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.