Sam wrinkled her nose. The Prince was not at his friendliest, and was using his North Pole voice. If she weren't so warmed by all the wine she'd consumed, she might feel a chill.
"You only want to eat with me so you can have sex with me after," she explained as well as she could with a bottle of wine in her system and a hiccup punctuating the end of her sentence. "Besides, I know vampires don't really need food all that much. You just want to suck my blood. Have you sucked on… anyone else tonight?" Closing one eye, she looked him over. "You look well fed, all pink and rosy. In fact, if I were a betting broad—and I am—I would almost bet you weren't a va-vampire."
Petroff stared at her warily. "What are you mumbling about?"
"You're too dark to be vampire," she realized. "You have a tan."
He snorted derisively. "I have olive skin."
"Oh," Sam said. Another hiccup overtook her, then she gave him her best one-eyed pirate look, studying him like a bug under glass.
His wary expression faded as he finally grasped what he was seeing. Sam's lovely golden hair was a mess, and she was lying on a barrel of wine, her back braced by some sort of cushion. She was slurring her esses, and she had a bottle of wine balanced on her big toe. Sam wasn't just in her cups; she was in her casks. And he had evidence of her transgression in spades. "You're drunk!" he accused.
"Brilliant de-deduction, Sherlock." Hiccup.
"You're drunk on the job and you have a bottle of wine on your toe," he added judiciously as he came to stand by her side.
"Your powers of observation are a-astounding. Maybe you should be a spy. You could spy for America on the Russians. Or, as a Russian spy, you could spy on some other countries. But not on America. That wouldn't be American. And we wouldn't want that. Even though you're Ru-Russian, you do want to be an American, even if you are a spy, right? Can vampires be spies?"
"I believe you Yankees call this drunk as a skunk," Petroff said. Lifting his eyes to the heavens, he slowly shook his head.
"Ha! Skunks don't drink, they just stink. Hey, that rhymes. And I'm not drunk, merely in-intoximated," she said seriously, her prim demeanor belied by another hiccup. "Intoxicated."
Ignoring her, he asked, "Why do you have a bottle of wine on your big toe?"
Never at a loss for words, she answered, "I was ne… negoat… negotiating with Jules. You know what a sot he was in human form. Well, in ghost form that goes ditto. It took three bottles of wine for him and one for me to get him to agree to move. He's leaving tonight, three sheets to the wind."
Hiccuping again, she pushed her hair out of her face. "Probably he's already gone. Vanished. Gave up the ghost digs. Rode the old ghost train out of the castle. He tried to drink me under the table, but. I foo… fooled him," she explained grandly as she pointed to the barrel she was sitting upon.
Petroff's lips twitched. Gesturing to her foot, he asked, "I'm a bit confused. You got him to go because you stuck a wine bottle on your foot?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, again slurring the 5. "He told me his hobby was building those ship-in-the-bottle things. I said I could do it, too," Sam explained. She looked sadly at her foot with the large green bottle attached. "But I didn't have any b-boats."
Swallowing back a laugh, he had a flash of understanding. "I get the picture. You used your big toe in lieu of a ship. And now it's stuck."
"And now it's stuck," she repeated. "My gosh, you are bril… brellant. Oh, damn. Smart," she corrected as she leaned over to pat him on the shoulder.
"Even more than you know."
Sam grinned lopsidedly and pointed at him, missing by about two feet. "You should say 'thank you' and 'you did a swell job, kid.'" She hiccuped.
"Sam, oh Sammy," he admired. "You did a fine job of ridding the castle of two of the ghosts. If only you hadn't managed to get yourself plastered in the process."
"Oh, damned with faint praise! Come on, Petey, admit it—I did a fantastic, fabulous, fu-funking fine job. Oh, whatever! Now you'll want me to do any other critter removal you may need in the future. I will of course be de… delighted. I am the number-one Paranormalbuster in Vermont. Hell, the best in the whole northeastern part of the U.S.—maybe even the world!"
Hiccuping and smiling brightly, Sam patted herself on the shoulder and almost fell off the cask.
"Sam, you're good. But you're not that good. Monsters-R-Us is just as formidable," the Prince replied.
Sam's smile froze on her face, and she hiccupped again while shoving her hair out of her eyes. Those eyes flashed fire as she snapped, "Mea culpa, you lout. I have two ghosts down and gone, to your one in the hand—or should I say in your castle!"
Smiling enigmatically, he remarked, "While you were working on the chef, I hammered out a solution for Rasputin. He's also leaving," the Prince bragged, proud of the deal he had made with the appalling apparition, and also proud that the castle would now be ghost-free. Business was good. Life was good. All that could use a lift was his sex life. Well, not a lift, he thought wryly; Samantha Hammett managed to "lift" him just by breathing. Still, she was inebriated, and he didn't take advantage of drunken ladies.
Yes, he was relieved that the galloping gourmet, the bad mad monk and the atrocious artist were all gone. Of course, he was reluctant to tie up the loose ends too quickly if that meant Sam would leave tomorrow morning. He had sampled her Bustin' skills; now he wanted to sample her bustier skills.
"How?" She appeared all ears—well, and breasts and legs. Her curiosity was rampant in spite of her sluggish mental processes. "That malicious monk was the worst of the bunch."
"I promised to send him to the land of milk and honey," the Prince explained.
Sam looked confused.
"Not really milk and honey, but to his own personal paradise. A land of champagne, caviar and orgies. Hollywood."
Sam's expression changed from perplexed to proud. "You're almost as smart as you're handsome!" she said. And with another hiccup out of the way, she leaned clumsily over and kissed him passionately on the chin.
Undeterred by her lousy aim, she added grandly, waving her hands in the air, "Nobody gets the better of Sam Hammett!"
Her second try had better aim: Her lips burned into his, making his heart pound like thunder. He could feel the beating of her heart, too. She tasted like berries and wine—tart and sweet and wonderful.
Kissing Pete felt wonderful. Sam ran her hands over his broad shoulders, thinking how safe he made her feel. He made her feel all woman—and horny as hell, if hell could get horny.
Sam had decided earlier to let the vampire make love to her. As she'd pleaded with Jules the wine in her bottle went down, along with her willpower. In her line of work, all she ever really had was the moment. If she was burnt to a French fry by a fire-breathing demon, killed by a lunging gargoyle or slimed to death by a plasm-pitching ghost, she would deeply regret not taking Pete up on his offer.
"Let's go to bed," she suggested as their kiss broke, feeling a connection that she had never before felt, a fierce compulsion to be all she could be for him. To share her thoughts and hopes with him and to hold him close and deep within her, giving of herself at the same time she received everything he had to offer.
He didn't make a move, only stared at her with grim determination.
"Where's all that seduction you've been throwing at me? Gone with the ghosts?"
"Let's get that bottle off your foot first," he offered instead. He wanted her desperately, but not drunk. He was ruthless when crossed, a hard, calculating man to do business with; but he didn't take advantage of women, even ones as adorable as Sam. Although, why he should consider her cute when she was got up to the gills, a deceitful wench wearing a big fat wine bottle on her toe, he couldn't quite figure out. In fact, he was stumped.