Now she had been wronged by his family, so he owed her a debt. But that only meant he could have his cake and eat it too, as Americans said. And as the humor of the situation suddenly got to him, he broke into a grin.
"I'm truly sorry, Sammy. Up at the castle I thought you were my enemy, so how could I reveal who I really was? I was angry, and rightfully so since it took me a good two days to get rid of that troll dung. I thought you sabotaged us first. But you were never a one-night stand. Never. I was going to call you, in spite of myself."
Sam rather liked the sight of the arrogant Nic Strakhov eating crow. Almost as much as she'd liked watching him pelted with troll waste. "Yeah, right," she mocked. "I waited for that call. You never made it." But after the words left her mouth, she felt like smacking her forehead again. She sounded like she really cared if the rotten rat of a Russian called. Just because she'd waited by the phone for a week like some lovesick sap, hoping each time the phone rang she would hear Nic's voice—It meant nothing, nothing at all.
No, she wasn't a woman to be used and abused by a prancing, pride-driven Don Juan of the Paranormalbusting world. If only she could keep reminding herself of that as she stared at the heat shimmering in Nic's smoke-colored eyes.
"Be generous, Sam. I've had a rough, busy week," he began, raising a hand to stop her rant. "I was going to call you." He invaded her personal space, placing a hand on her arm and filling her senses. "Do you think I could forget what we shared?" he asked huskily. "Impossible. You're unforgettable, that's what you are."
The crowd around them parted to reveal Uncle Myles, who brushed up beside Sam and looked Nic and Alex over carefully. "Is this who I think it is?"
Sam nodded, and Myles reached for the gun hidden under his bartender's apron. He jerked it out. With a sigh, Sam quickly retrieved it from her uncle, explaining to the Brothers Grim, "It's not loaded."
"Not loaded?" Alex asked, confusion evident in his voice. "Why carry it then? When trouble comes, it comes fast."
Nic remained silent, staring at the curiously dressed Humphrey Bogart imitator. In his opinion, Sam's uncle looked much more genuine than even those sideburn-wearing Elvis imitators with their rhinestone bodysuits.
"Why not?" Sam replied cryptically.
"Want me to bust his chops for you, sweetheart?" Myles asked. "A doll like you shouldn't have to mix with scumbags like this."
In spite of her anger, Sam almost laughed. The expressions on the Strakhov brothers' faces and her uncle's eccentricity were too much. "No. I appreciate it, Uncle Myles, but it seems like you'll have to rearrange their faces some other night. They're here to apologize."
"Heard of me, I guess. A little too tough for you wiseguys?" Myles asked the Strakhovs.
Nic nodded, his face a mask. "Yeah. I've heard all about you. You could run rings around me in detective work. Besides, I don't want my face rearranged. Sam likes it the way it is."
Myles looked pleased that his reputation was so widespread, but Sam's expression turned sour.
"In fact, since you're here as head of the family, I'd like to ask for your help in persuading Sam about a job I have," Nic went on, even though he knew Sam was really the undisputed leader of the family business. But he didn't think shmoozing the old man would hurt. In fact, noting Sam's petulant attitude, he might need to have the old fellow on his side.
Continuing, he explained gravely, "There's a serious supernatural mess in New York. I need Sam's assistance. My cousin Prince Varinski will of course pay her well."
Sam looked shocked, but Myles smiled cheerfully.
"Haven't you heard that familiarity breeds contempt?" Sam asked caustically. "Oh, wait—in your case I already feel that way."
All three men ignored her, and her uncle remarked, "Run it by me from the beginning, big guy, and don't spare the details."
Five minutes later Nic had Myles's promise to deliver a reluctant and sassy Sam to the airport in forty-five minutes. A lesser man might have been discouraged by her coldly polite acceptance, but Nic knew better; behind her disinterested face beat the heart of a hunter.
Yes, Sam would want in on the business of finding out who had stoned the vampire Jessie, or his name wasn't Nic Strakhov. (And it was!) She might have a chip on her shoulder right now, but he would have days and nights of her company to help her get rid of her anger. After all, he wasn't a paranormal problem-solver for nothing; he was used to getting rid of the unwanted, and he would exorcise Sam's unwanted anger. Although she might not be eating out of his hand right now, he wasn't discouraged by her bristling attitude. He had a way with women, always had. They adored him. So being the charming playboy he was, he would just turn on his continental charm and seduce Sam right back out of her paranormalbustin' pants and back into his bed.
Nic laughed. Sam might not be easy, but she would be had by him and him alone. New York, New York. If he could make it with her there, he could make it with her anywhere.
New York—the City of Monsters that Never Sleep
"I can't believe I'm here with you," Sam remarked rudely. The plane had landed, and they were riding in a chauffeur-driven limousine to the site of the murder.
Nic smiled grimly. Sam had sat with William Ripley on the plane, ignoring Nic. However, when they were getting inside the limo, Nic had practically pushed the werewolf away and snagged the seat next to her, crowding her against the door. "You've heard the old saying, keep your friends close and your enemies closer," Nic remarked calmly.
"Is that what you are doing?" Sam asked, her Bustin' boots longing to stray—with her in them. Anything to get away from Nic and the other occupants of this car. A sleepy Alex was on the other side of Nic, while Ripley sat across with Prince Varinski facing her. The real Prince Varinski, she recalled again.
Frowning slightly, she couldn't believe she had been so ditzy as to mistake their identity. Seeing Nic and the Prince together, she conceded the size of her failure. While Nic was arrogant and self-assured, the Prince fairly oozed with royal hauteur. Prince V. wasn't just lordly; he was imperial. He was the King of the Hill and top of the creep heap. The arrogance was probably due to centuries of vampire inbreeding, Sam decided snidely as she elbowed Nic.
"Move over," she growled.
Nic leaned close and whispered, "No way, sweetheart. You're not my enemy anymore, so I'm keeping you close because you smell good and look better. You're beautiful, you know."
"Want my advice? Go back to Russia with your love," she advised coolly.
Smiling down at her, Nic shook his head. "I don't think so. You're too alluring to resist."
Sam opened her mouth to protest, then shut it quickly. Nic was being like any other man who wanted someone who didn't want him, only more so. Besides, sometimes the best defense was to remain silent and keep your foe guessing. Nic was a tricky fellow, trying to flatter her out of her anger. But it wouldn't work, since she was wise to the wiseguy oaf. No way was Nic going to get back in her good graces again—or her underwear.
"Your charm and beauty make me speechless," he went on, his tone wickedly sensual.
"As I always suspected. You're showing your true colors, Nicky," Prince Petroff remarked. "It appears you're a rank sentimentalist." Varinski shot Nic and Sam an amused look, the same one he had been giving them on the plane.
His amusement grated Sam like sandpaper on skin. Evidently Prince V. thought he knew some big secret about her, which irritated her to no end. Even on the jet, during the debriefing on the murder, the Prince had retained this politely amused smile. And Sam wasn't some Kewpie doll or stand-up comedian brought here to entertain the haughty Russian aristocrat.