"You left the party before I could introduce you," Nic said, gesturing to his brother. "My youngest brother, Alex Strakhov."
Sam grimaced, her lips drawing into a taut line. If Nic thought she was going to spout niceties, he had another think coming—not after the sucker punch he'd given her.
At Sam's glaring silence, he continued: "My brother Alex has something he needs to tell you." He didn't like her being mad at him, although he understood her anger. The hurt in her eyes bothered him immensely.
Nudging Alex, who was trying to look innocent and was being as silent as Sam, Nic began to lose patience with his brother. "Alex?"
The tone of Nic's voice was all the warning Alex needed. "I came to apologize."
"What for? Did you pretend to be some vampire you weren't? Did you lie to some woman without a regret in the world? Did you heartlessly ignore her, after seducing her ruthlessly for your own pleasure? Are you a sneaking saboteur?" After her short little speech was finished, she felt proud. She still wore a smile on her face, when all she really wanted was to deck the callous cad and his knucklehead brother.
Alex looked to Nic for help but Nic merely scowled. Playing matchmaker for this hardheaded pair was not going to be a stroll through the countryside, even if the air was fairly charged with the rampant lust the odd couple generated. Of course, this tough-minded couple seemed oblivious to what was obvious to him, and to anyone within smelling distance. "Miss Hammett, I don't know how to tell you…" Alex hesitated.
"Just spit it out," she remarked sourly.
"I was the one who sabotaged your company. Not Nic. Not Gregor, just me. And without my brothers' knowledge."
Sam stared at Alex, judging the truth of his words. "So, you're the one who's been playing dirty pool?"
Alex looked confused. "I play pool, but I wash. Oh! Cheat? I don't have to," he corrected indignantly.
Sam shook her head. "You men and your notions of honor. You won't cheat at pool, but you will sabotage a business rival?" she retorted coldly, giving him a hard stare into the depths of his soul. She didn't know if she liked what she saw. Pete's baby brother was crafty, but spoiled and conceited. "So you're the wiseguy that came up with the idea to run the competition out of town. Is that right?"
Alex nodded. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it. It was beneath the Strakhov name."
"You got that right, buster. You shouldn't have done it. Fair play is fair play!" Sam declared adamantly. Then she turned her attention back to Nic. If he thought this apology was going to cause her to dance with joy, he was suffering from delusions of grandeur.
"How long have you known about this?"
"Right after you left, my brother told me what he'd done. I too wish to apologize for any hurt my family has caused yours," Nic apologized sincerely. "To use an American saying, I have come to mend fences. I'm terribly sorry."
"If you think this squares us, buddy—well, you're dead wrong," she warned frostily. "I wish I'd never laid eyes on you." She wasn't going to let him touch her fences or any other part of her ever again.
Nic frowned. Sam had every right to be angry, but apologies came hard for a Strakhov. The least she could do was accept them graciously. "Perhaps this will help," he said formally, and he pulled a check from his jacket pocket and handed it over. "This is for ridding my cousin's castle of ghosts. For a job well done."
Reluctantly Sam took the check, making sure her fingers didn't touch Nic's. So, the check wasn't in the mail, it was in Nic's pocket. As she took a peek at the amount, she had to fight her urge to gasp. She glanced back down at the amount, stunned. Trying hard for nonchalance, she tried not to gape at all the zeroes.
"Better?" Nic asked. His voice held a hint of mockery.
"Hardly. If you think money buys forgiveness or good manners, you've got a screw or two loose. But then, I forgot. You're a man."
"What the hell does that mean?" Nic asked.
"An all-out idiot."
"Look, Sammy," he snapped, more than just irritated at her peevish temperament. "We came here, hat in hand, to say we're sorry, and you act like you were given another insult."
Pocketing the check, Sam stood up from the piano bench. She shook her head in anger. "No, the insult was when I went to bed with you, my arch business rival and enemy, while believing you to be someone else entirely. I don't like you, and I don't trust you and your sneaky brothers. With good reason it seems," she added harshly, including Alex in her withering stare. The Strakhov brothers, Mean and Meaner, had kicked her insides out.
"Distrust is no longer necessary. You have your check for a job well done, and our apologies. What more can you want?" Nic asked, his jaw muscle ticking. He glared at Sam. "I know I'm in the wrong, and I'm sorry." He had already apologized, something he just didn't do, since he was rarely wrong. He wanted Sam and she wanted him. They made love like magic, and the desire flaring between them was a wildfire. Why couldn't she get over her feminine sensibilities and be practical? They could still have a very long affair, could share their lives and lovemaking, and even their work. He wouldn't mind throwing a few jobs her way, as long as he went along to protect her.
"For somebody smart enough to fool me, you sure can be stupid," she said.
Nic growled. "Are you going to keep dropping these little insults, or tell me what's wrong?" She was starting to make him angry. Another Russian would accept such a heartfelt apology, he felt sure, but this stubborn American wanted more—it was always more with these Americans.
Slapping her forehead, she glared at him, amazed that anybody so handsome could be so utterly without a clue. "You mendacity-ridden jerk, do you go around lying so much that you can't remember what you've done?"
"Generalizations, Sam, are the refuge of a lazy mind. Be specific." Nic wanted to shake her, hard, then shake her with some lovemaking. He wanted her to scream for mercy from his ardor, though he would be certain to show her none. He'd make love to her until they both expired from ecstasy.
"You want specific? I'll give you specific," Sam repeated acrimoniously. She began to count on her fingers, so angry she was lost to her surroundings, unseeing of the crowd of interested barflies that was beginning to form around them. "One: You told me you were your cousin, the Prince, so I slept with a man I thought was someone else. Two: You masqueraded as a vampire playboy who seduces anything in long or short skirts, so I broke both my rules about bedding the undead and womanizing males. Only, you aren't a vampire, but a human pretending to be a vampire related to you. The only thing honest about your performance that night was that you are a womanizing playboy, and a one-night stand man. Three: You made love to me, then vamoosed without a thank-you, without a phone call, with nothing, making me a one-night stand—and I hate the hell out of that!" Sam practically shouted the last as she poked Nic hard in the chest.
Undeterred by his surprise, she continued. "Four: You and your devious brothers have the nerve to apologize. But not for any of that. You ditched me, you dropped me like a hot potato, and now you want me to forget and forgive? Fat chance!"
Nic's lust was stirred even more as he watched her. Breasts heaving, her eyes sparking with blue fire—he wanted badly just to grab the Paranormalbuster and hold her curvy, busty little body next to his own. She was so magnificent that she must have some Russian blood somewhere in her, Nic decided as his eyes devoured her.
Cocking his head, he shook it, agreeing with part of her assessment. He had been devious, deceitful and devastatingly seductive. But he'd had good reason: he thought her his archenemy. Yet even when he thought her the foe, a crafty crook, a beguiling Buster who used her sex to gain favor, he still had wanted her again and again and again. She was a fool if she'd thought of herself as a one-night stand. Sam the Frito-Lay: You could never have her just once.