Step Into My Parlor

Be home, be home,
Anne willed as she listened to the phone ring for the fifth time. She'd used her last quarter, and all that was left in her wallet were three pennies and a dozen useless credit cards.

“
This is Victoria Chase," the recorded voice said. "I'm sorry I can't answer your call, but if you'll leave your name—"

Anne slammed the receiver down and leaned her head against the telephone. She needed to talk to Vicki. The past two weeks had been a nightmare, and Vicki was her last hope. Even though she didn't think that her stepbrother, Preston Ames, would look for her in Houston, she couldn't chance leaving her name. Preston was a desperate man with powerful connections. She wouldn't feel safe until he was locked away. But first, she had to convince somebody that her accusat
i
ons against him weren't simply some sort of delusional grief reaction to her mother's death.

Cars and trucks whizzed by the corner gas station where Anne stood, pouring their noise and noxious fumes into the chill night wind that tugged at the opening of her sable coat. Their frantic pace, their overwhelming impersonality added to the panic clawing at her insides. Other than Vicki, she didn't know a soul in Houston.

A wave of nausea billowed over her, and the headache she'd been fighting erupted full force. Exhausted, dejected, she turned up the collar of her coat against the early February cold and trudged back to her white Jaguar. Teeth chattering, she started the engine and turned on the heater. The soft music on the car radio did nothing to soothe her despair.

A hotel sign from the Galleria, just beyond Neiman Marcus, taunted her. Another, across the freeway, shimmered and beckoned with promises of a comfortable bed and warm food. She was almost tempted to succumb to their allure. She hadn't eaten since she'd traded her garnet ring for dinner the night before in a little cafe somewhere in Louisiana, and she hated to spend another miserable night in the car. But she knew that using credit cards would divulge her location to Preston's trackers. She'd made that mistake twice, with nearly disastrous results.

Her body buzzed with weariness and her nerves were strung taut with tension; her stomach cramped and rumbled. And the hotel signs glittered and teased and whispered enticements in her mind.
Temptation almost overwhelmed her. Snatching up her manicure scissors and her wallet, she yanked the gold and silver and blue cards from their slots. She whacked and sawed and cut them into tiny pieces. When the last one was reduced to plastic confetti littering the plush interior of the car, she leaned her head back with a moaning sigh. Now what?

What was she going to do?

"Friend," a deep voice on the radio drawled, "are you a little short of cash?"

Anne let out a whimpering, bitter sound that fell far short of a laugh. "Short of cash and out of options."

"Well, ol' Spider knows that feeling," the voice said. "And I'd like to help you out. Grab something of value you've got laying around the house to use as collateral and get what you need to tide you over. We
’
ll make loans on jewelry, boats, guns, or just about anything you can name. Even your prize bull or your mother-in-law's false teeth. Spider Webb's Pawn Parlor. I'm on Richmond, just a couple of blocks behind the Galleria. Call if you're bashful—or come on by. I'm open till nine every night. Spider Webb's Pawn Parlor, 555-4653."

A loan.
Of course. She felt for the watch on her arm and her mother's pearls around her neck. No, she couldn't part with the pearls, but maybe she could get enough from the watch for a hotel room and gas for the car. Surely she would be able to contact Vicki by tomorrow.

After securing directions from the station attendant, she drove toward her destination. In a
few minutes, she saw the red neon sign, bordered by a row of rippling lights, and pulled into the small strip shopping center. It was almost nine o'clock; she prayed that the shop would still be
open.

After she killed the engine, she sat staring at the bar-covered plate-glass windows, which displayed a
mélange
of musical instruments, tools, and assorted other items people had traded for cash. She'd seen places like this in movies, but she'd never been in such an establishment in her life. How ironic that Anne Foxworth Jennings, the heiress to the luxurious Royal Fox Hotels, was reduced to pawning her watch for a place to sleep.

Taking a deep breath to fortify her courage, she gathered her shoulder bag and the briefcase that had rarely left her sight in the past two weeks, got out, locked the Jaguar, and walked to the door.

It was locked, and she almost panicked. Then she noticed a sign and an arrow pointing to a button. Her leather-gloved finger trembling, she pushed the buzzer and heard a click. She opened the door and went into the shop, which was filled with shelves bulging with every imaginable item. She could hear the noise of a television broadcast somewhere in the rear of the large room.

"Step into my parlor, sweet thing."

Startled, Anne's head swung to her right, and her eyes searched the area where she'd heard the strange, mellow voice.

But she saw nothing except a tapestry-covered Victorian settee in front of shelves of televisions, stereos, tape decks, and speakers.

"Step Into my parlor, sweet thing." A peculiar, eerie laugh followed. "Let ol' Spider help you out."

Her eyes widened and she sucked in a quick breath.

"Don't mind Turk, sugar," another man's voice drawled from the back of the shop. "He's my watch bird. Come on in."

"Come on in," the mellow voice echoed.

When Anne spied the myna sitting in a large cage behind the settee, she relaxed. Slightly.

"Hot damn! In for two. Way to go, Akeem!" the one at the back yelled.

"Hot damn," the myna agreed.

Anne froze in her tracks. Heart pounding and fear creeping up into her throat, she couldn't have moved an
i
nch if the building were on fire.

"Damn! My main man mopped up the floor with Bullets." The TV clicked off. "Don't be shy, sugar. Come on back. We slaughtered 'em and ol' Spider is feeling generous tonight."

She swallowed. What had she gotten herself into? Everything in her screamed to turn and run. She didn't need money that badly.

Then her stomach rumbled and she remembered the three lone pennies in her purse. Yes she did. She took a fortifying breath and reached down deep for an extra measure of courage.

Picking her way around a drum set, a riding lawn mower, and a tall wooden Indian, she headed toward the back of the long room.

Three large glass cases, filled with handguns and jewelry, stretched across the back of the shop. Leaning against one of the cases was a man. A big
man. A swarthy, rough-looking man. Arms crossed and the fingers of his huge hands tucked under his armpits, he leaned one hip against the glass and looked her up and down.

Anne nearly fainted. This was not the type of man with whom she ordinarily associated. Although he appeared to be on
l
y a few years older than she, his whole demeanor spoke of a dozen lifetimes' more experience.

He was at least six-feet-four, with shoulders a yard wide. He wore black boots, black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket with silver zippers and brads. The leather of his jacket was so worn in places that it looked as if the garment should have been thrown away five years ago. His hair, black, thick, and slightly curly, was short on top and on the sides but hung past his collar in the back. The lower part of his face was shadowed by several days' growth of heavy beard and outlined a mouth with a gently curving upper lip and a full lower one. An old, slightly jagged scar cut across one high cheekbone. A miniature silver cutlass dangled from his left ear.

If she'd met him in a dark alley, Anne would have turned and fled screaming into the night. She wouldn't have noticed his eyes in a dark alley. But it was light, and beneath the thick slash of black eyebrows, his eyes paralyzed her. Surrounded by long, curly lashes, they were totally incongruous with the rest of his menacing appearance.

They were blue. Light blue. The blue of a summer sky or the shallows of the Mediterranean. And they were all over her. She could feel them.
And she could feel something else emanating from him. It was raw. And primal. And earthy. It pulsated from him like body heat. It surrounded her and plucked at some primitive level that slithered in her belly and rippled over her body. She had the strangest urge to growl and bare her teeth and circle like a wild animal in a mating ritual. The feeling shocked her. And it terrified her.

He licked his lips. She licked hers.

"I. . . I . . ."

One corner of his sensual mouth lifted. "You need a little cash tonight, hon?" He moved toward her.

She swallowed and stepped back.

"Hell, sugar, that's n
o
sin. I've been short a few
times myself. Let's see what you got."

"My watch." She set the briefcase down and fumbled with the clasp at her wrist.

"Here, let me do that."

His big hands were surprisingly gentle as he bent to the task. And the scent of him filled her nostrils. He smelled of citrus and sandalwood and virile male. She closed her eyes and held her breath as she slid the watch and safety chain over her fingers.

"Niiice," his deep voice drawled. "Very nice."

She felt him move away and opened her eyes. He had gone behind the case. He laid the
diamond-and-gold watch on a square of black velvet and picked up a jeweler's loupe.

After he'd looked at the watch for a moment, he said, "Loan or sell?"

"Pardon?"

He smiled a knowing smile. "Do you want to borrow money on the watch or do you want to sell
i
t outright?"

She fiddled with the strap of her purse. "Loan, I suppose. How much may I borrow?"

"Three-thirty is the max."

"Only three thousand and thirty dollars. But it cost over—"

"No, sugar." He smiled again. "Three
hundred
and thirty dollars. I know what one of these babies is worth, but the way the state law is set up, we can only afford to loan three-thirty max on any one item. Sorry."

Anne rubbed her head with her fingertips. What choice did she have? She had to eat and she had to find a place to sleep until she could contact Vicki.

"May I use your phone before I decide?" She'd call Vicki one last time.

"Sure." He gestured to a telephone at the end of one of the cases.

She punched out the numbers and waited. "This is Victoria Chase. I'm sorry I—"

Anne hung up and turned to Spider Webb, who was leaning back, hands under his armpits again, watching her. Light caught the silver cutlass dangling from his ear and she shivered. He reminded her of a pirate or the leader of one of those barbarous motorcycle gangs. He made her very nervous, but she had no choice except to deal with him. She sighed. "Three-thirty."

She felt his eyes drop to the V of her beige silk blouse, and a flush crept up her neck. Her first
impulse was to clutch her coat around her throat, but, instead, she raised her chin and walked back to the counter where he stood. "I
’
ll take the three hundred and thirty dollars."

His eyes remained at the V. "I can give you another three-thirty for the pearls."

"My pearls?" Her hand flew to the opera-length strand, and she seized them with nervous fingers. "No, not my pearls." She tucked them inside her blouse and was comforted by their familiar warmth against her skin.

His gaze traveled higher. "Fifty for the earrings."

Her hand went to the gold loop in her right ear. They had been a gift from her stepfather on her sixteenth birthday. The last thing he'd given her before his death eleven years ago. She shook her head. "Just the watch."

He shrugged, pulled out a ticket, and picked up a pen. "Name?"

"Anne . . . Smith."

He looked at her, raised a dark eyebrow, then wrote it down. "Address?"

She gave him Vick
i
's address.

"You have some ID?"

"ID?" Panic began bubbling in the pit of her
stomach.

"Identification. You know, like a driver's license, passport, something like that. Law says we gotta see some ID."

She fidgeted with her purse, trying desperately to think of a reason why her driver's license and passport would have a different name from the one she'd given him. Pulling her wallet from her
bag, she opened it, took out her license, and handed it to him.

"Uh . . . Smith is my maiden name. Jennings is—was—my husband's name. We're separated. Divorced," she amended quickly. "And I don't live in Virginia anymore. I'm moving in with my friend in Houston. I haven't had time to change my license."

He looked at the license and the picture for a long time. Then he looked up at her. His blue eyes intense, yet filled with something that seemed like compassion, he asked softly, "Was he mean to you, sugar?"