Standing by the buffet table, the Prince appeared the perfect gentleman, dressed all in black—the usual attire for the undead. He looked better than the food, and promised to show her a new meaning to the phrase le petit morte. But despite the flowers and his attractiveness, Sam was no innocent victim to be led down the garden path. Nobody had to knock her on the head. She could smell setup a mile away.
Frowning slightly, she mused that the male gender were all alike, whether human or vampire, seduction dominating their limited brains. For humans it had to be an evolutionary design, something ingrained in their DNA to keep the human race from becoming extinct. With the male vampire, Sam felt their desire for sex, sex and more sex had to be related to their taste for oral gratification. They mixed fornication and ingestion to heighten both experiences, like some humans did by smoking a cigarette after making love or after eating a meal.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched boldly into the room. Petroff's eyes reflected amusement as he studied her, then he clearly decided that the best offense was a strong defense.
"I must apologize for my behavior this morning. I'm not at my best when bested by a neurotic phantom," he stated. He could tell by her wary pose that she thought he had seduction on his mind. Smart lady.
She nodded, taking in how the Prince's smile transformed his features from ruggedly handsome to just plain gorgeous. "I see your afternoon batnap did you some good. Woke up on the right side of the bed, did we?"
He would rather have woken up atop her, but smiling devilishly, he shrugged. "Well, I did manage some sleep, though mostly I plotted ways to be rid of that mad monk."
"Any clever plans yet?" She stopped by the huge bay window on the east side of the room, a good four feet away from Petroff. The view was breathtaking—just like her undead dinner companion. "You know that he won't be a pushover. He'll fight dirty."
Petroff nodded. Walking over to the table, he poured a glass of wine for each of them.
Sam noted that his movements held an inhuman grace, were pure poetry in motion. She sighed. "Since you aren't wearing a soup can on your shirt or carrots in your hair, I would lay odds that you haven't run across Andy tonight—or Jules. And probably not Rasputin, since you're fully dressed," she added.
Petroff grinned, and let her wonder what he was smiling about.
She shrugged and leaned back against the window frame. "Yes, I hate to brag, but I'm one smart cookie." She grinned impishly, trying to downplay the chemistry between them. Chemistry she would have gladly studied if certain things were different.. It was hard ignoring her body's urgings, which had first begun as whispers but were slowly growing to shouts. Soon she would have a hormonal riot on her hands. Better to give him the lowdown on what she'd found out.
"You don't have the worst spectral situation I've ever seen, but it's not pretty," she remarked, managing to drag her attention away from the Prince to find herself staring at the southern wall. A can of chicken noodle soup had been recently painted there, left open to reveal the chicken and noodles inside. Only, Andy had decided to paint it rather abstractly with the soup being a flaming pink with dark purple noodles.
Shaking her head ruefully, she commented, "Your Andy is rather paranoid."
The Prince raised an aristocratic brow.
"He's afraid of people stealing his work," she explained. Both Sam and the Prince glanced at the garish soup can on the wall.
"That's the straight dope," she continued after a moment. "It's why he paints on stone—so nobody can steal his work," she explained, grimacing at the artwork in question.
"As if any thief in his right mind would!" the Prince commented.
Shrugging, Sam nodded. To be honest, she agreed with his assessment.
"What about the galloping gourmet?" the Prince asked.
"My philosophy is to never give a ghost an even break. My take on Jules is that he's a crabby old chef with a penchant for disliking everything. He and Andy don't get along at all, since Jules hates the soup cans all over the place—he says that no real cook would even use anything in a can. He dislikes dull knives and don't get him started on microwave ovens. He feels they're the devil's design. Also, Prohibition. Jules can go on for ages about that time period in history."
"What's your take on Rasputin?"
"Dangerous, paranoid delusions of grandeur—and he's a sexual deviant. He's just plain evil."
"Well, thank you for your candor on my problems. I'm so glad you're having dinner with me," he added with a hint of a seductive edge. "I do so dislike dining alone."
Subconsciously Sam put a hand to her neck. She glanced back at the dinner table, and a sigh of relief escaped her as she saw two dinner plates and one steak—rare of course—on each. Sam had never been bitten by a vampire before, in spite of her oft-dangerous occupation. She intended to keep that the status quo. "What kind of guest would I be if I hadn't shown up? Especially after you've been so swell in hiring me and all."
"Perhaps an uninvited one," he said teasingly, amusement lingering in his smoke gray eyes.
"Jeez, Pete, what a lousy thing to say," Sam said. Before he could comment, she quickly added, "But I have good news and bad news. Nuts!" she exclaimed, bopping her forehead with her hand. "I always hate it when people do that to me. Good news, bad news—like anybody ever wants to hear the bad part."
"Do you always say the first thing that pops into your head?" Prince Petroff asked, noting that Sam looked flustered at her gaffe, but even more fantastic. Definitely very sexy. She looked good enough to eat all night, and he was suddenly starving.
"And second and third. Honesty is a virtue!" she said.
"Isn't that rather ironic, coming from you?"
Sam sniffed disdainfully. "I always tell the truth. Er, unless I don't," she added.
"I see," he remarked. "It's often easier to honor the idea of what's right than to act correctly. Honesty and honor are concepts this world still needs. And yet… sometimes lies are necessary. Now, let's sit down and you can impart your bad news first."
She nodded. "You looked like a man who would take the hard knocks first."
Sitting himself across from her, he said. "Life in Russia taught me that. It's a magnificently enormous country, with people whose hearts are just as immense. But it's always been troubled, plagued by outsiders trying to conquer. Yet all conquerors forget the spirit of the Russian people, which is as untamable as our wild steppes or our frostbitten Siberian landscape. We Russians show no mercy to our enemies or to any who try to hurt or dishonor us. You see, vengeance for us Russians is like breathing."
"That almost sounds like a warning."
He lifted his elegant hand, expertly sidestepping the issue. "Now, what would you and I have to be enemies about?"
Briefly Sam thought she saw his eyes darken, then the illusion was gone and he was smiling again graciously.
"Except, of course, in the age-old battle between males and females," he added honestly. "And that battle is to be tasted, savored, swallowed and digested. The journey is almost as exciting as the destination."
"I think we better skip this part of the conversation," Sam suggested. She knew a challenge when she heard one. But this was a challenge she couldn't win. She was his employee for the moment, and had nowhere near the experience this seductive bloodsucker had in affairs of the flesh.
"Coward," Petroff challenged, clearly enjoying the denial and desire he saw in her eyes.