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 Lal i que 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
"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 Lal i que 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
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