can of soup on his chest. "Looks like the plat du jour, is soup."
Her words went unappreciated. No one laughed and Prince Pompous only glared, his slate gray eyes deepening to charcoal.
"Isn't it a lucky thing that my girlfriend"—he stressed the word—"has a degree in ghost psychology." He looked pointedly at her and moved close to put an arm around her shoulders.
"Really?" Rebecca McCutcheon asked, her face alight with hope. "I know you said you had some experience, but if you have a degree, then you must be a pretty smart cookie. Can you help us get rid of that puffed-up excuse for a chef?"
Petroff snorted, but Sam nodded. Tamping down her burgeoning desire, she ducked back. His close proximity, his embrace was too exhilarating; his smell was so fresh and invigorating that she could hardly stand it. In defense, she matched him sardonic look for sardonic look.
Turning back to the cook, she smiled a patently sweet smile, the expression she used to entice little goblins out from under beds. "Of course I will. I wouldn't want to let down my prince, now would I?"
Petroff snorted again.
"You make mincemeat out of him, dearie, that's what you'll do," the cook stated firmly.
Mr. Belvedere nodded. "Miss Samantha is a jolly good fellow, you know."
Sam smiled, then tilted her head to indicate the open doorway to the hall. "Pete… troff, I think we should discuss strategy."
The arrogant aristocrat held out his arm. "Whatever you say, sweetheart. Lead the way."
Outside in the hall, Sam stood uncomfortably while the Prince leaned against the wall. His expression was grim, his manner one of one royally outraged.