by Jan Hudson
"But you don't understand. Preston and his friends are very powerful. I'm not safe from him anywhere. Not even with the police. If he finds me, he’ll kill me. I heard him. Nobody will listen to me, but I heard him. I swear it's the truth. You've got to believe me."
He gathered her in his long arms and held her close. He could feel her shaking. "Shhh, darlin'. I believe you. We won't call the police. You come inside with me. Ol Spider won't let him hurt you.”
He felt her relax against him, and he laid his cheek on the top of her head. She smelled like flowers.
Lifting her as if she weighed nothing, he carried her inside the pawnshop. If he could have gotten his hands on Preston right then, he would have decked him. Or worse. Spider had been dealing with slimeballs like him for most of his thirty-four years. After all, his father had been the biggest slimeball of them all.
The first thing Anne saw when she awakened was the head of a wild boar. It had on a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a tie and was mounted on the wall alongside what, if she wasn't mistaken, was an original LeRoy Neiman painting of clashing football players.
The next thing she noticed was that the pillow her cheek rested on smelled of citrus and sandalwood and virile male. Her eyes widened and she sat up with a start. She was in the middle of a huge brass bed that was in a roomful of the strangest assortment of furnishings she'd ever seen.
A mahogany Chippendale tall-case clock sat between an outboard motor and a scarred pump organ. An eighteenth-century Venetian armoire rested next to a lead birdbath, a racing bike, and two sets of water skis. The bedside lamp was Tiffany, but it sat on a wooden packing crate. Her pearls lay at the base of the lamp.
Where was she? How had she ended up in a brass bed with red satin sheets and a fake fur spread? Was this some kind of bizarre dream? She looked down at herself.
Dear Lord, she wore a silk chemise and lace panties. And nothing else.
"Good morning," a deep voice said. "I thought I heard you stir."
Anne jerked the sheets up to her chin as Spider Webb came striding into the room with a tray. The black leather jacket was gone, but, except for a light blue T-shirt advertising Sea World, he was dressed as he was the night before. The blue T-shirt matched his eyes and clung to his muscled torso like plastic wrap. She was hard-pressed not to stare.
"Where am I? How did I get here?"
He grinned. "Don't you remember? You're at my Pawn Parlor."
"You live here?"
"Sure," he said, settling the bed tray over her lap. "Saves on insurance and it's as good a place as any. This part of the store used to be a pizza place. When they went broke, I took over the space. Some nights I swear I can still smell pepperoni. Sleep good?"
She nodded.
"Great. You were pretty well out of juice when I carried you in last night. I brought you some breakfast." He lifted the silver cover from a plate with four slices of bacon and two soft fried eggs.
The plate and coffee cup were Limoges. The sliver was Francis I, and the orange juice glass was plastic. The salt and pepper shakers looked like the ones used by a major airline. Two biscuits sat in a small basket lined with a paper towel, but the yellow rose beside the basket was in a Lalique bud vase. Anne picked up the rose and smelled it.
Spider grinned. "I got it at the florist next door."
She smiled. "Thank you." She set it down and frowned as he stood beside the bed with his fingers tucked under his armpits.
"Aren't you hungry? Is something wrong with the food? I make bacon and eggs okay, but I sent one of the guys down to the chicken place for the biscuits. They're usually pretty good."
"It looks delicious, and I'm starving, but ..." She gave him a pained look.
She waited for him to leave so that she could have some privacy. But he continued to stand beside the bed holding the tray. "I'm not dressed."
One of those thick black brows lifted, and he gave her a look that sucked the air from her lungs. "There's no need to be shy, sugar. I'm the one who put you to bed."
He settled the tray over her lap and removed the silver dome. "I hope it's still warm."
Although she was unmoved by his presence, she took a bite of food. "Perfect."
Spider felt his chest swell.
"Aren't you having breakfast?"
"I've already eaten." He'd devoured three earlier batches that had grown cold waiting for her to wake up, and he was about as full of eggs as he wanted to be.
He unfolded a step stool that was leaning against a wall in a comer, sat down, and watched her go after the bacon and eggs. Although her manners were pure Emily Post, she ate as if she were hungry. She'd probably missed a meal or two.
Hanging his boot heels over a rung of the stool, he propped his elbows on his knees, and, lacing his fingers together, sat and watched her butter a biscuit. He decided she looked so cute sitting in his bed with the sheets pulled primly under her chin and daintily munching on the biscuit that it was hard not to crawl in with her and feed her every bite.
One strap of her chemise slid from her smooth shoulder, and his gaze watched its slow descent. She had the prettiest skin. It looked as soft as a baby's bottom. He remembered the feel of it from when he'd taken off her clothes the night before. And he remembered sweet little curves. And long sleek legs. Lord, how good those—
With a shake of his head, he stopped his thoughts, and his feet hit the floor. What was he thinking? She was married.
Even though she wasn't wearing a wedding ring—and he'd checked it out last night after her gloves were off—he'd seen the faint mark where one had been. Separated? Maybe. But she wasn't divorced. Divorced women didn't run scared. Or have to hock a diamond watch when they were wearing Russian sables and driving Jags. She'd have gotten a hefty settlement if she'd divorced this Preston character.
She might be married to a first-class jerk, but he had one unshakable rule. Spider Webb didn't mess with married women. Ever.
"I’ll get you some more coffee."
"I've had plenty, but thank you." She smiled and it stopped him in his tracks. "Somehow you look different this morning." Tilting her head to one side, she drew her brows together and studied him with her large brown eyes. "I know. You've shaved your beard."
His hand went to his jaw. "It's Saturday."
"Saturday?"
He grinned. "I shave every Saturday, whether I need it or not."
She laughed. He'd never heard her laugh. It was a throaty, sexy sound that shimmied up his backbone. If he didn't beat a fast exit, her effect on him would have him reconsidering his cardinal rule.
"Thanks for the breakfast. And thank you for taking me in last night. I don't know what I would have done without your help."
"No problem, sugar. It's part of Texas hospitality." He took the tray. "Your clothes got pretty messed up in the parking lot. I took them to the cleaners this morning and told them it was a rush job. I’ll check to see if they're ready."
"Now I have something else to thank you for. As soon as I'm dressed, I’ll call my friend Vicki. Since it's Saturday, she's sure to be home. I’ll ask her to pick me up, and I’ll be out of your way."
"You're not in my way, darlin'." His gaze slid over the length of her. The red satin sheets hugged her body like a lover, outlining every dip and curve. His fingers curled around the handles of the tray. "There's an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. And I put your briefcase at the foot of the bed."
Anne slumped back against the pillows with a sigh of relief. 'Thank you." And thank heaven, she thought as she heard the door close.
Her briefcase was the most important thing she owned. She'd been so distracted that she had forgotten it held her hope of survival. As long as she had it and was able to stay out of Preston's reach, she had a chance. The files in the case were the key to unmasking his corrupt plans. That and Vicki's assistance.
She climbed out of bed and went into the small bathroom to shower. As she unwound her long hair, she glimpsed herself in the mirror of th
e medicine cabinet and touched the bandage on her forehead. Spider must have put it there.
For someone who looked so menacing. Spider Webb was really a very gentle man. And rather attractive without the beard. Handsome in a rough kind of way. Incredibly . . . sensual. There was an elemental virility about him that affected her at a deep, visceral level. The feeling made her uneasy. Very uneasy.
He was not like any men she'd ever met. Not that her experience with men was all that vast. She'd been a late bloomer, more interested in horses than boys as a teenager. The Swiss boarding school where she'd met Vicki had been very strict and gave her little opportunity to learn much about the opposite sex.
Maybe that was why she'd fallen so hard for Dwayne Palmer in college. And why she'd been so hurt to discover that he was more Interested in the Foxworth-Jennings millions than in her. After that devastating experience, she'd shielded her heart carefully.
While she hadn't become a social recluse or embittered with males in general, her subsequent relationships had been infrequent and with men of similar background. In fact, for the past few years, between her new business and caring for her mother, she hadn't had much time for a social life.
Elizabeth Ames, Anne's mother and Preston's stepmother, had always been a fragile, dependent type. Shortly after Anne had finished graduate school and had started her art gallery in Washington, D.C., her mother's delicate health had begun to deteriorate. Although Preston had lived in the household and managed Elizabeth's financial affairs for several years, Anne didn't want to trust the supervision of her mother's care to Preston or the servants, so she had moved back home to the Virginia suburb and had commuted to the gallery.
Almost every spare moment had been spent at her mother's bedside, reading to her, handling correspondence, or simply talking with the gentle woman. Although the past three years had been exhausting, Anne hadn't considered her task a sacrifice. She had adored her mother. But except for a few dinners at the club or a party once in a while, there was neither time nor energy left over for thoughts of men or romance.
In fact, Anne had been stunned when only a few days after Elizabeth's death, Preston had declared his love for her and asked her to marry him. She'd never considered the slightly paunchy, graying man, who was almost twenty years her senior, anything more than a stepbrother. Preston was . . . well, Preston was just Preston. In fact, she'd always thought him rather cold.
Now she understood why the ambitious conniver had always been so protective of her. It wasn't brotherly concern. Or his own undeclared love. He was simply guarding the goose for his own selfish purposes. Well, she was a stronger woman than her mother had been. He'd find that out soon enough.
After her shower, she dried her hair and used Spider's brush to twist it back into the severe coil that she'd worn for years. She brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush she'd found and bemoaned the lack of even the few cosmetics she ordinarily used. Or clean undergarments.
There was a knock on the door and she almost jumped out of her skin. "Yes?"
"It's me. I got your clothes from the cleaners. Your panty hose were pretty well shot, so I picked up some more at the drugstore. I got some other stuff you might want, too."
"Thank you," she said softly as she leaned her head against the door. Dear Lord, it hadn't even occurred to her that a perfect stranger had done something so intimate as pull off her stockings. The last thing she remembered was gulping a double shot of bourbon that Spider had pressed into her hand.
"If you'll toss your underwear out, I’ll stick it in the washer and drier for you."
So much for modesty. She looked at the French silk items lying on the hamper and was caught between laughing and crying. They would never survive a washing machine. "Uh . . . no, thank you. I’ll do them later at Vicki's."
She could almost see him shrug. "I’ll leave your stuff on the bed."
When she was sure he was gone, Anne peeked out the bathroom door. Finding the room empty, she went to the bed. Her cream-colored wool slacks and beige silk blouse lay on hangers beside a paper bag. The sack contained a pair of panty hose in a plastic egg, spray deodorant in a blue can with flowers, a bottle of hand lotion, and a tube of pink lipstick.
She sat down on the side of the bed and hugged the lumpy brown sack to her like a treasure. Never had she been given a more thoughtful or cherished gift. If she ever got out of this mess, she would never, never take anything for granted again.
Anne sat in Spider's office, which was located next to his bedroom. A large executive desk of finely oiled pecan was littered with piles of papers, and peanut shells spilled out of an overflowing ashtray. Scores of framed photographs hung on the walls. A set of snow tires occupied one corner, and an inflatable mattress leaned in another. Below a one-way mirror with a view of the shop, four mismatched filing cabinets lined one wall, their tops covered with silver trophies. Amid the dusty trophies were a magnificent Erté bronze, an intricately carved jade censer, and a stuffed monkey. She shook her head at the strange assortment and picked up the phone to call Vicki.
"This is Victoria Chase. I'm sorry—"
Anne slammed down the phone.
Spider stuck his head in the door. "Something wrong, sugar?"
"I got that blasted recording again! I thought surely she would be home by now."
"Maybe she screens her calls before she answers."
Anne brightened for a moment, then frowned. "And maybe she's out of town. I don't dare leave my name or a message on a tape."
"Anne, aren't you being a little paranoid?"
She laughed bitterly. "You don't know Preston. He's capable of anything. You can't imagine what I’ve been through the past two weeks. It's a miracle I'm still alive."
Spider pulled up a chair beside her. "Why don't you tell me about it?"
His blue eyes seemed so sympathetic that she was tempted to spill the whole story to him. She'd have liked to tell him about coming home from Europe just as Preston's poker game with two senators, a Cabinet member, a general, and a director of the FBI was breaking up. She'd been away for a few months after her mother's death, to rest and ostensibly take time to consider Preston's proposal of marriage — although she'd never seriously entertained such a notion. When she returned, she'd noticed several cars leaving.
Thinking him alone, she'd gone to the door of Preston's study and overheard a conversation that when she thought of it still sent chills over her. It would be a relief to share her burden with someone, but she didn't dare. If she couldn't trust the police, how could she trust a stranger?
Even though Spider had been kind to her, she knew how the allure of money could affect people. And though she found herself strangely attracted to his rough, dark good looks, she knew nothing of his character. If the price were right he might betray her without hesitation. Allowing blue eyes and a coarse sort of charm to negate her good sense would be the height of foolishness.
She shook her head. "I can't."
He looked at her for a moment, then reached for the phone. "Who is this Vicki? Tell me something about her."
Anne tensed. "Why do you want to know?"
"Don't be so skittish, sugar. If I'm going to call her and leave a message, it has to sound legit."
Still suspicious of his motives, she worried her pearls while she considered her options. At that moment, there were none. "She's ... an attorney."
"She have a brother?"
Anne was puzzled by his question, but she nodded. "One older, one younger. And a younger sister."
"Tell me about her older brother."
"His name is Bob—Robert Chase—and he's president of an insurance company in Dallas."
He asked for Vicki's number, then punched it in. After a moment he said, "Vicki, this is Bill Webb. Your brother Bob asked me to contact you about some legal business I have in Houston. Give me a call when you get in. It's important that I talk with you as soon as possible." He gave his number, hung up, and grinned. "That ought to do it."
&nbs
p; "I seem to be thanking you all the time." She smiled. "Is your name really Bill?"
"Yep. William Andrew Webb. But nobody's called me anything but Spider since I was in high school."
"Why were you called Spider?"
"I guess it's a logical nickname for somebody named Webb, but mostly it stuck from the years I played tight end. They said I caught the ball like a fly in a spiderweb."
"Tight end? Isn't that some sort of position in football?"
One big hand slapped his chest. "You’ve wounded my ego." He feigned an aggrieved look. "Yes, a tight end is a position in football. Once upon a time I was hot stuff in the pros. I played with the Raiders for eight years before I was traded to the Oilers. I only played in Houston for a year before my knee got banged up."
For the first time in her life, Anne was embarrassed that she knew nothing about football. It was obviously an important part of Spider's past,, but she couldn't even make an intelligent response. She laid her hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry about your injury."
He patted her hand. "Me too. Me too. It ended a lot of things for me."
The feel of his hand on hers sent a peculiar ripple of warm prickles up her arm. Trying to make the gesture casual, she extricated her hand. "You can't play football anymore?"
"There's not much of a market for a pass receiver who can't run."
Although he cloaked his answer with a self-derisive laugh, Anne felt the pain of his words, and she longed to comfort him. With a little coaxing, he told her about his career as a professional football player and showed her the various pictures on the walls of him with celebrities and former teammates. There was pride in his blue eyes when he told her about being the Raiders' first-round draft selection and about winning the Super Bowl.