"I'd rather kiss them," he replied.
Sam stepped away from temptation. "Boy, you just don't give up, do you?"
"Defeat's not in my dictionary," he agreed, and gave a simple shrug.
"Looks like we're at an impasse, then, because surrender is not a word I've ever used. Well, except just now. Besides, why should I fall for the slick line of a coffin-hopping vampire who's probably laid more pipe than all the plumbers in Pennsylvania?"
He was silent a moment. Finally, he said, "You certainly don't mince words, do you?"
She laughed.
"Well, good. I do so love learning these quaint American sayings." He looked away, clearly annoyed.
"You're just mad because you didn't get your way. But this is one woman who won't be dropping at your feet like a dead fly. I don't intend to be on your hit parade," she added as she took another step toward the door, which suddenly looked a mile away.
"It's hardly a parade," he corrected. "And what a romantic picture you paint."
"Romance has nothing to do with what you have in mind."
He stared at her. "Romance has everything to do with it. Come with me and I'll show you a world of sensual delights—and wicked fantasies. I'll make love to you like no one else ever has. That I can guarantee."
Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. "You and that ego of yours. How old are you? Did you ever meet Freud?"
In spite of his unresolved lust—his jeans were now two sizes too small—he laughed. "No, I'm afraid not."
"Well, I bet he would have had a field day with you. He'd need a field with the size of your self-love. You're a walking textbook on all that egomaniac stuff he wrote about. But it doesn't matter. I'm just not that kind of girl."
"What kind?" he asked.
"An easy lay. I'm nobody's beverage," she said resolutely. And with that, she headed toward the door.
"By all means, Sam, run away." Petroff halted her in her tracks with those provocative words, but he didn't press his assault. "If you need anything at all during the night—and I mean anything—give me a whistle."
Sam clenched her fists. No, surely not. Fate wouldn't be so cruel. This gorgeous hunk of a vampire watched Bogart movies and knew the lines? She glanced back at him, trying dismally to hide her shock.
"You do know how to whistle, don't you, Sam?" he asked impishly, flashing his sharp, beautiful teeth.
She stared at him. "What a crummy thing to say to a girl. If I had a stake—well, I'd whack you over the head with it." And then she fled.
Like a puff of smoke she was gone, leaving her flowery scent lingering in the room. Petroff sighed. This woman would never go gently into his bed. Still, he didn't want things gentle. And since he never lost, he'd have the Sleeping Beauty whistling Tchaikovsky before the week was through, and nutcracker or not, his canon would be accompanying her 1812 overtures.
Yes, We Have No Bananas Today
The next morning brought a new surprise for Petroff as he opened the kitchen door and found Sam with her head in the oven. He was curious to know what the Bus tin' expert was up to now, since she wasn't the suicidal type and the stove was electric. He had to admit that he enjoyed the view sticking up in the air, her jeans showcasing her heart-shaped butt, temptation incarnate.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," she said as she pulled her head out of the oven, her fingers tapping a beat on the kitchen counter. "I know you're here somewhere, Jules. No need to be in a snit. I'm sorry about the bananas." Sam stared at the cabinets in front of her and she opened them one by one. "Really, Jules, there's no need to sulk. Quit monkeying around and come back so we can talk. You know I sent Beverly to the store to pick up some bananas. Tons of bananas."
Grinning, Petroff asked, "What bananas?"
Sam jumped, turning to face him, her eyes narrow. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on a Paranormalbuster hunting for ghosts?"
"Apparently not," he replied with a grin.
She grinned back. "Well, a word of warning: Don't."
"I'll take it under advisement. Now, about those bananas…"
"You do know curiosity killed the cat," Sam teased. She poured herself a cup of coffee.
"When I find the cat, I'll be sure to warn him," he remarked dryly. "I came here to invite you to dinner tonight."
Sam nodded warily. He was watching her with more than a hint of hunger in his eyes, and the vampire would tempt a saint. She was many things, but not a saint.
"It needs to be an early dinner. Especially with Jules being difficult."
Cocking a brow, he neither agreed nor disagreed, asked instead, "Bananas?"
"Okay, okay. Jules was here earlier this morning. I thought, this is great, I can talk to him about the deal with the Ghost Network. Unfortunately, he was in the mood to make banana muffins."
"So, what's the problem?"
"Well, we have no bananas today." She added, frowning slightly, "I suggested blueberry. He took exception to my suggestion."
Glancing around the immaculate kitchen, Petroff asked, "How?"
Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she suddenly dodged. A cream puff pastry fell from nowhere, landing in her outstretched hand, squishing out some of its creamy filling.
"It's raining cream puffs?" Petroff stared, his expression solemn but his eyes dancing with humor. "His retribution is cream puffs? Rather sweet revenge, no?"
"What can I say? He must like me—or at least the castle, which is fortunate. But I don't think he's too fond of the cook or Mr. Belvedere."
"What's not to like?" Petroff remarked as he watched Sam drink her coffee and take a reluctant nibble of the pastry. "Ah… sweets for the sweet."
"I love cream puffs usually, but this morning I've already eaten seven. I truly hope he switches to sandwiches or pizza soon," she remarked wryly. She rubbed her tummy.
"So you've sent the assistant cook to the store for bananas."
"Yeah, a boatload of them, trying to bribe him. But he still won't rematerialize."
"Ah yes, ghost psychology," he remarked with a trace of sarcasm.
Sam growled. "Don't knock it. I use it a lot."
"I imagine you would, since your major in college was—how did you put it?" He looked amused. Holding out a hand, he smiled faintly. "Ah yes, the three G's."
She nodded. "Ghosts, goblins and gremlins. In my work, believe me, the stuff comes in handy. I also studied preternatural biology, though my focus was more on gargoyles, trolls, leprechauns, witches and warlocks. I have a minor in that. And I took several classes on vampire and werewolf physiology."
He cocked his head and studied her. She was much too pretty to be out chasing things that might cut her face and figure to ribbons, or might rip out her throat in a single bite. "Yours is a dangerous occupation. Didn't anyone ever explain the facts of life or death to you?"
Crossing her arms over her chest, she narrowed her eyes. "This should be interesting."
"Men are born to be strong. They're the ones conditioned to go off to fight wars and monsters, while women are meant to be soft, caring and patch men back together. Men and monsters alike need a soft warm haven to come home to, a soft warm breast to rest their heads upon after dealing with death and pain." His explanation was rational and made great sense, so why did Sam look like she'd swallowed a dozen more cream puffs?
Feeling as if a glass of cold water had been poured over her head, Sam narrowed her eyes into thin slits. The Prince's attitude was so backward-thinking that it had positively reached the Dark Ages. Of course, he'd probably been around at the time.
"You men tear it up and we women fix it? Your attitude could use some serious adjustment, Pete. You need to get with the twenty-first century here."
"I am who I am," he replied mysteriously, letting her feminism slide for the time being. "And you are who you are." He suddenly took her hand. "Why do you do it?"