"You really aren't a morning vampire, are you?" Sam noted.
He scrutinized her carefully. "You really think I should be bright-eyed and cheerful after an employee orgy, a kitchen thrashed by a ghostly drunken chef, and a ruined wardrobe?"
Well, when it was put that way, Sam felt bad about criticizing him. "I know it hasn't been the best of mornings, or nights—" she backtracked.
"A terrible morning, really," he agreed. His lips looked so soft, and she wondered whose coffin he was sleeping in these days. Who was his current arm candy, and was she a sweetheart or a Tootsie Roll? Pete was everything she might want in a man and then some—except he was a vampire, and that did throw her for a loop or two.
"Right, you're right. It's been a really bad deal for you."
"No, it hasn't been good at all," the Prince went on. Last night and this morning might have been fun if she had been playing with him, rather than haunting the castle for those other haunts. "Nor fun."
"Look here, Pete, I am first-rate at what I do. The best. I have a ninety percent success ratio on the extraction and removal of ghosts. You can't beat those odds, and I'll get these ghosts. Don't you worry."
He smirked, as if he didn't believe her. Maybe he considered her a human pest.
"I'll work on both Jules and Andy to start. I know I can make headway with Andy this morning, now that I know what not to say. He may be a modern artist, but his heart is in the sixteenth century. He wants his art to be associated with the greats, like Michelangelo and da Vinci. He wants to make his soup can as timeless and elegant as da Vinci's Mona Lisa."
Petroff raised a brow, his expression one of disbelief.
Sam held up a hand. "I know, I know—soup cans weren't even invented during the Renaissance. Besides, I didn't say he could do it. It's just what he aspires to."
"Is this ghost psychology at its finest?"
"Yeah, it is. So just can your disbelief and remember I'm the professional. I know what I'm doing."
Glancing at the kitchen and then down at his soup-splattered shirt, he said tartly, "Are you sure? So far, all I see is a recipe for more disaster."
"I must be doing something right. Need I remind you that I didn't end up in my birthday suit with Rasputin last night? And I'm not the one wearing paint on my sweater." As Sam fought back, she began to feel better. She was feeling light on her feet. She was dodging his punch lines with the grace of Joe Louis.
Petroff leered at her breasts. Smiling, he quipped, "But you could wear it so well. Mmm-mmm. Soup is good food."
Whoops, she might be down for the count if he kept it up. His perseverance was deadly, especially aided by a left hook like his smile.
Sam frowned, knowing full well when to retreat. Sometimes withdrawing from a fight left a person a leg to stand on. "You really are the fresh type, aren't you?"
The Prince shook his head in the negative, but a slight grin cracked the austerity of his features. "Well, I'm not canned."
Sam grinned back at him. Fresh was fresh, and a wolf was a wolf—even if this wolf was a vampire. "I warn you, buster, I pack a mean punch."
This time, Petroff's grin broke through completely. "Well, you can bring it when we picnic. And thanks for the alert, but I happen to like challenges. And sassy-talking females are my favorite."
"Let me put on my surprised face."
The Prince shook his head at her outrageousness. With a grin still on his face, he cocked his head to indicate the kitchen. "What about Jules? Do you really think you can manage to gain any rapport with him?"
"Is my name not Sam Hammett? Not to brag or anything, but I've done some top-notch work with some low-down ghosts. I'll manage Jules, and Andy, and then I'll go on to Rasputin."
Petroff shook his head. "I hate to suppress your natural talents, but I'll deal with Rasputin personally."
Sam blinked, incensed. Nobody did her work, although she did let her brother help out, and her uncle in emergency situations. Then there was that time when Larry the Leprechaun had chipped in. But that was neither here nor there. "It's my job, I'll do it," she said.
Petroff shoved away from the wall, his features rigid. "I will handle Rasputin myself," he commanded. "Being Russian, I understand him. Besides, he owes me a debt that I intend to personally collect."
Sam didn't like anyone telling her what she could do or not do, but something about the Prince's firm and rather loud conviction convinced her that she wasn't going to win this battle. Besides, she probably wasn't going to get paid for this job anyway, and so if her employer wanted to dispatch the mad, bad Russian Monk himself, more power to him. As long as it wasn't the Strakhovs.
"All right. You win. As they say, the client is always right."
"How quaint. Another American saying?"
"You bet." He gave her an odd look, and she swallowed. "I bet you always get what you want anyway."
His grin was wicked, his eyes dancing. "Yes."
"Well, that must certainly be sweet. But it's probably just because you're a royal pain," Sam added in a mutter.
"Did you say something?"
Oh, you heard, Sam thought waspishly. This Nosferatu was definitely too big for his britches—although they fit him to a T, showcasing his tight butt and muscular thighs. "You know, it's guys like you who give creatures of the night a bad name."
"And you Americans have such a way with words. It almost makes me want to relocate," the Prince retorted mockingly. He walked off down the long marbled floor of the hallway, but eight feet away he stopped and turned back to Sam. "Dinner tonight is at eight. Don't dress…" He hesitated again, in both his step and words, just enough to give Sam's inside a heated quiver. "Up."
Then he continued walking. He refused to glance back. Samantha Hammett was quick-tempered and quick-thinking, but in a business she had no business being in. If she were his mistress, she wouldn't be staking her life on stalking the supernatural to stake them. And if luck were with him tonight, he knew exactly whose bed she would be in; only, she wouldn't be doing any sleeping.
Watching him walk away with lust in her heart, Sam decided that Prince Petroff really should be declared a masculine menace. Any female within walking distance was going to get her heart banged up seriously, if not downright broken into small gritty pieces. "Never give a sucker an even break—especially a vampire," she whispered, thinking hard about her uncle's words of otherworldly wisdom.
Sticking out her tongue at the handsome vampire's retreating back made her feel better, until she thought she heard his snicker as he disappeared up the marble staircase. Impossible! Vampires didn't have eyes in the back of their head; only goblins did.
"Well, wasn't that mature," she muttered. He really did heat up her emotions and bring out both the best and worst in her. Cursing her foolish fantasies of a feast of flesh—naked flesh, all his—Sam doddered distractedly in the direction of the south tower, where earlier this morning she had found Andy's stash of paints.
"Petroff thinks I'll roll over and play dead with him? Ha! Fat chance." Lust was lust. Just because she had never experienced anything as overwhelming as what she felt for this fornicating foreigner, Sam still knew where her bed was buttered. And tonight, she wasn't going to be anywhere near that particular vampire's coffin.
"Here's Lusting after You, Kid"
Sam wasn't anybody's fool. She knew life could be hard and a person didn't risk their heart until they absolutely had to take the plunge. She wasn't going to play Russian roulette with the vampire prince considering what the stakes were, she reminded herself as she made her way to the north tower for dinner.
As she walked under the stone archway, she stopped momentarily, taking in the understated elegance of the dining room and its occupant. Huge circular windows provided a breathtaking panoramic view of the coastline below. A small round table stood near the center of the room, with an intricate lace tablecloth of pristine white. On top was a golden candelabrum giving off a soft glow. Large floral arrangements of various hues were everywhere.