by Minda Webber
Sam picked up her glass of orange juice, raising it in a toast. Her goblin in a hat squawked. "Here's to plain-speaking, and to the place I'm fixing to go. I'm going to knock that arrogant vampire for a loop!"
Her pet goblin had finished his meal, and he merely looked bored and rolled over onto his back. Well fed and satisfied, he went immediately to sleep.
"Got what you want and you go to sleep? Just like a man," Sam snapped.
Then she stalked out of the kitchen with grim determination—the determination of a woman with revenge on her mind and in her sights. She had a hundred dresses to try on, and at least two hours of hair-styling; she was hauling out the big guns for this finale, and she didn't mean ogre pistols!
Walking Tall, but Feeling Low
Sam crashed the Varinski party without anyone being the wiser. Once inside the massive house, she went with the flow of the crowd, noting the elegant decor. The walls were filled with paintings by such renowned artists as Van Gogh, Monet and El Greco—no soup cans here. Champagne seemed to be the beverage of choice, as waiters and waitresses in black and white uniforms distributed tray after tray of Cristal and caviar.
Guests were dressed in varied attire. Old money and politicians assumed the conservative look, with dark suits and club ties, while their wives dressed in vivid hues, adding enough rocks around their necks or fingers to finance a third-world country.
The undead crowd dressed differently. The men wore flamboyant capes and were garbed entirely in black, while the female vamps strutted about in varying degrees of undress, with bright and gaudy plumage; some even wore animal fur sewn around their low-cut necklines and knee-high boots. Others wore wispy feathers, which served as bodices or backs for many of their dresses. Sam guessed it was kind of a Vampires in Vermont theme. For such a beautiful species, they really had appalling taste.
Sam had chosen a black, off-the-shoulders cocktail dress, and had twisted her hair into a complex design on the back of her head, with a few curls about her face and neck. The only jewelry she wore was her protective amulet, tucked tight into her dress, and a silver cross ring on her pinkie finger. She didn't want to be upfront and in the vampires' faces with a cross around the neck, but she also wasn't stupid enough to leave home without one—especially when this was a party full of bloodsuckers.
All in all, even with a broken heart still slightly bleeding, she was walking tall—all of her five-foot-five height. Her pride might be in tatters, but no one at this party had to know, most especially not that pompous Prince of Bats.
Tension filled her as she mingled among the crowd, searching for Petroff. Planning to tell him off in a room full of people was one thing, doing the deed quite another. Still, Hammetts were not cowards. And Petroff definitely deserved a piece of her mind—and boot.
Suddenly the crowd parted and Sam saw a tall, dark and handsome man. He had a smooth forehead, which seemed to melt into dark gray eyes, eyes so dark they were almost black. His hair was a deep ebony, with hints of silver at the temple, very straight and short, barely touching the collar of his black silk shirt. His face shape and strong aquiline nose reminded her of Petroff. Perhaps they were related, as there was this faint resemblance. It was also obvious the man was no man, but a vampire: his pale skin, masculine beauty and the gliding way in which he moved.
He smiled at her, revealing only the tiniest flash of fang, his dark eyes interested and alert. He stared at her. Sam felt like he was assessing her clothing, and then her without her clothing. Yep, he was definitely a relative of Petroff's, as they both shared that presence which screamed Beware! Proceed at your own risk. Sam would give him a wide berth. She certainly didn't need to meet another pain in the neck Nosferatu.
The vampire suddenly grinned, amusement filling his eyes. He nodded at her arrogantly, and Petroff appeared, sauntering up to join him. Soon both were staring intently in her direction.
Tearing her eyes from the unknown vampire, Sam stared at Pete. Her eyes narrowed. His expression was completely blank, and there was no penetrating the deadpan mask. Was he shocked that she had. crashed his party? Was he irritated to see her? Was he even now thinking about their night together? Did he regret, even the tiniest bit, not having called her?
Nicolas Strakhov had noted his cousin's preoccupation and, turning around to see, he had spotted Samantha Hammett not five feet from him. Her expression was cold and distant, her jaw muscle knotted. She matched him hard stare for hard stare. He wondered if she had determined his deception.
Sam kept staring at Petroff, while managing to maintain a slightly mocking smile on her face. She glanced back and forth between the two men, felt her heartbeat speeding up, racing; something was definitely up.
Suddenly, the unknown vampire clapped his hands. "Attention, everyone. I have an announcement to make," he called out above the lively din of the crowd.
The room stilled as if by magic. People strained their necks to hear. Sam stood rock still, her insides beginning to heave. She was supposed to be a tough, no-nonsense businesswoman, yet her hands were shaking like crazy. Something was up, and it was big; she felt it in her Paranormal bustin' gut. And she probably wasn't going to like what this big, bad vampire had to say.
"I, Prince Petroff Stephan Varinski, have invited you here tonight to meet my cousins, who not too long ago moved from my mother country of Russia here to Vermont," the vampire explained. His voice was deep and mesmerizing.
Sam felt as if she were going to throw up. She had made a colossal mistake, ignoring the old adage, Never judge a vampire by its coffin. Dumbstruck, she flinched, almost certain what would come next. And this was no simple case of mistaken identity; Strakhov had played her like a violin.
The previously unknown vampire—the Prince—pointed to two men standing near the large marble fireplace, and he announced grandly to the room, "My cousins Gregor and Alex Strakhov." Then, turning back to look at Sam, he held up his hand and placed it on the man Sam had thought was Prince Petroff Varinski. "And this is my cousin Nicolas Petroff Strakhov, one of the owners of Monsters-R-Us." There was a general sound of welcome and goodwill.
After a moment, the Prince led Nicolas over to stand in front of her. He said, "And you are Samantha Hammett. I've heard quite a bit about you. Did you have some refreshment?" He motioned to the table with beverages.
"Boy, you sure don't believe in pulling your punches, do you?" Sam asked, her voice a bit shaky. There was a strong thread of anger sharply woven in, too. So, the vampire prince had heard about her? Just what had he heard—intimate details of the boudoir, or how she had helped clean up his haunted home? Glaring up into amused eyes, she felt safe betting on the first. She felt like screaming and punching everyone from Russia in the nose.
"You live up to your reputation—and more. Your beauty," Prince Varinski stated sensuously, "Well, my cousin did not do you justice. You are even more beautiful than he claimed."
Strakhov looked irritated at the Prince's words, but Sam felt numb, devastated; she tried to keep her expression blank. She had been in scary situations before, and dangerous ones as well. Embarrassing situations weren't new to her either. But through all her triumphs, all through her mistakes and failings, she had never slipped up so bad. Now she felt as if she had fallen into a bottomless pit, a remorseless pit where she would keep falling forever into a dark oblivion. She had been savaged, and not by a preternatural creature. She'd consorted and slept with the enemy. And worse… she had fallen in love with him.
Nic saw Sam blanch white—paler than some of the vampiresses stalking the room. A shallow triumph coursed through him; Sam had been the woman who had sabotaged his business, and who had tried to steal his cousin's patronage away; tonight the sly schemer was getting her just desserts. And yet, even though he didn't trust her, disliked her for her ruthless ambition, a tiny part of him felt like reaching over and pulling her into his arms to offer her comfort.
He mercilessly quashed the feeling. Sam Hammett was nothing to him but a foe now
vanquished. He didn't care that she was the same passionate, giving woman who had screamed his name in the night while he brought her to climax after powerful climax. Resolutely he would forget that she was the very same clever female who had outsmarted a pair of pesky ghosts without breaking a sweat. Determinedly he would ignore the fact that she was the same sassy sweetheart who had both made him angry and ecstatic all in a matter of minutes. Nic frowned at her. She was not who she seemed or what she seemed.
"I believe you know my cousin Nic quite well," Prince Varinski remarked, his eyes twinkling.
Sam dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to will back the tears threatening to fill her eyes. She wouldn't cry in front of these ghoulish men; she was made of sterner stuff than that—at least she hoped she was. "I get the picture. You two are cousins." Turning to Nic, she squeezed her fists tighter. "Your name is Petroff," she said, glaring at him, her eyes wet and liquid.
His tone mocking, Nic responded, "On my mother's side the non-vampire side of the family. I was named after Prince Petroff here. He is my great-great-great, etcetera, uncle." He motioned with a tilt of his head to his cousin.
Prince Varinski laughed, the sound like a shard of crystal, beautiful yet cutting. "Nic, my boy, no need to make me that old. I may be a dinosaur, but I'm not yet a fossil."
Nic laughed, too, but Sam remained frozen in utter mortification. Anger began to tinge her cheeks, and she glanced from one man to the other. They were both devastatingly handsome, with thick dark hair and beautiful gray eyes. But Prince Varinski was much paler than Nic.
She wanted to kick herself. She should have realized that a true vampire would not have had the tan Nic sported, or have resisted biting her at least once in the height of passion. Her expression full of pain, she glared at both of them.
Trying to play it tough, she remarked to Nic, "Good party. Are they here for your eulogy?"
"I'm not dead," Nic remarked.
"Yet," Sam said furiously. "The night's still young. So don't count your chickens!" Her eyes were grim, the threat of dire consequences flashing in their depths.
"Chickens? Why would I count them? Besides, I don't have any," he stated coldly.
She glared at him. "Forget it. You're too un-American to understand."
"Ah, another one of your quaint sayings. We have one in Russia: When winter freezes the flower, it's time to quit planting seeds."
Sam looked confused, which pleased Nic mightily.
"Yes, my Russian saying makes as much sense as your does. So accept defeat gracefully. You've been bested, and I've won."
"Over my dead body," Sam argued valiantly, ignoring the fact that she faced a wall of enemies. "But then, it wasn't my body that's supposed to be dead! Silly me, you were supposed to be dead—or rather I thought you were one of the undead. Just call me a sucker. But at least I'm not a bloodsucker like I thought you were. Dumb of me, really. You certainly don't have the charm or the supposed Nosferatu prowess in bed." She added, spitting the words out as if they were hard stones, hoping to wound him, "I had heard rumors of course about vampire sexual ecstasy, but after we went to bed together I figured they were only tall tales. You know, vampire myth and all. I mean, you were good, but not great."
She saw his eyes darken, so before he could refute her, she added acidly, "Which really isn't the point, is it? You led me to believe that you were a vampire. But you really aren't one. You were pretending to be your cousin. You led me on!" Sam was out of breath by the time she finished her list of heated grievances.
Nicolas Petroff Strakhov controlled his anger. He knew Sam had been over the moon with his lovemaking, so the saucy little Tartar had no complaints on that score; he could still hear her screams when she climaxed. He should show her scorn, but her fieriness had turned him on, reminding him of what had attracted him at Mandelay.
"Assumptions can be such a bore," he remarked, though his mind whirled. Sam was so adorable when roused in anger. Magnificent really, with her flashing blue eyes and pert breasts thrust out combatively. He wanted to have sex with her right now, though that was nothing new; he had been fighting his feelings for her all week, his hormones haunting him. With Sam, a kiss hadn't just been a kiss, and a sigh wasn't just a sigh. He had gone so far as to pick up the phone two nights ago to give her a call, but a gremlin emergency had luckily occurred. After chasing the vicious little vermin all night, he had been too tired to even think of sex—and almost too tired to think of her sweet face.
"You went to your cousin's to clear the house of ghosts, and when you found me there you ran roughshod over me," Sam accused, her heart breaking into a million tiny pieces.
"Funny the way things happen, isn't it? It's a mad, mad, mad, mad world out there," Nic replied mockingly.
His two brothers walked up on either side of him. Both were curious, and both were well aware of the tension between their vampire cousin, their older brother and this short, blond female. They had also been briefed about what had occurred at their cousin's castle with Nic and Triple-P Inc.'s owner.
"Funny, what some people will believe," Nic went on, rubbing more salt into Sam Hammett's bleeding wound.
"You let me believe it," she accused, wishing the ground would swallow her whole. Unfortunately, there were never earthquakes in Vermont. "Lying, cheating, ensnaring imposter! Of course, I should know better than to expect anything different from a double-dealing Strakhov!"
Alex and Gregor gasped with outrage, but the real Prince Varinski only smiled with tolerant derision.
Nic suddenly felt that maybe Sam wasn't as cute anymore, not standing there insulting his proud family name. Speaking slowly, he made his voice soft; some might have thought it tender, but it wasn't. "Perhaps I should have told you the truth when I first met you, when you were pretending to be my cousin's girlfriend. Or perhaps I should have told you while you made the offer to service the castle free of charge, trying to steal our client. Which would you have preferred? Just when should we have gotten into our discussion on ethics?"
Sam snorted, and anger made her see red. "You wouldn't know the word ethic if it bit you on the neck. You and your sabotaging siblings are a public nuisance. John Q. should beware!" Switching her hostility from Nic to Prince Varinski, she snapped, "Oops, that's your thing—biting people on the neck. Strakhov here just sucks them dry." She felt very cold and very alone, standing solo against this iron curtain of Russian tyranny. Alas, it seemed that the Cold War had never really ended.
Her back so rigid she felt like it was made of steel, her eyes bright with tears and anger, Sam continued: "The history of the world is the struggle between the selfish and the unselfish, and you four take the whole rotten cake."
The Strakhov brothers looked at each other in confusion, wondering why she was suddenly spouting off about dessert.
"Yes, you and your sleazoid brothers come into my town and try strong-arm tactics to take my clients! I guess phrases like fair play and common decency don't apply to you. You try to ruin my business!" She almost shouted the last, standing face to face with Nic Strakhov, on her tiptoes in her high-heeled shoes and sticking her finger in his face. "Peter the Great? Ha! You're nothing but an impersonating prick!"
"And you're nothing but a lying, scheming seductress! I would call you a whore, but honesty forbids me. You offered your company and your body free of charge!" Nic spat the words like they were poison. "You thought to charm, seduce and entrap me with that lovely little body of yours, just like you entrapped those two ghosts. But nobody tricks a Strakhov, even if they think they're tricking someone else!"
Always being one to step up and admit her mistakes, Sam winced, but there would be no difference after doing so; her world was already spiraling out of control. "I might have been stupid and gone to bed with you, but you seduced me with a capital S! Besides, I was still tipsy with wine. There'd be no other way I'd rush into bed with your Russian-into-bed self."
It worked. His mask of indifference was replaced with rage, grabbing her
by her shoulders, he snarled, "You wanted me as much as I wanted you. Want me to repeat the invitation?" Letting go of her, he motioned at the crowd around them. "I'm sure everyone would like to hear how easily you fell into my arms like a ripe tomato."
"That's plum!" Sam growled. "A mistake I'll never repeat! Going to bed with you was the worst mistake of my life! How was I supposed to know you're a depraved imposter? In fact, I bet you'd hump anything with two X chromosomes!"
"Well, all's fair in love and war," Nic snarled, his gray eyes smoking, his hands clenched into fists. Sam could almost see steam coming out his nostrils. "And this, my scheming jade, is war!"
Gregor placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, fearing Nic might attack the lovely, red-faced blonde. She looked too innocent to be the scheming cheat that he'd heard. In fact, Gregor didn't believe it.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Alex's arrested expression, his slightly hunched shoulders. Gregor shook his head. Something was rotten in Dodge, and he would bet it had to do with his brother's inane practical jokes.
Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Gregor turned back to Nic and Sam. He couldn't help but watch the feuding couple in fascination, stunned to see his elder brother carry on this way in front of an audience. Nic was a cold, hard man, given little to public displays; his anger was generally hidden from his foes. When he struck, he struck silent and deadly, his aim quick and devastatingly accurate. Tonight Nic was impassioned, fairly shrieking, which meant this female Paranormalbuster had grabbed him by the heart—or lower.
"I'm not surprised it's war!" Sam retorted.
"Definitely war, and you were the spoils," Nic repeated, throwing off Gregor's arm.
"Why, you stupid, sabotaging stooge! Someday you're going to regret the way you treated me. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life. Why, I bet you don't even know when the Fourth of July is!" Then Sam turned and marched off, not bothering to waste time with good-byes.
