Dropping her amulet back into her sweater, Sam pointedly moved farther away. The Prince scooted closer. Like a wolf on the hunt, moving ever closer to his goal, his prey. He grinned in lupine delight. Sam inched against the sofa arm, a hand span between them. She gave him a look of supreme indifference, although she could feel her breasts standing to attention. He was the quintessential bat-ass lover.
"I've heard that you have known thousands of women," she said.
Petroff pulled back. "What is this, twenty questions? Perhaps I'm like you. I don't go for the old bite-and-snitch either," came his response, mocking her own earlier reply. He leaned in closer, reaching across the slight space between them, and ran one tantalizing finger over her slightly quivering lips.
Leaping off the sofa, Sam put a half-dozen steps between them. It was as if the room was closing in on her. The air felt electrified by his energy, and she was tempted, so very tempted.
"Well," she began, her heart pounding in her chest. "Somebody is talking. I've heard people say that if you eat a meal with a woman more than once she is expected to be the main course the next time you dine."
The Prince looked annoyed. "I'm surprised you believe everything you hear. I don't pay much heed to gossip. I'm surprised you do. I thought you said you were smart."
"Well, goody for you, not listening to gossip. But it pays to listen in my business."
The Prince narrowed his eyes in patent disbelief.
Sam narrowed hers right back. "My business success depends on listening when people blab. So I listen and even pay for information. And I listen to the best—demons most of the time. They're the best gossipmongers around, and generally correct. They have to deal with all those contracts for souls. They get a lot of weird wishes to fulfill—confessions almost. Kind of like a priest—except demons can't be Catholic. Still, the little buggers always know the juiciest gossip. They know heaps about vampires—especially royal vampires," she added.
The Prince was leaning against the sofa, elbow bent, his head on his hand as he listened. "Demons, eh? You appear to know quite a bit about them. Do you deal with many in your line of work?"
She shrugged. "My brother minored in devil deportation at university, so I've done quite a bit of reading while helping him with his studies. Fascinating stuff, if you're interested. Some of the best books are How to go to Hell in a Hand-basket, edited by K. Reeves, or Ageless Confessions of Serial Sinners, compiled by Dr. Faust. And if you don't mind using a legal dictionary while you're reading, then D. Webster's book, How to Beat the Devil at His Own Game, is quite good, too."
She also had quite a bit of firsthand knowledge, since she had to dance with the devils on more than one occasion in her career. Fast on their cloven feet they were, which was one reason they were great at spreading gossip. They also did a mean tango, if you could stand their stinky breath—a vile and sulphurous odor she found intolerable. Demons also cursed up a blue streak when she sent them back to hell with her "Beam Them Down, Scotty" devil-vanishing kit.
The Prince was distracted once again from his pursuit of Sam's glorious body. Sam, with her odd but unique comments had a way of doing that: making him reassess her abilities. He found he didn't like this particular skill, as she was good at distracting him both sexually and mentally. He decided to go for broke: "Sam, I don't want to talk anymore about demons or ghosts or anything else that goes bump in the night. I want to talk about making love with you."
His words danced like the' proverbial pink elephant through the room. There was a stillness in the air as Sam stared at the hungry need in his smoldering gray eyes.
"Business and pleasure don't mix," she finally replied, trying hard to listen to the voice of wisdom and ignore the voice of horny. She took a step back toward the door, a tiny step, but a step nevertheless. It was one step down the road to sainthood—or at least toward keeping her principles and panties intact.
Petroff sighed as she gave him a Mona Lisa smile. "You do know that most women head toward me, not away," he said.
"I'm not most women."
"I believe I've noticed that."
Taking another step backward, she cursed her ethics. The Prince was everything sexy. But she had to be strong. "Uh… thanks for the meal. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow morning." And then she turned from the promiscuous prince, to make her escape by the skin of his teeth.
Quicker than she could say "Jack Frost" or "What the hell are you doing?" he grabbed her, turned her toward him, and his arms flew around her like bands of steel. Before she could open her mouth and put her adorable foot in it, he leaned in and kissed her.
The kiss was hot with possession. To Petroff it tasted of intimacy and of Sam, like a good fine brandy on a cold winter's night and a hint of sage honey; so golden, so sweet. His arousal stirred, and his hunger grew. She tasted as good as she looked.
The Prince's lips were soft, like sweet velvet, caressing her, making her want more, and as he deepened the kiss, Sam sighed into his mouth. Her longing was betrayed by both the sounds she made and by her body seeking his, like a hand seeking the warmth of a glove on a snowy day.
Grabbing his hair, Sam ran her fingers through it, transported to seventh heaven, though not ever having seen the first six. His hair was as thick and luxurious as it looked. She could do this forever. Would he let her trim it?
Boy, oh boy, did this vampire know what he was doing. His kiss was dynamite, and it was more than apparent he'd been around the block a time or two. Hellfire! He'd been around the whole damn world by the way he kissed, and that thought agitated her at the same time as she went all hot and melty inside.
Her sigh nearly sent Petroff over the edge. She had dreamed about just such a sound last night, dreamed that he had made her make it as she climaxed under him. Moving his hand to her breasts, he slowly began to massage, plucking at the nipples, feeling them harden underneath her sweater. He was fully tempted to take her down to the nearest flat surface and explore her completely in every position known to man, and possibly some that hadn't been invented yet; he'd always been an inventive male. His other hand slipped under her sweater and quickly unfastened her bra strap.
Sam was dissolving like sugar in tea, or really hot water. Waves of desire rode her hard. She was drowning, and she didn't give a damn. She was dissolving like a ghost could when angered, like Rasputin disintegrated last night after infecting the library with lust.
But then the windmills in Sam's mind finally began turning. Lust… Rasputin… Petroff… Playboy… Sex with her client. Mind-numbing sex. He would suck on her nipples and then on her neck. He'd bite her neck and her sweet, plump breasts. He would feast on her thighs and the sweet, hot haven in-between. She would be his midnight snack, his breakfast snack, and brunch. She would be—
"Hold it right there, buster," she warned as she shoved hard against his chest. No luck; she felt like she might have been shoving at a mountain. "I'm here to get rid of your ghosts, not raise your spirits."
Petroff sighed. He should have found her refusal irritating, but instead he found it refreshing. She was wholly her own person. She strained against his hold, wanting to be set free.
Fighting his instincts, he released her slowly, feeling a slight sense of loss as her heat moved away. "I have ghosts you need to put to rest. Let me just show you—"
Sneering she cut him off. "Nice try, bub, but I am not having sex with you."
He arched a brow.
"I mean it. I am not having sex with you," she repeated. "Read my lips." She wouldn't give him an inch or he'd take a mile. And while she might act the tough broad, her heart was just as vulnerable as the next.