Bustin' Page 5

  Glancing to her right, Sam spied the aging butler, Mr. Belvedere. Usually the epitome of everything proper and regimented, he now had his coat off along with his tie. He was licentiously taking a garter off the cook's assistant's shapely leg, and Beverly was giggling and blowing kisses at him or a bust of Napoleon; Sam wasn't sure which.

  Tomorrow, Sam thought wryly, Mr. Belvedere was going to regret finding out that the butler had done it—and in front of a roomful of people. But tonight his libido was apparently on fire, and he stood leering at the sexy cook-in-training.

  Sam had heard of orgies. Roman, mainly. But she had never before had a front row seat. Pinching herself with one hand helped to remind her of her duty to save the day and to stop normally circumspect people from faux fornication due to one mad monk's infamous inclinations. "Rasputin always loved to corrupt the innocent—or hell, even the wicked for that matter."

  Subconsciously Sam fingered the amulet around her neck, Bustin' ghost-protection amulet given to her by her mother when she was five. The amulet protected her from all kinds of nasty poltergeist spells and was a required trinket for all serious Paranormalbusters.

  As Sam played with the amulet she continued to survey the massive room, trying hard to catch a glimpse of the shadowy spook of the moment; Rasputin had to be around somewhere, most likely conducting the orgy like an orchestra maestro, complete with his big stick. Narrowing her eyes, she caught a glimpse of a luminescent shape off to her right.

  "Gotcha," she muttered. The rotten phantasm was fading in and out, blinking on and off like a neon sign, and catching her first glimpse of him, she couldn't help but stare.

  The Russian ghost was dark-haired and dark-bearded and very tall. He had bright scarlet eyes, was dressed in monk's robes and sat on the steps of the library's oak ladder, high amidst a stack of books, his big baton in hand. His smile was so cold that Sam shivered.

  Once again touching her amulet for good luck, she started forward, willing herself not to fall under his spell. She was still worried, even though her amulet was top of the line. Like condoms, amulets weren't foolproof. An extremely powerful spell could affect the wearer, and since Rasputin was a prime phantom Sam had a right to worry. Luckily her amulet worked and she appeared immune to the spell, with only the faintest twinge of desire tugging at her hormones.

  "Now, how to stop a full-scale orgy," she muttered. They hadn't covered this in her college class, Ghostly Enchantment 102. "Things are heating up and quickly. It's every female for herself." If she didn't want to end up down on the floor or the top of a desk with her feet in the air like a dead bug and doing the horizontal mambo, she needed to figure out a solution and quick. "Double-time quick," she mused as she saw Mr. Belvedere go for his pants.

  She made a moue of distaste. She loved and respected older people, since they had seen and done things that she hadn't. "But I don't want to see old people naked. No way!"

  Frowning, Sam concentrated hard on her dilemma. She could ring the fire alarm, but the way these people were moaning and carrying on, she didn't think they would even pay attention. Perhaps she would just turn on the fire sprinklers she spotted on the ceiling. Thank goodness the renovation of the castle had included safety issues!

  "Yes, extinguishers might work. Rain on their parade, so to speak." It worked with dogs in heat, so maybe the same principle would apply with Rasputin's lust-driven stooges. Now, if she could just get Rasputin off that ladder, she could climb up and hold a candle under the sprinklers.

  Sam made her move, her attention focused on the ghost, but she ran smack-dab into a hard chest. Her nose and breasts smashed against a muscular build. Startled, she stepped back and glanced up into the face of one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, the stuff that dreams were made of. He was tall, dark and devastatingly masculine, with thick wavy hair the color of deep midnight. He wore it several inches below his shirt collar. It was hair that made the hairdresser in her itch to run her fingers through it. The man had a physical strength as well. His expression was arrogant, in command, but he wore it well, along with an armor of cynicism.

  The breath exploded from her lips in a rush. This man she had just tangled with was all male sexuality, a sexuality that curled her toes. And that was just the highlights. He was clearly a heartbreaker, able to section a girl's heart before breakfast and serve it like a grapefruit. No doubt, this was Prince Petroff Varinski in the flesh.

  He was the night—nothing more and nothing less, she thought as the air around her began to hum with some strange current. Suddenly she felt like she had her own personal electrical storm stationed right above her head. Taking a deep breath, she scented him. He smelled all male, the odor of frost and damp woodsy earth, and some scent uniquely his own that tingled her senses.

  "What in the hell is going on here? Perhaps a failed palace coup?" He had an excellent command of the English language, with only a faint hint of an accent.

  "A… a…" Sam cursed silently. This was a first. She was at a loss for words, due to the sneaky vampire springing a surprise visit to his castle. What nerve! Fortunately he had caught her with her pants up. Unfortunately her mind seemed stalled and in the gutter. And her hair was a disaster, pulled back in a loose ponytail.

  "It's difficult to explain." Brilliant, she sneered at herself. But she so wanted to run her fingers through his hair. She loved thick hair. And she wanted to strip off his shirt, his boots and then his… "Oh!" What if her protection amulet had lost its power and she was in the grip of a mad, bad lust?

  "Oh? Difficult to explain?" The Prince asked in his cold clipped voice, clearly determined to get to the root of the problems surrounding him. The luscious female standing here didn't look like one of his servants; she held herself too proudly and she also wasn't in some varying stage of undress. Who was she? he wondered even as he glared at her.

  Studying her from the bottom of her tennis-shoed feet to the top of her lovely blond hair, he conceded that she was a pretty woman, although in his long life he had seen far lovelier. But there was something about this female that was different, and that frustrated him. He couldn't even seem to tear his eyes away to watch the orgiastic shenanigans around him.

  Something in this woman's chemistry called to him in a wild primordial way, urged him to move closer. Following his body's command, he stepped closer and breathed in the scent of wild jasmine and a honeyed essence that was totally hers. His nostrils flared.

  "What's going on here?" he asked with an arrogant lift of his eyebrow.

  Ruthlessly stomping on her growing lust, Sam answered. "What does it look like? An orgy, or rather the beginnings of an orgy are what's going down. And not your run-of-the-mill orgy either."

  "I deduced that myself. What I want to know is, why?"

  "Rasputin the ghost has put a spell on them," she explained warily, licking her lips and gazing at his tall, hard body. "I was trying to find a way to break it up when I ran into you."

  He cocked a brow. "Really? How?" The Prince studied her carefully. Who was she? She had a wonderful body, and those worn jeans showcased her muscular, curvy legs, and her tight sweater encased full, firm breasts. She also had the loveliest hair the color of ripe wheat. And bedroom blue eyes. And he now intended his to be the bed in the equation.

  Sam pointed to the ceiling. "Water sprinklers."

  He shook his head. "I don't think so." Turning to the room, he almost took a pair of panties to the face.

  "Enough!" he commanded the library's libidinous, occupants, his voice loud, harsh and utterly quelling. Such a commanding presence might have looked ridiculous dodging flying underwear and scowling at half-naked servants, but somehow Prince Varinski managed to pull it off.

  Pointing a finger at the salacious specter, he commanded, "Leave at once, Rasputin. I'll attend to you later!" Then he spoke some words in Russian, and the malevolent monk dissolved with various vile curses.

  Once Rasputin left, the orgy participants seemed suddenly subdued. Their faces and
various other body parts flushed red, and a mad scramble for clothes hastily ensued. Sam couldn't help grinning at the half-naked servants' antics.

  The Prince turned back to face her. His command was impressive, and she wondered if he would teach her the words he had called out in Russian, perhaps bespelling the horrid, horny monk, and definitely causing him to leave the library posthaste.

  "Who are you?" he asked, his stern eyes alight with curiosity. Life had long since grown boring. He had become jaded over the many long years of always getting what he wanted, often before he even asked, and so this blond female stirred something primal in him—an acute appetite to taste and savor her. This was sexual chemistry at its height.

  Believing in fate as the Prince did, this sudden business trip to the castle to deal with his ghostly intruders had suddenly taken on a brand new light. He would make love to the stranger. He knew he wasn't being conceited, since women tumbled right and left for him, along with various other gymnastic tricks to capture and hold his attention. But being from the Old School he would first learn her name.

  Before Sam could answer, Mr. Belvedere began to speak. He hastily tugged on his black butler jacket, looking askance at his employer. "Why, she's your girlfriend, Samantha Hammett, my prince. Is the room too dark for you to see?"

  Within seconds the butler had lit the library's large crystal chandelier. Bowing from the waist, he added solemnly, "And my name is Belvedere. I'm your butler. And I must apologize for this appalling lack of decorum. It's that infernal ghost, that monk, who is making us behave in this less than civilized fashion. I must beg your humble forgiveness. For all of us. Your Highness, we truly do not normally behave in this fashion…"

  Seeing the fierceness in the Prince's eyes, Sam wondered if he was going to put his foot downright smack-dab in the middle of the butler's back. Instead, the haughty vampire waved the explanation off, halting the butler abruptly as he turned back to Sam.

  Ignoring the embarrassed servant, the Prince stared at his uninvited but very much wanted guest. His blood began singing in his veins, and his heart began beating faster. "Ah yes, my lover."

  Watching the vampire prince, Sam's heart began beating so fast and furious she wondered if the whole room could hear it. Would the vampire kick her out without a chance to explain? Would he denounce her in front of all his help? Would he carry her off on his shoulder and have his wicked way with her? She stood taller, her chin thrust out.

  "Your girlfriend!" she said.

  The Prince knew what this female was thinking. A grim smile lit his features as he recognized whom and what she was—an uninvited Paranormalbuster. So this was Samantha Hammett. He had heard that she had a backbone of steel and balls to match, that she was a tough-talking, hard-driven businesswoman, who was hell on ghosts, goblins and demons alike. From the gossip he'd heard, he'd formed a completely different (and unflattering) image of a deceitful and devious female. Yet tonight she stood before him filled with sweet vulnerability in both her voice and stance. An interesting conundrum.

  Smiling deviously, he formed a plan to deal with her. "My lover, Sam," he stated, his expression wicked.

  "Your girlfriend," she protested again.

  Talk about going from the frying pan into the fire, Sam thought. It appeared he was going to play along with her lie, but at what price? And would she mind so terribly paying?

  Perhaps she should buy a new amulet, because she didn't normally behave or feel this way about men. Well, she did occasionally lust after Mel Gibson and Robson Greene, or men she saw in the movies, but she certainly hadn't ever encountered a lust that threatened to knock her over before.

  She had fallen in love once, when she was twenty-one. The relationship hadn't worked out. Her boyfriend at the time couldn't stand the thought of her risking life and limb in corralling supernatural creatures. His fear had gotten in the way of their relationship.

  Her resentment at his constant complaints had added to the problem. When she had busted him in bed with another girl, well, that had been the end of everything. Since her fiancé-bustin' days, she had been man-free and mostly sex-free, with an occasional splurge. But the last splurge hadn't been for many years, many, many years.

  She managed a faint smile as she stated again, "Girlfriend. You're my boyfriend, and I'm your girlfriend."

  He seemed affronted. "Princes are never boyfriends. But don't worry, my dear. I haven't forgotten you. How could I? Not when we've shared so many happy times." He grabbed her arm and held it, though not painfully. "I'll escort you upstairs, myself. After all, we have lost time to make up for."

  Although she didn't like the sound of his words or the underlying threat, Sam kept her mouth shut.

  Glancing grimly back at Belvedere, the Prince stated in a voice dripping with derision, "Make sure I don't interrupt another scene like this, not ever again." He held up his free hand to stop the complaints and excuses he saw coming from the butler. "I will deal with Rasputin. Now, no more orgies behind library doors—or any doors for that matter. I don't approve of this mischief."

  "Mischief?" Sam muttered under her breath—but obviously not as quietly as she'd intended, since the Prince sent her a gravity-defying look. If he considered naked servants, an insane malicious ghost and library orgies mischief, she wondered what he'd call bigger problems.

  Turning her attention back to the servants, she watched in disbelief. They all bowed and scraped so low, she was sure some of them were going to have backaches come morning and be in desperate need of some heavy duty painkillers.

  The Prince's X-rated Diaries

  While the Prince guided Sam away from the library and his meek disorderly servants, she found herself wound up tighter than a watch. She waited for the other shoe to drop, waited for him to order her out of his home into the cold, cruel night—or else into his hot, soft bed. Even though she ached to have his lips on hers, she wasn't easy, and she didn't intend to go to bed with this fiendish Don Juan of the Undead; not within fifteen minutes of meeting him.

  Whether her sexual ache was the lingering effects of his lust-filled library, his bloodsucker charm or the man within the vampire, she didn't know, but she did know one thing, one very solid thing: She never mixed business and pleasure. No matter how sexy a vampire prince might be, she couldn't move this fast. Going to bed with Varinski might be one small step for him, but it was one giant leap for Samkind.

  With those thoughts clacking around in her head, Sam pulled at the Prince's hand. "Thanks, but I don't need an escort," she said.

  "But I insist. After all, I'm a gentleman, Samantha. You don't mind me calling you that, do you?"

  "It's Sam. But you know who I am, don't you?" she continued without equivocation. "What I do for a living?"

  "I suppose it's too much to hope that you're a high-priced call girl."

  "Please," she said. "I saw the recognition in your face when Belvedere introduced us. You know I'm a Paranormalbuster." Who did he think he was, letting her pretend to be his girlfriend when he knew damn good and well that she wasn't? This crafty Nosferatu was up to something, but whether it was getting into her pants or somewhere more nefarious, she didn't yet know. But she would know, or her name wasn't Samantha Sabrina Hammett.

  "Perhaps. And you can call me Petroff," he remarked, an odd quality to his voice.

  "Aren't you curious why I'm here? And what are you doing here? I thought you were out of state. Don't you read calendars?" What kind of bad luck was this? If she didn't watch it, she was going to end up losing Prince Varinski's business before she even had it.

  "Daily and I decided matters here at the castle needed attending to immediately. Isn't that fortunate for us?"

  "There is no us."

  "But there could be," he said, grinning wickedly.

  Sam Hammett had a beauty that was definitely classic, the Prince decided. Such a shame she was who she was; not to mention that she was a liar and a sneak. Those were two traits he hated in females he intended to bed. But he would o
verlook them somehow.

  "I'm here to help you," she remarked; then seeing his grin widen into a knowing leer, she added quickly, "with your phantom pest problems." Now, if he would only let go of her arm so she could scamper off into the darkness and get away from his touch.

  "Perhaps you're the pest," he suggested wryly. He wanted to make her sweat for her subterfuge, and for making him want her. For being Sam Hammett, scourge of the ghost world and havoc-wreaker on the Strakhov Brothers.

  "Thanks a lot. I know this looks bad, me barging in and all, but I have a plan to help you out," Sam replied. "Yes, I admit this looks bad. But it really isn't."

  He smirked, feigning ignorance. "The orgy?"

  Sam scowled. "I meant me being here, pretending to be something I'm not." The vampire was too good-looking for his own good. It must be true: a liquid diet was good for the system.

  "But you could be," he interrupted seductively, his voice caressing her, "my mistress." The Prince added with a wicked grin, "I seem to be momentarily without one, and you're here. I'm a firm believer in answering the door when opportunity knocks. Or on knocking, myself."

  It shouldn't have surprised her, his willingness to knock her up; vampires were notorious for seizing the night. Fast on their feet, they had to provide their own opportunities, pounding on doors and entering people's homes with only the slightest invite.

  "Well, don't hold your breath," she advised him coolly. This vampire prince might be wily and domineering, but he would have to rise out of his coffin pretty early in the morning to put the bite on her.

  The Prince grinned at her; he did so love a challenge, and Samantha Hammett was proving the ultimate.

  Noting his cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Sam narrowed her eyes. She wasn't in the mood to be lunch. His proposal had been lacking in charm, and was highly insulting if slightly erotic. She wouldn't be anybody's plaything, although she might fantasize a bit sometimes. "Look, Prince V., you've got worse problems than not having a mistress at the moment. Let me make this short. You've got three ghosts in your castle that are devious, deranged and downright dangerous."