Step Into My Parlor (4 page)

"Perhaps, but I want his Senate seat. Do it."

Shocked at what she'd overheard, Anne had stood frozen outside the door.

"It's going to take a lot of money."

"I have access to millions," Preston had replied.

"That was while the old lady was alive. The daughter may be different."

"I
’v
e asked Anne to become my wife. In addition to her fortune, her Foxworth-Jennings blue blood will be an asset to me in my political climb. She's a gracious hostess and malleable. As long as she
has her charge accounts and her little gallery to dabble
i
n a couple of days a week, she
’
ll be happy. I
’
ll still control the estate."

"What if she won't marry you?"

"Then we
’
ll have to arrange a little accident. If she dies without heirs, everything comes to me."

When her shock had faded, Anne's first impulse had been to run. And run she had. But she'd kept her wits enough to take the documents in the briefcase before she'd escaped from her own house.

Thoughts of that night brought back all the feelings of horror, disbelief, and anger she'd experienced. The horror and disbelief had diminished. Anger remained. And fear. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't afraid of Preston. She didn't underestimate him; he was a formidable enemy. But she was determined to see him exposed and locked away for his treachery.

She touched the briefcase that sat between her feet. Preston knew that she had the files. And she knew he would never stop looking for her. He still had access to almost unlimited resources. She hoped he would never think to look for her in a pawnshop in Houston.

Anne stood staring at the water bed Spider and Boots, a lanky, red-haired man who worked for Spider, had assembled earlier that evening. Set in a frame of dark knotty pine, it was covered with sheets in a wild print of stalking tigers and panthers peeking through fronds of jungle foliage. It was a far cry from the cherry four-poster and rose silk coverlet in her room at home.

"What do you think?" Spider stepped through the doorway of the storeroom across from his office.

"It's . . . fine. I appreciate your and Boots doing this. It was very nice of him to help."

"No problem. He was glad to do it. Even though," he said, giving her a wicked wink, "he didn't understand why we needed two beds."

Her breath caught and a flush of heat crept up her neck. She tried to smile at his teasing, but her mouth felt frozen. With him standing so close in the crowded area, the small room seemed to shrink to minuscule proportions.

"Well get some more of this stuff cleared out tomorrow," he said, gesturing toward the stacks of boxes and disordered assortment of pawned merchandise piled up and shoved against the walls. There was barely enough room to walk around the bed.

He bent over the mattress and tested it with one large, splayed hand. His action set the surface rocking. As if mesmerized, Anne watched the slow, rippling undulations, blatantly suggestive and extremely disconcerting. Still she stared, spellbound by the seductive movement of tropical foliage and predatory animals.

"I don't think it has any leaks. And the sheets are clean." He handed her the fur throw from his bed, and she dragged her gaze from the quivering jungle. "In case your granny gown doesn't keep you warm enough," he told her in a low, rumbling voice as he stroked the dark nap of the plush bundle she held.

Light caught the cutlass hanging from his ear and struck blue fire in his eyes as she looked up
a
t him. A growing awareness of his nearness crawled across her skin and burrowed into the pit of her stomach. Even with dusty, musty odors permeating the storeroom, she could pick up his distinctive warm scent. Citrus and sandalwood and virile male.

It was intoxicating. Magnetic. Inexplicably titillating. Spider Webb exuded a masculine charisma that was thick enough to be cut in wedges and served up like Black Forest cake.

Several years ago, her neighbor Betsy Carmichael had braved the disapproval of her friends and family to run off with a rough-cut type from Oregon.

"He may not have prep-school polish or own a suit, but he's
all
man." she had overheard Betsy say to one of her friends at the country club. "And he makes me feel all woman. Honey
,
I don't know what he's got
,
but it's dynamite."

For the first time, she understood what Betsy was talking about. Anne could almost hear the hiss of a lighted fuse. She stepped back and bumped into a sewing machine. "But I don't want to take your cover."

He reached out and drew the length of his index finger down the side of her cheek. His sensual lips parted slowly, then curved upward just as slowly. "No problem. I'm hot-natured."

The room shrank even smaller.

Spider threw the wet towel on the floor and sprawled across his bed. Cold showers were vastly
overrated. It hadn't helped a damned bit. Every inch of his bare, damp body had turned to an erogenous zone.

An hour later, he lay there. Wide awake. Restless, miserable. She was married, he told himself for the hundredth time. And way out of his league. And with troubles he didn't need.

His body didn't seem to care. It was sending his brain signals that set off erotic visions that made his body ache even worse. It was an endless cycle that had kept him tossing and turning and swearing at himself.

Flopping over on his side, he punched his pillow and willed himself to go to sleep. His hand stroked the smooth satin sheet, and he thought about the smoothness of her skin and how her breasts would feel cupped in his hands. What would they taste like? His tongue tingled and he rubbed it over the roof of his mouth.

He turned onto his stomach, but all he could think about was her under him with those long legs clamped around his waist. He could imagine her big brown eyes looking up at him and her sweet mouth calling his name. He muttered another oath and rolled onto his back. What was it about Anne? Maybe it was her softness, her shy vulnerability.

Damn! And maybe it was because he'd been without a woman too long. He tried to get his mind on other things. He dredged up old football games, plays he'd run, passes he'd caught.

Finally, he drifted off.

A raucous ringing ripped through the building
and jerked him awake. He sat straight up in bed as a streak of white flew through the room and pounced on him in a tangled flurry of flailing arms and legs. Something hard slammed against the bridge of his nose.

Cursing, he flung his assailant aside, straddled the wiggling mass he held pinned against the bed, and drew back his fist.

"Spider!" a feminine voice whispered. "It's me. Anne."

He sat back on his heels. "I nearly creamed you."

"What's that noise?" She sounded frantic.

"The burglar alarm. You stay here."

He reached for the shotgun under his bed and stole across the room, pumping a shell into the barrel as he went. At the door he paused to listen. A soft body collided with his backside, and something banged against the side of his leg.

"I told you to stay put," he hissed.

"I'm coming with you. I'm not staying by myself. Where you go, I go."

Something clipped him on the back of the knee. "What are you carrying?"

"My briefcase."

"Leave the damned thing here."

"Where I go. It goes."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, stay close and stay down," he whispered.

As the strident alarm continued to ring. Turk screamed, "Stop, thief! Put 'em up' I've got you covered!"

Hugging the wall along the hallway, they eased
into Spider's office and closed the door. Anne stuck to him like a grass stain.

Night-lights were on in the shop, and he peered through the one-way mirror, looking for signs of movement. Everything looked quiet. He could feel Anne's breath on his shoulder and her heart beating against his back. One of her arms circled his torso with a death grip, and he looked back at her as she peeked over the edge of his shoulder. She looked scared to death.

"Did somebody break in?" she asked.

"I don't think so. This place is as hard to crack as Fort Knox."

"Then why did the alarm go off?"

He shrugged.

The phone rang. Anne jumped and let out a squeak. "It's okay, darlin'." He patted her hand and reached for the phone. "Spider," he answered. He listened to the caller for a moment. "Right," he said and hung up.

"It's okay. Nothing to be worried about." He laid the shotgun on the desk, gathered Anne into his arms, and held her close against him. She was so close, he could feel her heart hammering in her chest. "That was the security company. It was a false alarm. They had a problem on their end."

"Thank God." She relaxed against him.

He held her a moment longer, her head nestled on his chest, and stroked her back. It felt good to hold her. Everything about her was so sweet and so soft. Even her bones felt delicate and fragile. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she murmured.

He held her by the upper arms and pushed her back until he could see her face. "Sure?"

She heaved a big sigh and nodded her head.

"Good. I told you I would take care of you." He ached to kiss her, to growl and cover her mouth with the hunger gnawing within him, but he wasn't that unprincipled. He allowed himself only a quick, brotherly peck on her lips. "You stay here while I reset the alarm."

When he started out the door, he heard a gasp and he spun around.

"Spider!" Her eyes were wide. "You're naked!"

He looked down at himself, then back up at her. He grinned and shrugged. "Yeah."

"And your nose is bleeding."

He made a swipe with his forearm and saw she was right. "That damned thing you're carrying is a lethal weapon. What have you got in there that's so important?"

She didn't answer. She only stood there with her mouth puckered up, looking like an angel in her long white gown, clutching the satchel to her breasts like a baby, and trying not to stare at him. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to throw her over his shoulder, haul her to his bed, and spend the rest of the night making slow, sweet love to her.

Married. She was married. On the other hand, her husband was a lowl
i
fe and she's scared to death of him, he tried to argue with his conscience. But his conscience won. Married was married.

"I'm going to reset the alarm and put on some pants. Then we're going to talk. I need some answers, and well start with what's in that briefcase."

On Sunday morning, Anne and Trish Powell, a friend of Spider's, were the sole occupants in the chic hair salon on San Felipe. Only the sound of their voices disturbed the quiet of the large room, done in mauves and dusky blues and scented with the lingering potpourri of feminine pampering. Anne sat at one of the six work stations with gilt-framed mirrors that surrounded a central seating area outlined by a Persian rug and silk settees in a Louis XV style. A crystal chandelier shone down on a glass coffee table with current copies of fashion magazines and an arrangement of rubrum lilies and chrysanthemums, adding warmth to the elegant ambience.

For the first time since her frantic flight from home, Anne felt a measure of comfort in her environment, less estranged from the world she'd always known. She let the familiar scents and
self-indulgent rituals soothe her until her fear seemed very far away. Relaxed, she sat at one of the stations, a mauve cape over her shoulders and her hair in hot rollers. While pink polish dried on her nails, she held her face up for Trish to smooth on a light foundation.

"I'm sorry to trouble you on your day off," Anne said to the friendly woman who had been chattering as if they had known one another for years, "but I feel absolutely, wonderfully decadent."

The exotic, dark-eyed stylist smiled. "We all need a bit of pampering now and then. There's nothing like a new hairdo and a few pots of paint to make us not only look different but feel different. Stronger somehow, ready to tackle the tigers out there. And, believe me, it's no trouble. I owe Spider Webb a lot more than I can ever repay. He helped me when I needed it. It's thanks to him that I own this shop—or half of it. Spider owns the other half."

Anne was surprised. "He didn't tell me that."

Trish laughed. "I'm not surprised. For all his macho swagger. Spider has insides like a Twink
i
e. He's a good man. I'd trust him with my life. Close your eyes."

When she complied so that Trish could brush on eye shadow, Anne asked, "Have you known him long?"

"We grew up together, but I hadn't seen him since high school until a couple of years ago. I was in a pretty tough spot, a worthless husband and three kids to support. I went to Spider for a loan and before I knew it, we were partners. I've always
been a pretty good hairdresser; I just needed a break, and Spider provided it. The business did well right from the beginning. We've developed a very loyal and exclusive clientele
.
And thank heaven for It. With the income from the salon, I was able to divorce that creep."

Anne opened her eyes. "What did Spider tell you about me?"

Trish dusted Anne's cheeks with blush. "Not much." She added mascara and sat back to study her handiwork. "Just that you were running from an abusive husband and needed a disguise to make you feel safe." With an empathetic smile, Trish looked into Anne's face and patted her hand. "I know the feeling. I've been there."

Guilt twisted Anne's insides. She hated to deceive this kind woman who was giving up a Sunday morning with her children to help a stranger, but she forced herself to smile and say only,
“
Thank you, Trish."

"No problem. We all need a helping hand now and then. Let's put on your lipstick, and then well brush out your hair. I think you're going to be pleasantly surprised."

In a few minutes, Trish turned the chair to face the mirror and said, "Ta-dah!"

Anne stared at the reflection of a glamorous stranger. "I
s
that
me
?"

Trish laughed. "No other. Like it?"

She turned her head from side to side and studied the new look. Gone was the sleek brown topknot. Her hair was now ash blond with lighter blond highlights and cut in a free-swinging style.
Just shy of shoulder length, smooth full waves and a fringe of wispy bangs framed her face. With the new hairdo and makeup, her eyes looked different, her cheekbones more pronounced.

"I love it. I can't believe how different I look." Anne shook her head and laughed. "And
h
ow much freer I feel. Trish, it's delightful!"

The stylist grinned. "And it won't be hard to care for." She gave Anne instructions on how to maintain the style and how to apply her new makeup. She also insisted that Anne take along several sample sizes of the cosmetics she'd used.

"Trish, how can I thank you—"

"Don't worry about it. You're a friend of Spider's. And I hope now a friend of mine. You can return the favor sometime."

"Thanks." Anne took the tall woman's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I can always use a friend."

Instead of calling Spider to pick her up, Trish insisted on dropping Anne off at the Pawn Parlor. Anne waved good-bye as they made a promise to get together in a few days. Feeling revitalized and almost giddy with her new image, she buzzed and stood waiting, briefcase in hand, for the door to
open.

"Step into my parlor, sweet thing," Turk's mellow voice said as she walked in.

Anne gave a little laugh, bowed to the myna, and said, "Thank you. I will." Still smiling, she strolled toward the back display case, where Spider was working.

He glanced up and did a classic double take. "Anne?"

She laughed and did a slow turn. "Like it?"

A broad grin spread over his face and a thick brow lifted. "Turn around again."

As she did. Spider could feel his temperature rising. It was as if some look-but-don't-touch part of her had been left on the floor Of Trish's shop with her hair. While she was still a classy lady, no doubt about it, the uptown, uptight look had mellowed. She seemed looser, more open, like she'd shed a protective shell. Her movements were sassier; her eyes larger, browner, and twinkling.

He hadn't realized earlier just how good the jeans and blue sweater looked on her. But he realized it now. It had been hard to keep his mind off her sweet little curves before. He had a hunch that his days and nights—especially the nights— were going to be tougher than ever.

"Well?" she asked.

He let out a wolf whistle. "Dynamite! I didn't think gorgeous could be improved upon, but you're sensational. I almost didn't recognize you."

She stuck out her bottom lip. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment."

He rubbed a splayed hand over the gray Raiders logo on the chest of his black sweatshirt. "I get the feeling I'm in one of those situations where I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. Let me try it again."

With a mischievous smile she stood and waited, as if she were determined not to help him out of his predicament.

He cleared his throat. "You're gorgeous. You've
always been gorgeous. Now you're just gorgeous in a different way." He grinned. "How's that?"

"You wiggled out of it quite nicely. I like your friend Trish. And she's very good."

"Yeah. And I really think your new look should fool most people. Do you feel better?"

She nodded.

"Good. You about ready for lunch?"

"Starved."

"Hey, Fred!" A hefty man with thinning brown hair and a gap between his front teeth ambled in from one of the back rooms, and Spider said, "Molly will be here in a few minutes. Anne and I are going out for a bite. Beep me if you need anything."

As they started out the front. Spider held open the door for a small woman with a mink cape over her black dress. "How are you, Mrs. Bremmer?" he asked the gray-haired lady.

"Fine, Spider, just fine." Her blue eyes twinkling, she looked at Anne, then back at him. She leaned close and whispered, "Lovely girl."

He grinned. "Mrs. Bremmer, this is Anne. She's going to be working here for a while. We were on our way to lunch, but may I help you with something today?"

"Oh, no
,
Spider. You young people run along. I'm just going to browse a bit."

Anne had selected only a tossed salad from the cafeteria line, but Spider, between smiling and speaking to several people who seemed to know
him, filled his tray and insisted on heaping more on hers. By the time they reached the register, there wasn't space left for an extra pat of butter.

"I can't eat all this," she said as they unloaded their trays at a table.

He waved her off. "Eat what you want, and well take the rest home and microwave it for supper."

Her eyes widened. "You mean like a doggy bag?"

He grinned. "No, I mean like a people bag. The food's great here, and I do it all the time. So does everybody else—see the Styrofoam boxes on the tea cart? Since this is Boots' day off, we won't be able to go out to eat this evening. I have to hold down the Parlor tonight by myself."

"I
’
ll be happy to help if you'll show me what to do."

"I know you would. Try this fish," he said, sliding a serving of baked haddock in front of her. He cut into a slice of rare roast beef and began eating.

"It's very good," she said after consuming a half-portion with her salad. "You're spending too much on me. I'm going to have to start earning my keep. When may I begin work?"

He started to say something, then paused. "We can look around this afternoon, and you can decide what needs to be done."

"I
’
ll need some books from the library to—" She dropped her head and heaved an exasperated sigh.

Frowning, Spider reached for her hand across the table. "What's wrong, darlin'?"

"I can't even get a library card."

"Don't you worry about that. Well scrape up
some ID for you. The first thing you'll need is a driver's license."

"Don't I need a birth certificate or a passport for that?"

He nodded. "That's no problem. I
’v
e got a buddy who can provide you with one."

Her eyebrows shot up. Leaning forward, she whispered, "You mean a
f
orgery
?"

Shrugging, his lips curved in a
you-do-what-you-gotta-do grin. "Any particular name you fancy? Personal
l
y, I don't think Smith is a good choice."

Anne had been shocked by the idea of forged identification. The most dishonest thing she had ever done was cheat on a second-grade spelling test, and she'd been so guilt-ridden over the incident that she'd confessed three days later. But common sense reminded her that her present situation called for desperate measures. Being dishonest was better than being dead. Besides, she convinced herself. It wasn't
a
s
i
f she were trying to deceive anyone for nefarious purposes.

"Okay. I
’
ll do it," she declared, as much to herself as to Spider.

By the time they had finished a second glass of iced tea and filled take-home containers with food, they had settled on a new birthday for her and decided that she would use Jennifer Anne Webb and be Spider's cousin.

"I always wanted to be named Jennifer," she told him as they walked through the parking lot.

"And I always wanted a cousin," he said as he helped her into the Silverado. He stowed the briefcase and food on the floor, propped one black
booted foot on the step plate, and hung his elbow on the open door. "I guess we've come a long way if you'll let me carry that satchel of yours, but you still haven't told me what's in it."

Anne nibbled on her lower lip and looked up into bold blue eyes that seemed to peer into places she dared not allow them. She glanced away quickly. "May we discuss it later?"

'That's what you said last night. Don't you know by now you can trust me, sugar?" When she was silent, his mouth curled into a wry grimace. "No, I guess not."

Without another word, he closed the door. Indecision sawed back and forth in her mind as Spider drove to the shop. Instinct prompted her to trust him. Yet, another primitive mechanism whispered that she must not be lulled into revealing her secrets. Her life was too high a stake to gamble on a man she had known only two days. No, she'd wait. She must.

Spider seemed to take in stride her decision to remain silent. That he didn't push said something for his character.

"You're not angry with me?" she ventured after a long silence.

"Nah. I'm not mad. Just curious. I figure you've got some kind of goods on your husband in that thing. Something that could get him in deep grease."

She gasped. "How did you know?"

"Seems logical. He's after you; you're scared witless; you guard that thing like the crown jewels. I figure you've got the goods on him somehow." He
glanced over at her with a troubled expression. "Darlin", he's not some honcho with the mob, is he?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"You said he had powerful friends. You're scared of the police. Either you're overreacting or he's tied in with a heck of a network."

"I'm not overreacting," she said fiercely. "And as far as I know Preston doesn't have any connection with the mob."