Trust Me

  “Oh, now, that's a very shrewd observation,” she retorted. “And utterly meaningless. You know what your problem is? You've worked with electronic encryption techniques and computer security problems for so long you've become permanently paranoid.”

  “I am not paranoid. I'm looking at this situation with the sort of logical, unemotional, analytical detachment that you don't seem to be able to manage.”

  She eyed him intently. “You really don't like my brother, do you?”

  “He's your stepbrother, not your real brother. And you're right, I'm not overly fond of him.”

  “You don't even know him,” she exclaimed, exasperated.

  “Calm down, you're getting emotional.”

  “I'm a Wainwright. I was born emotional. It goes with the territory.”

  “You were not born a Wainwright,” he reminded her grimly.

  “How I became part of the family doesn't matter. The only thing that's important is that I am part of the family.”

  “Then you'd better find yourself a keeper before you lose your shirt trying to employ all of your shade-tree relatives.”

  “Is that so?” Desdemona no longer cared if anyone overheard the argument. “If you don't like the way I operate, maybe you'd better find yourself another caterer to put on retainer. Someone with a nice, logical, analytical way of doing things.”

  Stark's eyes became ice-cold emeralds. “Lower your voice before you cause a scene.” He took her arm and marched her off the floor.

  “I've got news for you, Stark,” Desdemona said with great relish, “you've pushed me too far. I'm past the point of worrying about whether or not I make a scene.”

  “In that case, I'm taking you home.”

  “You wouldn't want to do that.” She fixed him with a smile intended to outshine the chandeliers. “This isn't a real date. We came here to do some business, remember? We haven't turned up any new customers for Stark Security Systems or for Right Touch.”

  “You want to do business?” He came to a halt near the buffet table. “Then my advice is to start acting in a businesslike manner.”

  “You're a fine one to give advice. You started this.”

  “In that case, I hereby declare the subject closed for now.” Stark picked up a tiny slice of toast topped with an herbed cheese spread.

  “Who gave you the right to close the sub—Umph.” Desdemona broke off as Stark gently stuffed the little round of toast between her lips. She glared mutely at him while she chewed.

  She was so incensed that it took her a few seconds to realize that Stark was no longer looking at her. He was gazing at someone who had come up behind her.

  “Hello, Pamela,” Stark said very calmly. “I didn't realize you would be here tonight.”

  “Good evening, Stark,” Pamela Bedford said quietly.

  Desdemona nearly choked on the cheese toast.

  “Desdemona.” Pamela regarded her with an air of genuine surprise. “I hadn't realized that your firm had done the catering for this event.”

  “It didn't.” Desdemona finally managed to get the last of the cheese toast down. She turned to face Stark's ex-fiancée. “I'm not here in an official capacity.”

  “Desdemona is with me tonight,” Stark said.

  “Oh, I see.” Pamela smiled tremulously. There were fine lines around her mouth and an unmistakable anxiety in her blue eyes.

  She was dressed in a discreetly cut sapphire blue gown that underscored the pale gold of her hair and left her fine shoulders bare. A diamond choker circled her long neck. It matched the earrings that dripped delicately from her ears. Pamela appeared to be fashioned of spun gold, moonbeams, and pearls.

  Dressed in a narrow black gown with only a black velvet ribbon around her throat for ornament, Desdemona, still seething with irritation, felt like the bad-tempered witch of the west.

  She was acutely aware of the tension in the atmosphere. It was impossible to tell from Stark's expression what was going through his mind.

  Pamela gave Stark a wistfully apologetic look. “I thought we'd better get this first public meeting over. We can't go on avoiding each other forever now that we move in the same circles, can we?”

  Stark picked up another slice of cheese toast. “Hadn't planned to avoid you forever.” He bit strongly down on the toast. “Hadn't planned on avoiding you at all, as a matter of fact.”

  “I'm glad to hear that.” Pamela slid a sidelong glance at Desdemona. “I know I left you in a very awkward situation at the wedding.”

  “What wedding?” Stark asked.

  Pamela blushed. “I've been dreading this encounter. I knew it was going to be difficult.” She turned to Desdemona. “Would you excuse us for a few minutes? I think Stark and I should finish this conversation in private.”

  “Desdemona and I were just about to leave,” Stark said.

  “Nonsense,” Desdemona murmured. “You two go right ahead and chat. I believe I'll freshen up in the ladies' room.”

  “Desdemona,” Stark began in a warning tone.

  “I'll be right back.” Desdemona waved cheerfully, whirled around, and plowed straight into the crowd. The throng of people closed behind her.

  Desdemona headed for the nearest ballroom door. She was less than three yards from her goal when Dane McCallum stepped into her path.

  “Fleeing the scene of the accident?” he asked. Wry amusement lit his eyes.

  Desdemona grimaced. “I'm a coward at heart. Can't stand the sight of blood.”

  “I don't blame you.” Dane glanced across the crowded room. “It was bound to happen sooner or later, though. They couldn't avoid running into each other forever.”

  “That's what Miss Bedford said.” Desdemona followed his gaze, but she was not tall enough to see over the heads of the guests.

  “It was Pamela's idea, I suspect.”

  “What? To force a meeting tonight? Yes, I think so,” Desdemona agreed.

  “Christ knows, Stark wouldn't have bothered. He sees things the same way a computer does. On or off. When something is finished, it's finished. Especially a relationship.”

  Desdemona studied Dane thoughtfully. She had seen him at the cancelled wedding and spoken to him briefly at the cocktail party Right Touch had staged for Stark, but she did not know him well. The only thing she really knew about him was that he was one of the few people Stark considered a friend.

  He was taller than Stark, about the same height as Tony. He was built along the same lines as Tony and the Wain-wright men in general, a lean, graceful man with long fingers and patrician features. By any traditional standard he was definitely better-looking than Stark, but Desdemona was unimpressed by that fact. She discovered to her surprise that she had developed an odd and totally unaccountable taste for men who were fashioned like sturdy medieval warriors.

  “Running into each other tonight must be awkward for both of them,” Desdemona said.

  Dane smiled briefly. “I'm sure it is for Pamela, but I doubt that Stark's having much of a problem with it, at least no more of a problem than he generally has in social situations.”

  “I'm sure it's every bit as hard on him.” Desdemona tried to peer through the crowd to see what was happening near the buffet table. “I just hope he doesn't cause a scene.”

  Dane chuckled. “Don't worry, he won't make a scene tonight. He's not the kind to explode in public. I've never even seen Stark explode in private, for that matter. He never gets very emotional about anything. Not his way.”

  Desdemona frowned. “She did stand him up at the alar.”

  “Trust me, from that moment on, he wrote her off as a mistake. As far as he was concerned, she became just another blip on his computer screen. A temporary glitch.”

  “You talk as though he's a computer or something.”

  “A lot of people think he is,” Dane said simply.

  “That's crazy. Stark has emotions just like everyone else. He hides them well, that's all.”

  “I've known him a lot long
er than you have, Desdemona. His detachment is real enough. And I'll let you in on a little secret. I almost envy him at times.”

  “That's ridiculous. Please excuse me.” Desdemona turned on her heel and marched toward the open doors.

  It was a relief to escape the noisy, crowded ballroom. Desdemona hurried down the carpeted hall toward the rest rooms. She wondered how long she should give Stark and Pamela together before she returned to reclaim her client.

  Then she wondered what she would do if Stark was not eager to be reclaimed.

  Perhaps Pamela Bedford was having second thoughts about walking out on the relationship.

  Desdemona pushed open the rest room door and stepped inside. A quick glance around told her that she had the place to herself. She heaved a sigh of relief and sat down on one of the velvet-covered stools in front of the mirror.

  She contemplated her image for a long moment. The Wainwright intuition blazed in her wide, shadowed eyes.

  “Damn, I've fallen in love with him.”

  The words were a soft whisper in the empty room.

  Not nearly enough presence, considering the momentous nature of the occasion.

  Desdemona leaped to her feet and slapped her hands down on the counter. She leaned very close to the mirror.

  “I've fallen in love with him.”

  The words rang out loudly, bouncing off the walls and echoing down the row of empty stalls.

  Much better. A bit more of Richard III defying all to seize his own fatal destiny.

  “This is impossible,” Desdemona said to the woman in the mirror. “Okay, I'm attracted to him. But I can't possibly be in love with him. He's my exact opposite. McCallum may be right. Stark may not be able to love anything except another logic circuit. The family is right, too. Stark's not even theater people, for God's sake. Wainwrights always marry theater people.”

  The door opened behind her. Pamela walked into the rest room. Desdemona met her eyes in the mirror.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” Pamela asked gently.

  “No. I was just talking to myself.” Desdemona sank slowly back down onto the stool.

  “I thought I might find you in here.” Pamela came forward, he, eyes never leaving Desdemona's in the mirror. “Stark is looking for you.”

  Desdemona drew a deep breath. “Did you two finish your conversation?”

  “I don't know if you could call it a conversation.” Pamela smiled wryly. “It was a little too one-sided for that. Rather like carrying on a dialogue with a computer.”

  “Don't say that,” Desdemona whispered.

  “Why not? It's the truth. I apologized, Stark said forget it. I told him that I felt we had never really learned to communicate, Stark said forget it. I explained that I wished things could have been different, Stark said forget it. I tried to tell him…well, you get the picture.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Exactly.” The skirts of Pamela's sapphire gown rustled softly as she settled on the neighboring stool. “But at least it's over. I've been dreading this scene ever since I left that note the day of the wedding. We were bound to run into each other sooner or later.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tonight I realized almost immediately that I was the only one who had worked up a serious case of nerves over the encounter.” Pamela grimaced. “I do believe Stark had trouble recalling my name, let alone the fact that we were once engaged.”

  “Of course he knew who you were.”

  “I'm not so certain of that. I think he'd already filed me away in some remote computer archive along with the rest of the obsolete and outdated programs. He's a strange man.”

  “He doesn't allow his emotions to show.”

  “I used to believe that was the case. But about one month before the wedding I finally decided that the reason he didn't show his emotions was that he didn't have any.” Pamela hesitated. “I have no right to ask this, but do you mind telling me how you and he got together?”

  “Business.”

  Pamela's fine brow furrowed slightly. “I don't understand.”

  “Business brought us together. You stuck him with the tab for the wedding reception, remember? I had to break the bad news to him that just because there was no wedding it didn't mean that the caterer didn't get paid.”

  “Yes, of course.” Pamela flushed. “I'm sorry. I forgot all about the aspect of the thing.”

  “Everybody forgets the caterer. You probably had a lot on your mind.”

  “There's no need to be rude. I was very upset at the time. It was an extremely traumatic event for me. And then there were my parents to deal with. They were mortified, and I felt so guilty. You have no idea.”

  “Yes, well, life goes on, doesn't it?” Desdemona got to her feet. “Excuse me. I'd better go find Stark. He'll be wondering where I am.”

  “Probably. He said something about wanting to leave. He doesn't enjoy social affairs, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I think that was one of the reasons he decided to marry me.” Pamela's dainty jaw tightened. “He wanted a permanent social secretary and hostess.”

  “That's nonsense.”

  “No, it's not.” Pamela reached for a tissue and sniffed delicately into it. “I can hardly complain. One of the reasons I got involved with him in the first place was because Daddy insisted that I be nice to him.”

  Desdemona stilled. “I don't understand.”

  Pamela burst into tears. “Daddy said that Stark is doing very well these days, but in a few years he'll be worth an absolute fortune. And Daddy's had some financial difficulties lately. The blue chips aren't what they used to be, you know and, oh, God, I shouldn't be talking about any of this.”

  “No, probably not.”

  “It's a private family matter.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  Pamela raised a stricken face. “Promise me you'll never breathe a word about this to anyone. Mother and Daddy would just die.”

  “Trust me, I wouldn't dream of it.” Desdemona had no intention of ever telling Stark that he had almost been married for his potential earning power.

  Perhaps he had sensed that possibility right from the start, she reflected. There had been that business with the prenuptial agreement, after all.

  “It wasn't just the money,” Pamela went on quietly. “Daddy said the family needed new blood. He said it was time we restoked the gene pool with some fresh, raw talent. He said too many generations of Bedfords had married within their own social strata, and the result was a general weakening of the bloodline.”

  “Your father is a believer in the Darwinian approach to marriage, I take it?”

  “You could say that.” Pamela sighed. “Mother didn't agree with him, but she went along with the idea. Mother does believe in restoking the family fortunes from time to time. My point is, regardless of why we were introduced, I found Stark interesting.”

  “Interesting.”

  “In a physical sense,” Pamela clarified.

  “Right. A physical sense.”

  “You know what I mean.” Pamela tossed the crumpled tissue into a waste can. “The man has abysmal social skills and absolutely no tact, but there is something sort of sexy about him.”

  “I think I'm getting the picture. You were physically attracted to him, so you thought you could tolerate marriage to him.”

  “I was wrong. The physical attraction soon faded. He made me nervous, if you must know.”

  “Nervous?”

  “He was so…” Pamela groped for words. “Intense.” She turned red. “I won't bore you with the details.”

  “Please, don't.”

  “Let's just say that he was a little too primitive for my taste.” Pamela shuddered delicately. “At any rate, I finally realized that I couldn't go through with the wedding.”

  “Did you love him at all?” Desdemona asked before she could stop herself. “Even a little?”

  Pamela frowned. “I've asked myself that same question any num
ber of times. I'm still not certain of the answer. How do you define love?”

  “I don't think you can. It's one of those things that you only recognize when you run smack into it. I'd better be on my way.” Desdemona opened the door.

  “Do you know,” Pamela said, regarding her own lovely face in the mirror, “I think my apology tonight actually bored him.”

  Desdemona shot the princess in the mirror an impatient glance. “I doubt it. I think it's far more likely that he simply didn't know what to say.”

  Pamela considered that with a wistful expression. “I suppose I should have expected it. Stark never had a lot to say at the best of times, unless the conversation happened to be about computers.”

  “Yes, well, that is his field.”

  Pamela did not appear to hear her. “I think what bothered me the most was that he never had much to say after he finished making love. Doesn't it upset you that he just gets out of bed, says good night, and leaves?”

  “Forget it,” Desdemona said as she fled the rest room.

  * * *

  The short drive from the hotel to Desdemona's apartment was conducted in near silence. Stark apparently felt no obligation to make conversation, and Desdemona could not think of anything appropriate to say.

  As annoyed with him as she was because of his nasty remarks concerning Tony, she still felt deep empathy for Stark. The man had to be suffering after his encounter with Pamela. No one could go through a scene like that without experiencing a lot of pain.

  It was raining, a light, misty summer rain that dampened the streets and made the traffic lights shimmer. Stark drove through the city with a quiet competence that spoke volumes about his self-control.

  “Are you okay?” Desdemona said as Stark eased the car into the garage.

  “I'm fine.” Stark scowled at the question. “Why?”

  “I just wondered,” Desdemona said.

  “Do I look sick?”

  “No, of course not. You look fine.” More than fine, she thought. The man really did look good in a tux.