Bustin' Page 16

  She said instead; "The evidence doesn't lie. And unless I miss my guess, we have a serial stoner here. Have you heard of any similar deaths?" Inside she was seething. She knew a stone-dead woman when she saw one, and also knew that no black magic was involved. First Nic had unfairly questioned her professionalism, and now this half-dressed bimbo bloodsucker was questioning her Bustin' ability. Sam was used to her word being taken for granted. She'd years of experience and was considered an expert by everybody who counted.

  Natasha glanced at Ripley, who shook his head. Boris answered: "No, we've heard of nothing suspicious in this way, no deaths where people are turned to rock."

  "On the jet, Ripley explained that Jessie was dating somebody special. But Ripley didn't know his name," Nic mentioned, his gray eyes probing.

  "Since I was her close friend, I know his name," Forest replied, smiling seductively into Nic's face. "Nero. But I don't know much else."

  Sam couldn't agree more. The Irish vampiress was nothing but a big, fat snake with oversized breasts and fangs. Fuming at the woman's overt play for Nic, she added hastily, "Nero? He has just one name, kinda like Cher?"

  Forest swung back around to face her, her red lips twisting in a sneer. "She met Nero at a Goth bar. Jessie had a couple of dates with him. He gave her a beautiful ruby ring, and she was in love. They hadn't had sex before their last date, which was last night. I don't know what he looked like or his last name. Although, I'm positive he was a supernatural creature—Jessie was rather adamant about never dating humans. So limited in their… abilities." Forest's smile was smug as her gaze swept up and down Sam's body, then dismissive as if Sam were nothing more than a bug on the carpet. It really didn't surprise Sam; apparently Forest was also a bigot, with humanity being beneath dirt-nappers like herself.

  "Yeah, I guess vampires don't have to take Viagra to get a nice hard stake in the action," Sam retorted sarcastically, matching the venal vampiress look for look. "Anyway, which Goth club did she meet this Nero guy at?"

  Forest shrugged, causing the spaghetti strap on her right shoulder to slip, revealing even more of her abundant cleavage as she ran her fingers down Nic's muscular chest. When she went for his leg, Sam debated briefly on whether she might not just go ahead and knock the vamp's block off, but though she longed to tug the Irish hussy's dress back up and pop Nic one in the kisser, she maintained her stoic expression. Stupid Nic didn't seem to realize he was this vampiress's intended breakfast of champions.

  "I think it was that American one—American Gothic. They have some hot hunks there, though not as hot as what I'm sitting by tonight," Forest remarked. Licking her lips she whispered, "Do you taste as good as you look?"

  Nic wouldn't be all male if he didn't respond a little to that blatant invitation. He smiled at her wickedly, noting from the corner of his eye Sam's chagrin.

  "Probably better," he commented softly, but just loud enough for Sam to hear. Then he added in a more professional tone, "Did Jessie and Nero go to any other places?" His eyes began to sparkle as he now had a place to start tracking his quarry—and also he loved the expression on Sam's face. Sam thought she was being nonchalant, but she had too much passion to carry it off. Right now she was glaring at Forest, clearly despising the fact that the Irish vampiress was all over him.

  Normally Nic would have been interested in a vamp this gorgeous, but he had Sam on the brain. She was what he wanted in bed, naked and hot, and her jealousy was only firing his lust. If he wasn't careful, he was going to get aroused right here and now, thinking about Sam.

  "Besides American Gothic, Jessie hung out at Bram Stoker's Bar and the Breed Club," Forest said, her tone oozing seduction. "Every vampire who's anybody goes to Bram Stoker's Bar. It's all the rage. And every elite supernatural shows up at American Gothic sometime or another."

  Sam shrugged. "So we know now that Nero hangs out at Goth clubs and picks up supernatural females, but we don't know what he looks like," she said, trying hard to ignore the nymphomaniac vampire. Who'd known Nic would be into corpses, even if those corpses had to-die-for bodies and lovely red hair with too much mousse. And why hadn't she brought her paranormal pest kit, inside which she had an assortment of razor-sharp stakes and a bunch of nasty tricks and treats for monsters?

  "I think he has long black hair and violet eyes," Natasha piped up. Everyone turned to stare at her.

  "How do you know this? I thought Jessie hadn't said much to you about him?" Ripley said.

  "I'm pretty sure I saw her with him briefly on the last night they met. At least, I think it was him. He was beyond handsome."

  "Why do you think it was Nero?" Sam asked.

  "Because Jessie loved beauty, and this was a beautiful male. He was assuredly the best-looking person in the bar. And the bar was American Gothic. I left soon after, and then Boris and I went out of town for a few days," Natasha admitted regretfully. "I can't believe I was in the same club as my sister's killer and I didn't rip his heart out!"

  "When was this?" Nic asked cautiously, aware of the vamp's fragile state.

  "Last Saturday."

  "Okay. So now we have a place to start tracking," Alex announced. "And now the bigger question: How do we kill this monster?"

  "An interesting thought. No one has run across a problem like this in centuries," Prince Varinski mused, his expression thoughtful.

  "Perseus cut off Medusa's head with a golden sword," Sam mentioned, wishing she had a golden stake to use on Forest. Talk about being unprofessional, she griped silently, hoping that Nic and the vampiress wouldn't decide to copulate on the small sofa in front of company. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Sam hatefully wished that Nic wouldn't be able to get a woody. If the vamp sent Nic up in flames, she certainly wasn't going to put the Forest fire out. The doof, the doof, the doofus was on fire? She didn't need no water, let the mothasucker burn!

  "Like many Greeks, the gorgon will have an Achilles' heel. Probably his head. So, I imagine the golden sword theory is best if we listen to mythology. I wonder where we can acquire two or three such swords?" Nic spoke up, trying to ignore Forest's continual carnal caress. The enemy they were soon to face was dangerous, deadly and crafty—a tough combination to beat. But this kind of adventure was the kind he liked best, as gargoyles, goblins and ghosts were a little tame. Nic loved to pit his wits and skills against an evenly matched adversary. He had never lost yet; nor would he, since his cousin, his little brother and Sam's lives all possibly would depend on his skill.

  "I can supply those swords by tomorrow night if all goes well," Prince Petroff volunteered.

  "And I'll do the research to make sure we're on the right track to killing him," Sam offered. She didn't like killing supernatural creatures, but some were just plain monsters. And a serial stoner was one seriously heavy bad guy.

  "I'll help you," Nic remarked casually.

  Sam shook her head, no. She knew that it wouldn't do at all if he came with her. They would just end up arguing or kissing. Either way, she knew she wouldn't be able to keep her mind off the gorgeous jerk, and she should be studying the ancient texts.

  "You, Alex and Ripley need to visit the Goth clubs and talk to the bartenders before the regular crowd gets there. Between the three of you, you should be able to get that done before prime time. Ask around and see what you dig up. Do a little spying. See if you can't help pinpoint where Nero's lair is located."

  Nic began to argue. "There are only three clubs!"

  Sam frowned. "Three that we know of. There might be more. Besides, you guys might want to check out Greek restaurants in the area."

  "Greek restaurants?" Alex asked.

  "The Meduse is probably homesick for good old home cooking," she explained.

  "That's stupid," Forest said. She didn't like Nic's interest in Sam, and it was obvious.

  Nic frowned. "No, Forest, it does make a kind of sense. The Meduse won't feed from his kills; he kills for pleasure. And he eats like humans do. I imagine Greek food would tempt him—a p
iece of home. Who doesn't like a Greek omelette?"

  Natasha spoke up, her fangs flashing as Prince Varinski put his arm around her shoulder. "I don't care how you do it, just get me his head on a pike."

  "Don't worry, darling, we'll take care of this for you," Petroff promised. Then, glancing at Boris and Forest he added, "We need to go to sleep soon and sleep till dusk. We'll need all our energy for this creature. It's time we go to the hotel."

  The Prince stood. "Everyone needs to use extreme caution. Especially the females of this group. We're up against the unexplainable. So, take care and, must importantly, beware of Greeks bearing gifts."

  Saved by the Elevator Bell

  The drive to the nearby Transylvania Hotel was passed with conversations highlighting the plan of action for tracking the Meduse and destroying it, but emotions were running high. Pulling up to the building, Sam observed its austere beauty. Located at Transylvania Ave. 6-5000, the exclusive hotel had been built for the sole purpose of catering to vampires and shapeshifters. There were no windows in the rooms from floors one to seven, and every room was fitted with an elaborate coffin. Inside the mini-bars were bottles of blood. And mirrors where everywhere. (In spite of vampire lore, the undead could not only be seen in mirrors, they gloried in their good looks. After dying and coming back as one of the Nosferatu, a human's looks were enhanced. An ugly person could become pretty; a pretty person could become a Helen of Troy.)

  From floors eight on up, the Transylvania Hotel had installed large windows with ornate wrought iron balconies, completely caged in but providing the much beloved view of the sky—a necessity for any self-respecting shapeshifter. Heavy steel doors led in and out of each room, which werewolves or other more violent shapeshifter species couldn't break or claw through. Bouncing balls, old shoes and live mice were provided for entertainment.

  Inside the elegant hotel, Nic firmly took Sam's arm. Eyeing the others with a look of stern warning to stay put, he turned back to Sam, holding her firmly. "I'll escort you to your room. We're on the same floor."

  Glancing at the others' expressions, Sam could tell she wasn't going to get any help from them. Saying a gruff good night, she reluctantly allowed Nic to lead her to the elevator doors.

  Stopping at the lift, he glanced down at her, his expression intense. "I've wanted to be alone with you. No interference. We didn't get a chance to talk on the jet since you almost broke your neck sitting by Ripley. And at the Barrington brownstone, there didn't seem to be an appropriate moment."

  "So, you've decided to strong arm me?" she asked pettishly. "Subtlety must not be your specialty."

  Tapping her foot, Sam wished the elevator would hurry up and arrive, because she needed to get away from Nic before her control slipped. She couldn't let him know how much he affected her.

  "Come on, Sam. Give me a break."

  "Give you a break?" she asked in outrage. "Nuts! I knew you were no good for a woman when I first laid eyes on you. I really knew you were no good when you seduced me in three days. I'm not easy!"

  Nic studied her flashing blue eyes, and crossed his arms on his chest. "Your point?"

  "I'm not finished yet, buster!" She had barely stepped up to the plate and already she was swinging. "I really, really knew you were no good for a woman when you let me experience your expertise. Finally, I recognized you for the hardheaded heartbreaker that you are when you added me as just another notch on your bedpost and left without a word! You ditched me, plain and simple. Despicable."

  "I was going to call, Sam, but things got in the way," Nic said, hiding the anger that was burgeoning deep within him. Women didn't criticize him; they made love to him.

  Nic didn't even know why he cared what Sam thought of him. Yet he did. Each time he saw her, the ache in his groin increased and his possessive nature wanted to take her in front of God, the bellboys and any other creature in the vicinity. She drove him crazy faster than anyone he knew, and made him so mad that he wanted to walk off into the sunset, never to return—but only if she came with him.

  "Ha! You guys are all alike. You never call after a one-night stand," Sam argued heatedly. Then, realizing what she had implied, she frowned, adding too quickly for Nic to get a word in edgewise: "Of course, if a man called after a one-nighter then technically it wouldn't be a one-nighter, but a one-night stand with a little extra. Not much better, but still something. Something you didn't do."

  "This is all hypothetical bull and beside the point. We were discussing you and me. You weren't a one-night stand Sam—never that."

  "No? You didn't write, call or come by. I'd say that really clinches it. You know something, Nic, you made me feel on top of the whole supernatural world when you made love to me. Then you made me feel like the Queen of Dunces by letting me know just how little I meant to you. You made me feel used and sleazy, and no one does that."

  "What can I do to make it up to you?"

  Tapping her foot impatiently, Sam complained, "This has got to be the slowest elevator since the dawn of time. Think you can manage to get it to open?"

  Nic was frankly thankful for the elevator's slow descent; he needed all the help he could get, even from simple machinery. "I never meant for you to feel stupid. And I love it that I made you feel special."

  Poking a finger into his chest, she retorted hotly, "Liar! I know what you're thinking. You think you can sweet-talk me and I'll cave like a Jell-O mold. Well, Mr. Big Shot Strakhov, I know what I know, because of what I know. I also knew what you thought, but you were way off base about what I thought. Think! You're the equivalent of Russian rat poison to a woman like me. I demand respect. I deserve it! I'm nobody's plaything. I'm not something to pick up when you're horny and then shove back in the corner when you want to get on with your regular life."

  The elevator doors finally clanged open. "Now shove off, Petroff, Pete—or is it Nic or Nicolas? Just what in the hell am I supposed to call you?" Sam taunted.

  She stepped inside the gold gilt elevator, but Nic followed, not wanting to be left standing outside with his hat in hand. Punching floor nine, he turned back to his red-faced quarry.

  "Call me anything, anytime, Sam, and I'll come. Or just whistle."

  Shaking her head, she replied in a clipped tone, "That line is a cliché. Go bother some other unsuspecting sap and stay out of my hair."

  "If I'm annoying you now, you're really going to get annoyed shortly, because I can't leave you alone. I wish to God I could, but I can't. You're like a fever in my brain—and call me Nic," he finished, his voice lowering at the end. Logically he knew she had every right to feel betrayed and angered by his actions, but enough was enough. Why couldn't she accept his apology and go back to the way things had been at the castle, particularly in bed? This was new territory for him, and he was finding himself up in the air on how to deal with this Bustin' temptress with her bad temper. "I know you have every right to be angry, but—"

  Sam interrupted snidely, ignoring the warm spicy scent of him in the closed quarters. She could also feel the heat waves coming off his body, burning in more ways than one. "Give the guy a gold star!"

  Nic reached and pulled her into his arms. He would kiss some sense into her. Or at least he would try.

  Leery of his quick moves, and of the feelings his kiss might engender, like making the earth move, Sam put up her dukes. "You try it and I'll pop you right in the old kisser."

  Dropping his arms, Nic sighed. "I remember. You have a mean right hook."

  Sam nodded. "Tell me, Nic, how does a guy like you get to be a guy like you? You talk a good talk, but you're all hot air."

  Nic hit the emergency button, halting the elevator on eight. He leaned in close, his breath on her neck. "Oh, honey, I'm a lot more than hot air and you know it."

  "Ha! Since I've known you, you've sabotaged my company, lied to me, pretended to be someone else, left after a night of wild, hot, wonderful sex with not so much as a good-bye—a night I thought was extremely erotic and rare. I thought you
did too. But you fooled me so completely that you should go to Hollywood, because the role you played that night was Oscar material."

  Placing his arms on either side of her shoulders, he pinned her, glaring daggers. "I had a damn good reason at the time, or at least I thought I did. I believed you'd sabotaged my company, and now I've apologized like a man. Take the apology like a woman!"

  Sam blinked twice. His words made her angrier, but his nearness was confusing her with his virile sex appeal. He made her feel like she was flying, like her feet were eighty feet off the ground.

  Her Uncle Myles had once told her it took a big man to apologize, that she should always accept. The problem was, her heart, pride and femininity had been wounded. The least Nic could do was beg, crawl on his hands and knees.

  Shoving hard at his chest, she shook her head. "You're just horny and you think I'm easy."

  "Oh, come on, Sam! Be fair. There's nothing easy about you."

  Reaching behind her, she fumbled until she felt the switch and hit the emergency button, releasing it. Nic stepped back.

  "I started to call you a dozen times. I had my fingers on the phone, but I thought you were the enemy."

  "And you only sleep with the enemy once, is that it?"

  "Not in your case," Nic answered savagely. He was irritated, sad and going to go to bed alone tonight. One look at her face showed no miracle was headed his way, either.

  "Sam, I care about you. Even when I thought you were my enemy. It made me angry at myself, but I couldn't help it. I care for you, and believe me, I don't say that too often. I also want you. I want you desperately, like a starving man hungers for a bite of food."

  Nic's intensity was too much for her, and she had to look down at the elevator floor. Her body ached from needing his body joined with her own. Foolishly she wanted him like a drowning woman wants a lifesaver; he was everything male, magnificent and macho. He had rung her bells over and over that night they had made love, until all she could do was almost faint from the pleasure. She'd floated away on the clouds of the most earth-shaking orgasms she had ever experienced. Still, her sanity and self-respect were hanging in the balance, making her aware that it was time to downplay all the sex stuff going on in the cramped space. "Look, Nic, I never discuss love on an elevator."