Step Into My Parlor by Jan Hudson Page A

stacks of bills. Her eyes widened as she noticed that the currency was in hundreds.
    "Don't you believe in banks?" she asked.
    "Sure, but I like knowing I ’v e got capital handy. I learned my lesson the last time." He grinned. "I don't trust everybody either." He shoved the briefcase i nside, locked the door, and pushed the organ back in place.
    When he stood, Anne touched his upper arm. The silver cutlass i n his ear gradually stilled as she looked up into his rugged face, shadowed by a faint black stubble. "Thank you for trusting me," she said, "I won't betray you."
    "I know you won't."
    His hand, large and strong, closed over hers, and his thumb gently stroked the length of her index finger. Sensation swelled from the spot in warm, widening ripples until a shiver chased down her back. Like twin blue fires, his eyes sparked and captured hers, and something in them pulled at her central core. Tiny rings of azure encircling the softly tinted irises seemed to darken and pulsate behind the curve of thick black lashes.
    His callused thumb continued its stroking. Her breath caught as tingles spread through her breasts. His eyes were so beautiful, so compelling that she couldn't look away. The muscles beneath her hand hardened and trembled.
    Unconsciously, her lips parted and her chin lifted a fraction. His eyes flashed, then shuttered, and his hand drew away.
    "I've got to check on something." His tone was gruff, and he turned and strode from the room.
    A hollow ache clutched at her chest and a stinging flush crept up her throat. She was mortified by her behavior. And his. She'd almost thrown herself at him. And had been rebuffed.
    She looked at the boar's head on the wall. He seemed to be grinning. "I guess I'm not his type."
    It was just as well. If he'd kissed her, things could have gotten complicated. Right now she needed a friend more than she needed a lover. Yet—she touched her lips—she couldn't help but wonder how it would have felt.
     
    Business had been slow that evening. They had settled into mismatched easy chairs in the work room off the rear of the shop, where Spider was watching a colorized World War II movie on television. Just before closing time. Anne glanced up from the magazine she was reading to find him staring at her, his eyes narrowed so that only a sliver of blue shone through his lashes.
    Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, she quickly looked back down at the magazine and shifted her position in the chair, drawing her feet under her. After she'd read the same paragraph four times, she glanced up again. He was still staring, his face drawn into a mask so tight that the scar on his cheek stood in bold relief. His gaze was so intense and ominous that fine hairs on her arms rose with a ripple of chill bumps.
    Determined not to put herself in the embarrassing position that she had earlier, she said casually, "Is something wrong?"
    "No. Nothing's wrong." He turned back to the TV.
    Although he'd been the soul of patience showing her around the various rooms where merchandise was stored, explaining their ticketing procedures, and answering questions, something was different. Since their strange encounter in his bedroom, it was as if a subtle, but impenetrable, wall had been erected between them. He had gone from open and friendly to aloof, and his mixed messages were confusing. His behavior was so peculiar that she was beginning to dread the next three weeks of close company. If he didn't want her around, it was time she found out.
    "Spider, are you—"
    The door to the shop buzzed. He looked relieved as he sprang to his feet. "Customer."
    Married, he told himself for the umpteenth time. But Lord she looked so great cuddled up in that chair that he'd almost ground his teeth to the gums to keep from dragging her into his lap and cuddling her up to him. And when she looked at him with those big brown eyes ... He knew he was acting like a first-class jerk, but he sure as hell couldn't tell her what was the matter