Step Into My Parlor

by Jan Hudson

  It was pure luck that she'd overheard her stepbrother's conversation with Bradley Stanfield, a deputy director of the FBI. She'd gone to her stepbrother's study to tell him that she had returned from her trip, thinking that since he had guests she'd wait until the next morning to gently refuse his kind proposal of marriage. Ironically, she'd been concerned about hurting his feelings.

  The door had been slightly ajar, and she'd just raised her hand to knock when a man's voice shouted, "Damn it, Pres! You can't ask me to do this!"

  "I can, and I will," her stepbrother had answered calmly. "Need I remind you, Bradley, that it was I who secured your appointment as deputy director? Need I remind you of the extremely sensitive file in my safe?"

  "But the man's reputation will be ruined." Bradley's argument had sounded merely perfunctory.

  "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’ve 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 in 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 at 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 hi
s 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 lowlife 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."

  Four

  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 Twinkie. 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. "Is 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 how 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."