Step Into My Parlor

by Jan Hudson

  Over breakfast, Anne told her friend about Spider, leaving out most of the delicious details.

  Popping a slice of orange into her mouth, Vicki eyed her closely. "You've changed. Not just your appearance—which I like, by the way—but you've got a new spark to your personality. More grit, more life. Is that Spider's doing? Are you in love with him?"

  "Sometimes I'm sure I am, and other times I don't know. I’ve never met anyone quite like him. For all his macho swaggering, he's the most caring person I've ever known. He makes me laugh and he makes me feel sexy. He's generous and fun and stimulating, but he can be the most stubborn, overbearing, infuriating—"

  Vicki laughed. "It sounds like love to me. How does he feel?"

  Anne sighed. "He says he loves me. He's asked me to marry him."

  "And?"

  Anne fiddled with her spoon, tracing the design of the silver handle while she examined her feelings. "We come from different worlds. Our backgrounds are just about as far apart as two can be. And we have some problems, primarily over his tendency to be smothering and overprotective. I don't want to turn into the sort of woman my mother was, dependent and little more than an ornament. And I have my gallery In Washington and responsibilities at home to consider."

  "Those problems can be worked out if you really love each other."

  For the first time, Anne faced her greatest concerns. "I wonder if it is love I feel, a lasting kind of love. Or is it simply an interlude sparked and fed by fear and excitement? And make no mistake, Spider is exciting. One look from him, and I turn into a quivering mass of libido. He rescued me like a dark knight snatching a damsel from the jaws of a dragon. He became my hero. He made me feel things I've never felt before. It's heady, thrilling, deliciously provocative. At the moment. But am I willing to spend the rest of my life living in a pawnshop with a man who only shaves on Saturday? And what about children? What do I want for my children?"

  "I think you need some time to decide what's important to you."

  Anne met her friend's gaze. "I think you're right."

  It was late afternoon when Anne left Vicki and her father. Harmon Chase, a big man with white shaggy eyebrows and a shock of white hair, had arrived on the scene like an avenging angel. The ex-senator, with his sonorous voice and strong sense of justice, was the perfect prototype of the elder statesman.

  The three of them had spent hours plotting strategy, and with a few phone calls, Senator Chase had set their plans in motion. A meeting with several high-placed officials was set for the next morning in Washington.

  "Now don't you worry about a thing, little lady," the crafty old politician had said as he'd patted her hand. "Well put that rascal Preston Ames where he belongs and clean up a few other rat's nests while we're at it."

  With a suitcase borrowed from Vicki in the seat beside her, Anne headed the Mercedes toward the Pawn Parlor.

  "Step into my parlor, sweet thing," Turk's mellow voice invited as she came through the door.

  Spider was leaning against the gun case talking to Boots and Molly. Anne managed a bright smile and greeted them. Spider, his face a dark mask, looked down at the suitcase she held, then into her eyes. Only a slight tightening of his jaw betrayed any sign of emotion.

  She excused herself and started to her room.

  Behind her she heard the heavy stride of boots following her down the hall. She didn't look back.

  Laying the suitcase on the water bed, she turned to face Spider. Lounging against the doorjamb, fingers tucked under his armpits, thick brows drawn into a brooding black slash, he waited.

  "Going somewhere?"

  She sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "To Washington."

  "When?"

  "Tonight."

  "I'm going with you."

  "No." Her voice was almost a whisper. "Vicki and her father are going with me."

  "You're not going without me."

  "Spider, please understand. This is my decision, something I have to do my way."

  "When are you coming back?"

  She looked away and busied herself opening the suitcase. "I don't know."

  He strode toward her and took her in his arms, holding her tightly to him, laying his cheek on top of her head. "Darlin’, I don't want you to go. It scares me to think that you might get hurt. If that slimeball gets wind of your whereabouts, he’ll try to get to you. Stay here. You'll be safe with me."

  She could feel the strong thumping of his heart, and she almost agreed to stay. Almost.

  "Spider, I have to go. I’ll never really feel safe until Preston is put away. And I can't allow him to continue blackmailing people and abusing my family's estate. He's a menace to others besides me. You know I'm right."

  "If you're determined to go, then I'm going, too."

  "Don't you ever listen to me? I don't want you to go. I have to do this on my own." She hesitated a moment, then added, "And everything between us has been so crazy and happened so quickly that I think we need some time apart to sort out our feelings."

  His arms tightened around her. "I don't need any time. I know how I feel. Annie, I love you. I've never been any more sure of anything in my life. And I'm afraid that if you go without me, you'll forget about me. You'll start mixing with the high-steppers again and never come back."

  An ache, deep and smothering, clutched her. The thought that she might never see him again was almost too much to bear. An impulsive, irrational part of her wanted to ask him to forget about the Pawn Parlor and his friends and come with her. They could live in the big house in Virginia, and she had enough money to last for ten lifetimes of extravagance. But would he be happy doing that? She didn't think so. Could she be happy staying here forever? She honestly didn't know.

  Pulling back, she looked up into his face. Pain shone from the depths of his crystal-blue eyes. She laid her hand on his cheek. "I could never forget you."

  His mouth covered hers in a kiss so fervent that every fiber in her body trembled. As his lips continued to take hers with mounting ferocity, he kicked the door shut, and clothes were shed in desperate urgency. He shoved the suitcase to the floor and laid her on the water bed atop the spread's roses and butterflies.

  The aroused tip of her breast shivered, and he took it into his mouth. Fire spread through her as passion flared, burning, blinding.

  "You're mine," he said, his voice guttural, husky with emotion. "Mine!"

  She answered with a lingering moan, and he captured her in a web of wanting as he touched and laved and kissed her writhing form. His very breath, hot and hard as he groaned her name against desire-stoked skin, set her body blazing until she begged for him.

  He plunged into her with a power that launched the bed into great rocking swells. She responded with a demanding rhythm and fierceness that matched his. The roll and pitch of the water bed beneath eager, straining bodies intensified stimulation into an ecstasy of sensation. They rode the great undulating waves as they surged and heaved and broke into a shuddering crest.

  When the last shudder was spent, he held her still, murmuring his love for her, dropping tender kisses on her eyes, her nose, her lips. "Come back to me, Annie," he whispered. "Come back to me."

  Eleven

  The days after her return had been exhausting, physically and emotionally. Anne had told her story countless times and had given depositions until she had become weary of the sound of her own voice. Harmon Chase had been a bulwark of support against the tedium of red tape involved with building a case against Preston. Vicki, too, had been supportive, but the demands of her practice had called her back to Houston the previous week.

  Registered under an assumed name and with federal officers guarding her door, Anne sat in the quiet hotel suite gazing out the window at the Washington Monument, its outline hazy through the dismal drizzle, and thinking about Spider. She recalled their last heated lovemaking with bittersweet longing. Three harried weeks had passed, but the memory was still vivid, still evoked a quickening in her body. He'd meant t
o imprint her with his passion, and he'd succeeded.

  Every night she went to her solitary, impersonal hotel bed and ached for his warmth next to her. Yes, he was a magnificent lover, but was sexual compatibility enough for a permanent relationship? No, she reminded herself, it wasn't. She remembered that Betsy Carmichael had come home after the flame had burned out with her Oregon dream man. They were simply too different. It had bothered him that Betsy had piles of money, and she hadn't been willing to give it up. In the end, he'd started drinking and their romance had ended.

  Would Spider be any different? Was what they had something more stable? Or had it been a temporary fling born of her desperation and fear? She didn't know. But what she did know was that she needed time, and she needed to learn to be independent.

  Yet when the lock rattled, for one illogical minute she hoped it was Spider coming to throw her over his shoulder and take her back to Houston with him. Her face fell as a smiling Harmon Chase strode into the room.

  "It's official. Preston's been Indicted, and he's locked up tighter than Dick's hatband. No bond. The list of charges against him is longer than my arm—everything from attempted murder to a wad of federal offenses that would choke a horse. We can dismiss that pair of government gumshoes outside, and you can go home."

  Anne gave a sigh of relief and smiled. "It's over."

  "Everything but the formality of the trial." He slapped his hands together. "Damnation, it feels good to be useful again! I'm going to go call Vicki. She's going to be sorry she went home last week and missed the big moment."

  He strode to his bedroom and closed the door. Her first impulse was to call Spider. She stilled her hand before it could pick up the receiver. Time. She needed time.

  While Harmon and a team of auditors started through Preston's papers trying to get things straightened out, Anne rattled around in her big house on the hill. Her footsteps echoed down empty hallways, and there was no one to talk to except servants, who were busy with their work and at a loss as to what to say to their employer. She wandered from one room to the next, picking up an item here and there and replacing it in its precise spot. The rooms where she'd spent her entire life seemed cold and too well ordered. They had no personality.

  Walking over the grounds where she'd played as a child, she discovered that the familiar was suddenly alien and lonely. She sat on the stone bench and stared at the rosebushes, freshly pruned and mulched. The first signs of spring growth colored the thorny canes, and, before long, fragrant blossoms would appear. But there was no one to enjoy them except the gardener and her.

  She missed Spider and her new friends and the excitement she'd found in Houston. Dear Lord, she was bored, and she'd only been home for an afternoon.

  In her pristine bedroom, she dressed in an Ungaro gown and went to the club for dinner. Most of the people there hadn't even realized she'd been away, but several women complimented her dress. She knew that everyone in the room was dying to know the juicy details of Preston's perfidy but were too polite to inquire directly.

  A few supposed friends of long standing, whose help she had solicited the night she'd escaped from Preston, made sheepish comments about being shocked at the news of his duplicity. She tried to smile and say the right things. Those she spoke with seemed strangely superficial and synthetic, the type who gussied up and went to disease balls. Oddly, she'd never noticed before. They were bland when compared to Spider.

  Even the food, expertly prepared by a French chef, was tasteless. She suddenly craved barbecued ribs and beer. And a man who wore a gold-filled spider in his ear. Excusing herself from the acquaintances she'd joined for dinner, she went home. She doubted if they'd miss her.

  After a restless night, she drove to her gallery in Washington.

  Walking into the chic establishment off Dupont Circle, she spied Meg, the woman she'd called a friend, showing a Victorian watercolor to a blue-haired matron with a Pekingese under her arm. The woman and her beribboned dog looked remarkably similar—haughty and pampered with a pug nose and a serious underbite.

  Meg, who managed the gallery for Anne, was dressed in a black Adolfo with a triple strand of pearls and her dark hair tied back with a big velvet bow. When she spotted Anne, dressed in jeans, a casual blue sweater, and Reeboks, Meg looked her up and down, then dismissed her as she turned back to the matron with a fawning smile.

  Anger boiled up inside her. Her fingers itched to yank that big black bow from Meg's perfectly coiffed hair and stomp on it. She had the greatest urge to march over to her fair-weather friend and slap her silly.

  Instead, she balled her fingers into fists and said sharply, "Meg, I need to speak with you. Now."

  Meg wheeled around, her eyes wide. "Anne?"

  "Yes."

  Meg turned the customer over to her assistant, Jacob, and hurried over. "Oh, Anne, thank Heaven you're here. Reporters have been calling all morning. What have you done to yourself? I didn't recognize you. Are you all right? Howard and I were stunned when we read the Post this morning. It's unbelievable." Only a slight tremor at the upper corner of her red lips betrayed any emotion. "I hope you're not upset with Howard and me. That night you came to the house, we didn't know what to do, and, after all, Preston was Howard's employer. I'm sure you can understand his awkward position."

  As Meg chattered on, Anne looked at her with new eyes. This shallow woman had never been her friend. Even now her only concern was a selfish one.

  "Royal Fox was Howard's employer, Meg. The operative word is was. And I own Royal Fox Hotels, not Preston."

  Meg went pale. "Why, Anne dear, what do you mean?"

  "I mean that your husband is, to quote a dear friend of mine, a slimeball, and I'm kicking him out.”

  Blood-red lips parted in a feral snarl. "Why, you little twit! I wish Preston had found you."

  Anne raised an eyebrow. "You're fired, too, Meg. I've overpaid you too long. Get your things and get out. Now."

  As Meg flounced away in a huff, Anne heard a snort from behind her. Turning, she saw Jacob trying to wipe the smile from his face. The lady with the Pekingese was gone, and obviously Jacob had heard most of their conversation.

  "How do you feel about my firing Meg, Jacob?"

  A tiny smile crept back. "It couldn't have happened to a more deserving person."

  "It occurs to me that you probably do most of the real work around here. Do you think you can manage the gallery?"

  The smile spread to a grin. "Hell, yes—I mean— certainly, Miss Jennings."

  She returned his grin. " 'Hell, yes' will do nicely. In fact, I don't have any use for it where I'm going. I think I'm going to give it to you."

  His eyes grew big as silver dollars. "Give it to me?"

  '"Yep. The gallery is yours."

  As she turned and strode to the door, he called after her, "Miss Jennings, where are you going?"

  She laughed. "Why, sugar, I'm going to Texas."

  It was almost nine o'clock when she drove into the strip center and parked in front of the red neon sign. She left her bags in the car she'd rented at the airport and walked to the door. Her finger trembled as she pushed the button.

  When she heard the click of the lock, she went in. She was nervous. Very nervous. What if Spider had changed his mind? She should have called.

  "Step into my parlor, sweet thing. Let ol' Spider help you out."

  Anne smiled at the myna's greeting, then started picking her way around the merchandise. Very little had changed. Even the smells were the same as she'd remembered.

  "Hot damn!" a deep voice shouted over the crowd roaring on TV.

  "Hot damn," Turk agreed.

  She chuckled as she circled the wooden Indian and the drum set, heading for the back of the shop. She froze in her tracks when she saw him.

  He was leaning against one of the glass cases. Arms crossed and fingers tucked under his armpits, his face was shadowed with several days' growth of black beard. He wore black boots, black jeans, a black T-shirt, and
a little gold spider in his left ear.

  His eyes were narrowed under the thick slash of black eyebrows and his sensuously curving mouth was solemn, but she could feel those blue eyes slither over her. She could feel the desire emanating from them low within her. It stole her breath and hardened her nipples. It made her legs go weak and her heart pound.

  She licked her lips. He licked his.

  "Spider ..." Her voice was barely a whisper.

  One corner of his mouth slowly lifted into a sensual smile. "You need a little cash tonight, sugar?"

  He walked toward her, and the scent of him filled her nostrils. Citrus and sandalwood and virile male. They stood inches apart, not touching but searching one another's eyes.

  "How much will you give me for my watch?"

  He smiled and lifted one finger to rub along the curve of her cheek. "Everything I've got, darlin'. Everything I've got."

  "A funny thing happened to me while I was away. I discovered that my old life was very boring. And very lonely."

  "I know the feeling, sugar." His finger trailed along the edge of her jaw to her chin.

  "Preston is in jail."

  "I read about it."

  "Oh, Spider, I love you. Do you still want—"

  His arms went around her and his mouth covered hers with a heart-stopping kiss. The ferocity of his lips and tongue and the snarl reverberating deep In his throat told her everything she wanted to know. Knees weak, she clung to him as he kissed her, as he nipped and nuzzled her neck.