Trust Me

  “Good idea. There's so much junk on the ones they order, they'll probably never even notice a little eggplant.”

  He was going to have to make some attempt at an honest investigation, Stark promised himself later that evening as he watched Jason and Kyle splash noisily in the end of the large gym pool.

  He knew that a serious search for alternative suspects was clearly a waste of time. It was obvious to any logical, clear-thinking individual that Tony Wainwright was as guilty as sin. But he had promised Desdemona, Stark thought. He had to at least put forth some genuine effort. He'd made a bargain.

  Tony's angry warnings to Desdemona flickered through his mind. He'll only pretend to do some sort of superficial investigation because he knows you won't let him sleep with you if he doesn't at least act like he's doing something.

  “How was that, Sam?” Kyle clung to the edge of the pool and looked up for approval.

  “Better. You're getting the hang of it. Try to do less splashing. Form is more important than speed,” Stark said.

  “Are you going to use the weight machines after we finish swimming?” Jason panted, hair dripping in his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been working out?” Kyle asked eagerly.

  “Since I was in college.”

  “Yeah? Then how come you don't look like that guy over there?”

  Stark followed Kyle's gaze. He was staring through a glass window that divided the pool room from the weight training room. On the other side of the glass a massively bulked-up man with long blond hair strained mightily within the confines of one of the training machines. Steroid city, Stark thought.

  “Because I'd rather have a real neck, and I like to be able to buy shirts that don't have to have the sleeves ripped out in order to fit,” Stark said.

  “Oh.”

  “If you get too bulked up,” Stark continued, “you can't move the way you need to move in order to study karate.”

  “Karate?” Kyle's face lit with excitement. “Are we going to take karate lessons?”

  “Might as well,” Stark said. “We've got a whole summer ahead of us.”

  “Oh, boy, karate,” Jason said. A wistful look appeared in his eyes. “I wish Dad could see me.”

  Stark tossed aside his towel and prepared to get into the water. “You don't do stuff like this for other people. You do it for yourself.”

  “Did Dad teach you how to work out and do karate when you were a kid, Sam?” Kyle asked.

  “No,” Stark said. “But I'm going to teach you how to do it.”

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God. Stark.” Desdemona dug her fingers into his thick black hair and lifted herself. This was outrageous. This was wild. Incredible. Astounding. It was going to drive her crazy.

  Stark lay between her thighs, his mouth teasing the most intimate part of her body. The searing, shocking kiss was unlike anything she had ever experienced in her life.

  The tension that had gathered within her released itself in an explosion of sensation. Desdemona rode the glittering whirlwind. The glorious release transfixed her. She shivered, gasped, and cried out softly.

  Stark lifted his head. He watched her intently for a moment and then he moved up the length of her body. His weight crushed her against the kimono bathrobe that she had been wearing when she had answered the door a few minutes earlier.

  The kimono was all that lay between Desdemona and the hardwood floor. They hadn't made it as far as the couch, let alone the bed on the far side of the loft. Stark's clothes formed a trail that started at the entrance of the apartment and continued halfway across the room.

  “So good,” he muttered as he drove himself into her still-quivering body. “So damned good.”

  He surged into her slowly, filling her carefully but completely. His mouth closed over hers. Desdemona tasted herself on his lips. She felt the passion in him. It converted the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders into steel beneath her hands.

  He was so big. So heavy. So strong.

  Without any warning, the cascading tremors of her climax started all over again.

  Desdemona screamed in surprise, but the sound was lost in Stark's mouth. She felt him shudder, heard the groan that emanated from deep within him.

  He went rigid, and then he collapsed slowly on top of her.

  Desdemona lay sprawled in contentment beneath Stark and listened as his breathing returned to normal. She smiled up at the ceiling and toyed with his hair.

  They were both damp. The scent of spent passion was unmistakable. It hovered in the air, creating a sense of stunning intimacy.

  “I think I'm going to need another shower before I go in to the office,” Stark said into the curve of her shoulder.

  “So will I.”

  “Since time is of the essence here,” Stark said deliberately, “what do you say we take one together?”

  “You're assuming I can move.”

  “Only one of us has to move.” Stark rolled off of her.

  He got to one knee, scooped her up with effortless strength, rose, and padded barefoot toward the bathroom.

  Desdemona rested her head against his sleek shoulder and splayed her fingers across his broad chest. She peered at the clock. “How much more time do we have?”

  “About forty-five minutes. I didn't realize until I checked my PDA this morning that I've got an early meeting today.”

  “We'll make it a short shower and a very fast breakfast.”

  Fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and with her hair anchored in a twist at the back of her head, Desdemona poured blue-corn pancake batter into neat, round puddles on her griddle.

  “Anything I can do?” Stark ran a hand through his damp hair as he sat down on a stool on the other side of the counter.

  “Nope. I got everything ready before you arrived. I'm a pro, if you will recall.”

  “I have always had great respect for professional expertise,” Stark said very seriously.

  Desdemona glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she reached for a spatula. She could not tell if he was trying to be funny or not. “How did your brothers like the egg-plant spread?”

  “They ate it. I put it on top of the pizza as you suggested, covered it with some extra parmesan, and reheated the whole thing.”

  “That was very creative of you.”

  “They didn't seem to notice anything different.”

  “Good.” Desdemona piled the pancakes onto a plate. “Why don't you bring them over here for dinner one of these days?”

  He gave her a look of surprise as she set the pancakes down in front of him. “You mean it?”

  “Sure.” She put the pitcher of maple syrup on the counter. “I won't promise to cook pizza, but I think I can come up with something that they'll eat.”

  “That would be nice,” Stark said. “Thanks.” He glanced at the clock as he picked up his fork.

  “You've got plenty of time. You're only five minutes from your office.”

  “I know.” He went to work on the pancakes. “This feels a little strange, that's all.”

  “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead,” he said around a mouthful of pancakes.

  “Why did you take your brothers in for the summer?”

  Stark stopped chewing for a few seconds. “Damned if I know.” He forked up another bite of pancakes. “These are great.”

  “You must have thought about it.”

  “Blue-corn pancakes? Not really. I'm not sure I've ever had them.”

  “I'm talking about your decision to take the responsibility of your brothers for the summer. It was a big commitment. You didn't even know them.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how it is.”

  “Yes, I do,” she agreed. “I have a lot of family, and I'm well aware of what that means. But it was a new concept for you.”

  “Do me a favor and don't use the word concept. It reminds me of Ian.”

  “You don't want to talk about why yo
u took Jason and Kyle in, do you?”

  Stark put down his fork and fixed her with a steady gaze. “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “I want to know why you felt you had to take them for the summer.”

  “What's the big deal?” He raised one broad shoulder in a dismissing shrug and picked up his fork. “I just did, that's all. They didn't have anyplace else to go. Their father is gone for good. I know that, even if they're still hoping he'll return. Their mother is trying to get her own act together and doesn't have time for them right now. So, I let them stay.”

  “Because you're their brother.”

  “Because I didn't want them to feel—” He broke off, words having apparently failed him.

  “To feel what?”

  “That they didn't have a right to make some demands of their own. That they didn't have a claim on someone. That there wasn't a place for them.” Stark scowled in obvious frustration. “Hell, I don't know.”

  “You didn't want them to feel what you felt when your parents got their divorce, is that it?”

  “Maybe.” Stark downed the last of his pancakes. “Not that I can do much about it. They'll have to learn to tough it out on their own. It's a rough world.”

  “I know. But sometimes some people are in a position to make it a little easier for others. The Wainwrights did for me and my mother what you're trying to do for Jason and Kyle.”

  “And you're still repaying the debt,” Stark said grimly.

  “I don't see it that way.”

  “I know. Forget I said that. Any more pancakes?”

  “Yes.” Desdemona went back to the stove. “You know something?”

  “What?”

  “I think Jason and Kyle are very fortunate to have you for an older brother.”

  “Uh-huh.” Stark obviously wanted to change the subject. “You know I could get used to this.”

  “Having your brothers around?”

  “No, stopping by here on my way to work in the mornings.” Stark glanced speculatively toward the large, free-standing wardrobe in the corner. “Maybe I should keep some of my stuff here. Shirts, socks, a razor. What do you think? It would be more convenient.”

  Desdemona stilled. She stared at the blue-corn pancakes in the pan. The lacy edges were turning an interesting shade of blue-brown.

  “Forget it,” Stark said swiftly, casually, as if it were the most unimportant thing in the world. “Just a passing thought. This place isn't all that big, anyway. You don't have a lot of room to store someone else's clothes.”

  “It's not that.” Desdemona carefully removed the second helping of pancakes and set them on Stark's plate. She wondered how to explain that no man's clothes had ever hung in her closet. “I just hadn't ever considered the idea.”

  “I don't blame you. A real invasion of privacy. Sorry I even mentioned it.”

  “All right.”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “I said all right.” She carried the plate over to the counter and set it down. “You can leave a few things in my closet.”

  Desdemona was still contemplating the prospect of her clothes sharing space with some of Stark's staid white shirts when she walked down the alley to the rear door of Right Touch half an hour later.

  There was nothing on the Right Touch schedule today, but Desdemona had decided to go into work early. She had left the apartment right after Stark had.

  Thoughts of Stark filled her head. Her family was going to think that she had lost her mind when they found out that he was leaving personal belongings in her apartment.

  No doubt about it, her mother was going to be seriously alarmed. Her father would be full of paternal misgivings. Bess and Juliet would issue dire warnings. Tony would have a fit.

  But she was a Wainwright in love, Desdemona reminded herself as she dug her key out of her purse. Wainwrights took chances.

  She did not notice anything wrong until she tried to insert her key into the lock.

  The door was already open.

  A jolt of fear went through her. Desdemona took a deep breath and squelched the unwarranted reaction. It was eight-thirty in the morning, not midnight. The door was unlocked because someone else had come in to work early. Several Wainwrights had keys.

  Desdemona took a grip on her nerves, opened the door wider, and stepped into the vast kitchen. The miniblinds that covered the windows of her darkened office were closed, just as she had left them yesterday.

  All of the overhead lights were off, but there was a faint glow coming from the walk-in freezer. Desdemona frowned when she saw that the freezer door was standing wide open. Someone had indeed come into work early. Whoever it was must have gotten mixed up about the morning events schedule for the week.

  Desdemona started forward. “Juliet? Aunt Bess? What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”

  A soft rasp of sound just off to her left brought Desdemona to a halt. Her office door had opened.

  She whirled around.

  A tall, shambling figure of a man loomed in the doorway. There was something terribly wrong with his face. It seemed contorted into an inhuman shape. A dirty cap was pulled down low over his eyes.

  He had a gun in one hand.

  Desdemona tried to scream and could not get the sound out of her throat. Terror paralyzed her. She saw the gun come up, point at her, saw the bizarre face twist.

  Something glinted on the edge of Desdemona's horrified vision. It was light from the open alley door reflecting on a heavy steel soup kettle stored on a nearby shelf.

  The bright steel broke Desdemona's trance. She grabbed the kettle with both hands and hurled it at the man with the gun.

  He dodged instinctively and simultaneously pulled the trigger. The shot went wild. It struck the kettle, knocking it to the side.

  Desdemona cast one helpless look at the alley door and abandoned any thought of escape in that direction. The gunman stood between her and the exit.

  She turned and ran toward the walk-in freezer. The steel door was thick and well insulated. With any luck it would stop a bullet.

  The gloom of the darkened kitchens provided her with some protection. She darted around the end of the long, stainless-steel work counter and rushed toward the freezer.

  A second shot exploded behind her. It thudded into the old brick wall.

  She heard footsteps, but she did not look back. She reached the freezer, hurtled into the small, icy chamber, whirled around, and pulled the thick door shut behind herself. It seemed to take forever to close.

  Footsteps pounded on the tiles.

  The door finally sealed itself with a soft sigh. Desdemona slammed the emergency exit handle downward, locking herself inside the freezer. Then she went down on her knees, facing the door, and hung on to the handle with both hands.

  She could only pray that her weight pulling downward on the locking lever would be sufficient to prevent the intruder from unlocking the door on the opposite side. To open the door, he would have to shove the outside lever upward against her full body weight.

  A chilling silence descended. A very chilling silence.

  Desdemona squeezed her eyes shut and waited for a bullet to come through the thick steel door. She knew nothing about weapons. She had no idea of what kind of gun the intruder possessed, let alone whether it was powerful enough to shoot through a freezer door.

  Nothing happened. No bullets tore through steel. There was no violent upward thrust on the door lever.

  There was a muffled scraping sound and then a jolting crash of steel on the other side of the freezer door. The vibration of the impact reached into the cold room. It took Desdemona a few seconds to realize that the gunman had toppled a large, heavy object directly in front of the door.

  Another silence descended.

  Desdemona sensed that the kitchens were empty.

  After what seemed forever she opened her eyes and got slowly to her feet. She was trembling from head to foot. Cautiously she stood on tiptoe and pe
ered out the tiny thickpaned viewing window in the center of the heavy door.

  From her vantage point she could see most of the interior of the Right Touch kitchens. The gunman was gone.

  Desdemona leaned her head against the chilled door, breathing quickly. When she had caught her breath, she tried to open the freezer door.

  It did not budge. Whatever it was that the gunman had dragged in front of the freezer now blocked the lever from opening. Desdemona was trapped inside the walk-in freezer.

  Trapped inside a space that was smaller than a closed elevator.

  Trapped in a room that seemed as small as the trunk of a car.

  The old, choking fear welled up inside her. It blossomed into full-blown horror when she suddenly realized that she was not alone in the freezer.

  With a dreadful sense of premonition, Desdemona turned slowly around to survey the small compartment. The blood in her veins became ice when she saw Vernon Tate's lifeless body propped in the corner.

  There was a terrible red stain on the front of his shirt, and one of his beautifully sculpted ice swans lay at his feet.

  14

  She was trapped with a dead man in a room smaller than an elevator.

  The claustrophobic fear nearly paralyzed Desdemona. For an instant she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was going to go mad.

  This was worse than any elevator. It was as bad as being locked in the trunk of George Northstreet's car when she was five years old.

  The black bat-wings of her childhood terror assailed her, turning her into a shivering creature whose legs would no longer sustain her weight. The sense of doom was a crushing force.

  Desdemona pressed her back against the icy steel door. Her knees gave way. Unable to take her eyes off Vernon Tate's body, she slid slowly downward.

  Tony would not rescue her this time. It would be hours before anyone came in to work. Even if she survived the cold, Desdemona did not know if she could survive the awful claustrophobia and the presence of Tate's body. She wondered if it was possible to die of a panic attack.

  Panic attack. That's all this was. The shallow breaths, the sense of terror, the rapid heartbeat. A panic attack. Desdemona hugged herself as she sank into a feral crouch.