Bustin' Page 13

  The three brothers and the Prince watched the angry blonde storm off, the guests parting before her like the Red Sea for Moses. Nobody but nobody wanted to mess with this Paranormalbuster.

  "The Fourth of July?" Nic said after a moment, his temper beginning to cool. His respect for Sam had grown. She had taken an impossible, mortifying situation and not only faced it with sheer determination and a rigid backbone, but she had also left on her own terms. She was one in a million, and he wanted her. But… "Isn't the Fourth of July on the fourth of July?"

  His cousin the Prince could barely nod, shaking as hard as he was with silent laughter.

  The Young, the Dead and the Practical Joker

  Carefully studying his elder brother's face, Alex frowned; Nic still hadn't taken his eyes off the doorway where Samantha Hammett exited. Although he was a prankster and usually more interested in stirring up trouble than paying attention to deeper emotions, Alex had seen the flash of regret cross his eldest brother's usually stoic features. Nic never regretted anything. But then, Alex had never been around Nic and a female who generated such blistering heat. The air around the two had fairly sizzled with sexual attraction. Obviously his brother wanted her with an intensity that was shocking. Alex could even smell Nic's need, making guilt creep up on him again.

  At first, sabotaging Paranormalbustin' Pest Pursuers Inc. had seemed like a fine prank, creating confusion among the enemy. Alex had even anticipated their retaliatory strikes. However, it had taken three sabotaging strikes before they'd retaliated, and Alex had been thrown off. When they struck, it had been with brutal efficiency, leaving Alex in a big, smelly mess. Literally. Nic had been gloriously furious, almost as furious as Alex at the time, since Alex had temporarily forgotten his part in the feud.

  No, Nic would never have approved of his actions. He despised cheaters, liars and any who played dirty. Corruption and sabotage were words which brought out the fighting side of Alex's brother, and so after her retaliation, Samantha Hammett hadn't stood a chance.

  Only now, after the damage was done to both parties, Alex recognized the intense attraction between the two. Which was unfortunate. Nic wasn't getting any younger, and he needed to take a mate and have kids. This female, as unlikely a choice as she was, was the only one who had managed to stir Nic's deepest emotions. Which meant that Alex had kicked his elder brother in the teeth by playing his stupid tricks.

  Shaking his head at his folly, Alex knew his big brother was going to be very angry with him when his part in the war between their two pest-punting companies was revealed. And Alex valued his hide. Still, as a Strakhov, fraternal honor weighed heavy on his shoulders—along with a healthy dose of fear. Yes, Nic was formidable when irritated. When angered he was a great, bad beast. And yet, Alex had no choice: Strakhov honor was at stake. He was doomed, and he tapped his big brother on the shoulder.

  "Nic, I need to speak with you."

  Nic glanced at his youngest brother, noting the tightening of Alex's features, smelling the faint whiff of fear. "Yes?" he asked cautiously. Whenever Alex wore this look of contrition, he just knew he wasn't going to like what the kid had to say.

  "Outside," Alex suggested.

  The two brothers walked outside together. The eyes of most of the women in the room followed their progress with predatory interest, but the two Strakhovs were lost in their thoughts and remained unaware. Beneath a large maple they halted, and Alex began his rather reluctant admission.

  "You know how I hate to lose… ? And you know how I always love a good practical joke, even sometimes when they aren't that practical?" he began.

  Nic stared at his baby brother, his expression almost as shadowed as the outdoor lighting. No, Nic mused darkly, he wasn't going to like this at all.

  "I thought it would be funny to sort of set up the competition for a fall or two—or three or four," Alex went on, feeling like a young pup who'd peed on the rug.

  "What did you do?" Nic asked, getting an inkling of what his brother was about to say. Rage began pounding in his temples.

  "Um, the Hammetts didn't start the Bustin' war. I did. I'm the one who sabotaged them first. And it took three incidents before they took action to get back at us," Alex explained, guilt written all over his attractive face. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Funny, you know?"

  "A good idea? Funny? Boiling you in oil is a good idea! Hanging you from the rafters by your thumbs is a good idea! Starting a war with another monster-removal company—that's contemptible! Where is your honor?" Nic shouted, wanting to knock his little brother into the dirt and stomp him to dust.

  Nic felt horrible. The deception, his deeds, his words—he was suddenly regretting deeply all that had happened, and even sooner than Sam had expected. She hadn't been truly guilty of anything except trying to promote and protect her business against a competition that was unethical, ruthless and corrupt. No wonder she had used the tactics she had! No wonder she disliked Monsters-R-Us so thoroughly, and the Strakhov brothers. Some bad eggs had pushed the hard-boiled Buster into a corner, and she had fought back the only way she could.

  Glaring at his brother, Nic felt his admiration for Sam grow again. She was truly a force with which to be reckoned. Her Beethoven, those trolls… Leaving him and his brothers in the shit… At the time Nic had been enraged beyond belief, but looking back he suddenly found her method of sabotage creative, intelligent and ingenious; he could only approve. Not to mention the way Sam made love: with all her heart and passion.

  "Robho! How she must hate me," he muttered.

  Alex was watching his brother carefully, feeling guilty and foolish and, he hated to admit, a bit fainthearted. After their parents had died in a fire, Nic had been the father figure. He was the presence always looking over the brothers' shoulders, the one to dole out praise or discipline. The discipline, Alex had often felt, was dished out unfairly, as he'd had an advanced sense of humor.

  "You do know, Alex, that you're not some young pup anymore. Your actions have consequences. You need to grow up. What you did wasn't funny. It was unethical and cruel. You could have gotten Sam hurt or killed by sabotaging her efforts in pursuing and entrapping paranormal pests. You know how dangerous and deadly our job can be; all we deal with are creatures with long sharp claws and even sharper teeth! It must be even more dangerous for a short female, even if she does think she walks ten feet tall," Nic growled. He began issuing curses in every language he knew. Sam could have been killed!

  "Where are your protective instincts? The female of any species is the weaker sex. You were raised better than that!" he continued furiously, his eyes smoldering. Of course, he had to admit Sam wasn't exactly weak.

  "Look, Nic, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were going to go panting around after that Hammett woman." At Nic's black look, Alex added resentfully, "I mean, she's pretty, so I can see why you're in heat—"

  "I'm not in heat!" Nic stated emphatically, his gray eyes in flames.

  Alex was tired of being yelled at, and his own anger was starting to rise. "The hell you say! I can smell your lust from a mile away. And she's just as bad as you are. You know, we don't live in a glass menagerie here, Nic. You guys are like two cats on a hot tin roof—jumpy and snarling because you aren't in bed together. She wants you bad, brother."

  The last comment made Nic's rage recede a little. He knew very well that Sam desired him, even if she would deny it until her face turned blue. Even his youngest, common-sense-lacking, practical-joke-playing brother could tell.

  Who would have thought after that mortifying troll incident that Nic would be the one with bridges to mend. But then, Sam was his own personal streetcar of desire.

  Grabbing Alex by the scruff of his neck, he explained roughly, "You and I have an apology to make."

  Oh, boy! Alex realized. It was worse than he'd thought. The love bug had bitten Nic, and the world was ending. It had to be, because his eldest brother never apologized.

  Ripley's Believe It or Not

 
Before Nic and Alex could reach the door to his cousin's spacious home, Prince Varinski and Gregor halted their approach. An unknown werewolf was with them who, though in human form, was still recognizable as a shapeshifter from his slightly wolfish odor and his wolflike brown eyes. He had thick eyebrows with only a scant half inch between, giving him a predatory look.

  Nic could tell from the expression on his cousin's face that something was wrong. Petroff's usually amused features were taut and drawn.

  "What's happened?" Nic asked.

  Prince Varinski gravely shook his head. "You remember my old lover, Natasha Barrington?"

  Nic nodded. "You and she were quite an item during the Russian Revolution—and for many years afterward."

  Waving his elegant hand, Prince Varinski said, "She's a beautiful vampire with a heart of steel, quite irresistible."

  "Has something happened to her?" Alex asked.

  "No. To her sister, Jessie Barrington," Prince Varinski explained. Turning to the werewolf he added, "This is William Ripley. He brought the bad news. Jessie has been killed in a most unusual manner, and Natasha is requesting our help in finding the creature responsible." The Prince's black-gray eyes were flashing. No one attacked and killed the undead without stirring up a whole nest of snarling, fangy vampires. Retribution would be brutal, quick and deadly.

  "When did this happen?" Nic asked, already knowing he would help track and destroy the murderer.

  William spoke up. His voice was deep and gravelly, with a faint hint of southern Tennessee. "Last night. We found the body early this morning. I'm a good friend of both Natasha and Jessie, have been with their nest for years. It's hard to believe Jessie is gone."

  "I assume she wasn't staked?" Alex asked curiously.

  "No. Nothing human did this," Ripley replied. His voice was harsh. "We found her naked and turned to stone. There was no magic dust, and no hint of any kind of spells on the body or in the air."

  Alex gasped. Gregor looked thoughtful, pondering the facts of the case, while Nic also remained silent, his mind racing. He tried to make sense of this amazing story. Ripley said no magic was cast, and Nic would take him at his word, since a smart werewolf could sniff out bad magic at least ten feet away—a lucky attribute, since most truly harmful spells had to be personally administered. That would place an attacking witch or warlock in close proximity, certainly closer than ten feet, and within striking distance; he would leave a trace.

  Concentrating hard, Nic tried to imagine what could kill a vampire in this way. After all, he reasoned, killing a vampire was very much a risky endeavor, since all undead had already died once and did not go gently into that good morning. Vampires were a tough and tenacious lot, skilled hunters, diplomats and deadly warriors. Whatever had turned this vampire into solid stone had to be another supernatural creature. But the only creature Nic could even think had such power—besides a queen witch or a king warlock—was a monster extinct for over eight centuries.

  "You're certain Jessie didn't have a spell cast on her?" Gregor asked, his brows furrowed.

  "Positive," Ripley snapped, irritated that his word was being questioned. "No spells. Just little Jessie Barrington, stone cold and stone dead."

  "What do you think, Nic?" Prince Petroff questioned soberly.

  "What I think, I don't believe. It's not possible. The only creature that could turn someone to stone has been extinct for a long time—before you were even born into the vampire world."

  "Nothing's impossible," the Prince remarked. Twice tonight Nic had surprised him: First, with his obvious interest in Samantha Hammett, and now with his obvious frustration at not knowing who or what was Jessie's killer. "We'll leave in two hours, and take my jet to New York. I'll go and begin clearing out my guests."

  Nic nodded. Two hours would give him enough time to see Sam and apologize.

  Interrupting his cousin's thoughts, Petroff cut slyly in, "By the way, do you think you could use that Hammett woman's help in hunting and tracking this monster?"

  Alex and Gregor looked affronted, but Nic looked intrigued, which made the Prince smile. He hid it. Nic was growing old; the years were passing him by, flashing onward in the blink of an eye. But his cousin had a succession to fulfill, and a duty to produce other sons. No, Prince Petroff wasn't the only other member in the royal family line.

  "I believe I could use her help," Nic agreed. "Come on, Alex, we have a lady to see." Suddenly his body was alight with an inner fire, and his crafty mind was already working on how best to get Sam to comply.

  Opening his mouth to protest, Alex stopped as he took in his brother's firm determination. Giving a sad shrug, he resolutely followed Nic into the house.

  Outside, Gregor stared speculatively after Nic. He couldn't help but wonder why his eldest brother was obsessed with Samantha Hammett. After all, she was a cheat, unethical and untrustworthy. Of course, at the party sparks and words had flown. If Nic was truly interested, then Gregor could only wait and see.

  As his cousins disappeared inside, Prince Varinski threw back his head and laughed. If Nic didn't end up with Samantha Hammett, then he'd be a dead man. It was too good to be true.

  Noticing the Prince's wry amusement, William Ripley asked, "What's so funny?"

  With a cynical smile, Petroff answered simply, "Ripley, you just wouldn't believe it."

  Everybody Goes to Rick's—Including Vampires, Werewolves and Whatevers

  Another Saturday night at her uncle's Casablanca club, Sam mused, noting that there was a steady flow of traffic through the old worn doors of the place. The usual traffic, the usual suspects.

  A smoky haze filled the air, along with the scent of liquor and beer. The decor was old-fashioned and pictures of the great movie stars of the forties hung on the wall. The club's twenty-foot bar was old, weathered and made to endure; fashioned from cherrywood, its red hues were hidden by the hazy atmosphere. Scars lined its surface, along with a thousand stories of heartbreak, depression, jealousy, hate and joy.

  Sam loved this place, loved playing in it. The ambience was straight out of its namesake film, and it seemed to her that in the Casablanca club her music took on a quality of timelessness. There had been an age where a man was a man and a woman was a dame, and that man gave his life for his woman, if he loved her. It had been an age of beautiful women with fashionable, form-fitting clothes and elegant hairstyles.

  Those women gave their all for their man, and loved passionately, were gloriously alive in their love even if it was foolish. When Sam played here, she couldn't help but resent that the forties were long gone.

  Yes, even if lovers and moonlight would never go out of style, the old romances of the forties and fifties just didn't play in today's world. It might still be the same old love story, but the rules of the game were entirely different. In the twenty-first century, a girl was lucky to get a guy to buy her a cup of coffee without some kind of sexual overture, and most monsters nowadays ended their sentences with prepositional claws. A girl could forget chocolate candies and flowers, but a second date meant breakfast privileges. Respect seemed harder to gain than ever, and there were fewer men worth giving it to.

  Sam supposed deeply passionate, romantic love had slipped away sometime in the eighties, when money, money and more money took precedence. Women had become as hard as men to survive. Being a mother, wife and provider took the romance right out of the soul, and females had become tired to death of the neverending realities of life. They'd seen life put paid to their fantasies.

  Today when a woman met a man; she was lucky she didn't get mugged—either at gunpoint or sneakier means, where she'd end up supporting him. Women might have come a long way, baby, but they had lost something in the process. No one put them on a pedestal anymore; rather the world had knocked them off, and men weren't looking to pick them back up. No, self-reliance was the watch-word of the day, and old-fashioned romance was forgotten.

  "Take Nic, the promiscuous impersonator," Sam muttered to herself. "All the goo
d guys have gone and rode off into the sunset." They sure weren't returning to Dodge. Her heroes were dead, faded from sight. The age of innocence was gone, except for when her music touched a corner of it, and for a few minutes the feelings of the forties and fifties were coaxed back to life here. Ah, the smoke-filled Casablanca bar.

  Leaning back on the piano bench, Sam stretched out her fingers. She'd been playing for half an hour, ever since she'd given that less-than-stellar performance at Prince Varinski's party—the real Prince Petroff Varinski and not the lying betraying snake named Nicolas Strakhov.

  Although there wasn't a cowardly bone in her body, tonight's devastating drama had unnerved her, wounded her deeply. She felt like she'd gone ten rounds with a two-ton dragon. Not wanting to be alone tonight, she'd hightailed it over to her uncle's bar, got a hug from her uncle and Rick, the other owner, a stiff drink, and had sat down to play. At least in here there were others like her; all shared the dark, the pain, the solitude.

  Playing the piano helped, although she felt her heart oozing red like a leaky catsup bottle. She hurt.

  Her pride.

  Her dignity.

  Her heart.

  As her fingers swept the keys, Sam squeezed her eyes closed, shutting out the tears, remembering Nic's kiss. She would always remember his kiss. The world might always welcome lovers, but it was the woman who paid the bill when all was said and done.

  How could Pete, whom she now knew was Nicolas Petroff Strakhov, have done this to her? "Such a long, dumb name," she muttered as she played, her guts churning. How could a man who had made love so beautifully, so passionately, and who had taken her soul to a place in heaven, how could he turn out to be the jerk of the century? Not only had he tried to ruin her family business and steal her clients, the fiendish imposter had stolen a piece of her heart, ruining her for all other men.