Trust Me

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  Dane shrugged. “You're a smart man. Everyone knows that. A smart man can get just about anything these days without having to pay full price.”

  Stark followed Dane's gaze to where Desdemona stood talking to an earnest-looking corporate manager who worked for an Eastside firm. Nervous about his own abysmal social skills, Stark had asked her to act as hostess and mingle with the guests when necessary. She had been subtle about it, but Stark had noticed that no one in the room had been left on his or her own for long.

  He watched her as she guided the manager to a small group and introduced him. Then, with a vivacious smile, she moved across the room to round up another stray.

  Her smile made Stark's insides twist with excitement. It was not the first time.

  Desdemona was wearing a sleek little black dress that skimmed her body in interesting places but somehow managed to appear modest. Her red curls were restrained with a black velvet ribbon. Several fiery ringlets had escaped to dance around her small, nicely shaped ears. Her jewelry consisted solely of a pair of sparking earrings. She managed to look simultaneously cool and hot. Touchable and yet untouched.

  Stark recognized the tight, clenching sensation that seized his lower body. It was pure, unadulterated arousal. Along with it came a primitive possessiveness. The feeling hit him when he realized Dane was staring at Desdemona just as attentively as he was. Dane's blatant interest in Desdemona stirred the hair on the back of his neck.

  “Go find your own caterer,” Stark said.

  Dane gave him a knowing grin. “Like that, is it?”

  Stark did not reply. The question had been simmering inside him for the past two weeks. Longer than that, if he was truthful. He had not been able to put Desdemona completely out of his mind since the night of his botched wedding.

  He had known things were serious when he had realized that thoughts of her were interfering with his concentration. Under normal circumstances, nothing ever interfered with his concentration.

  Stark gazed thoughtfully at Desdemona, wondering if he had misread the warmth in her eyes. He knew he was not very good at interpreting the various subtle sexual cues that women used. Nevertheless, he could have sworn that she was as interested in him as he was in her.

  “Not to change the subject,” Dane murmured, “but have you heard from Pamela yet?”

  “Who?”

  Three hours later Desdemona saw her two assistants out Stark's kitchen door. Henry went first with a load of glassware.

  Vernon Tate, the new ice sculptor and all-around gofer, paused on the back step. He gave Desdemona a diffident smile. Everything Vernon did was diffident and unassuming, she reflected. In temperament, he was the exact opposite of Rafael. Desdemona found him a pleasant change of pace.

  “I think that's everything, Miss Wainwright,” Vernon said. “I double-checked the kitchen. Henry took care of the living room. Will you be needing anything else tonight?”

  “No, we're through for the evening,” Desdemona said. “You and Henry take the van back to Right Touch and unload. I'll follow you in my own car.”

  “Okay.” Vernon tightened his grip on the carton of plates that he was holding. “It went well, don't you think? I mean, everyone seemed to have a good time.”

  “Everything went beautifully.” Desdemona gave him a grateful smile. “I don't know what we would have done without you, Vernon.”

  It was the truth. Vernon had been nothing less than a godsend. He had wandered into her office early last week and shyly asked for a job. When she had glanced at his employment application she had seen the magic words ice sculptor. She had hired him on the spot.

  He had proven to be an industrious worker, eager to do whatever needed to be done. Best of all, he was not a prima donna when it came to his art. He was ready, willing, and able to sculpt to order. When Desdemona requested swans, she got swans. When she wanted dolphins, she got dolphins.

  And he never got last-minute casting calls because he was not involved in the theater.

  He was quiet, self-effacing, and a sober dresser. His features were regular, albeit rather nondescript. He appeared to be in his late thirties. Both his hairline and his chin were receding. He didn't smile much, but neither did he frown. He walked with a slight stoop to his shoulders, as though he had once spent a lot of time hunched over a desk.

  Vernon gave a jerky nod, obviously embarrassed by her fulsome thanks. “I sure needed this job. I'm glad you took a chance on me, Miss Wainwright. I'll see you later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Vernon went down one step and paused again. “By the way, I've got the ice carvings ready for tomorrow's luncheon. Dolphins, just like you wanted.”

  “If they're anything like the ones you did for the Sumner-Bench reception on Sunday, I'll love them,” Desdemona assured him.

  “Don't worry, I've been workin' real hard on 'em.”

  Unlike Rafael, who had created his masterpieces at Right Touch, Vernon preferred to work off-site. He had apologetically explained to Desdemona that he needed privacy in order to do his best sculpting.

  “Great. See you later, Vernon.” Desdemona raised a hand to wave to Henry, who had just started the van's engine.

  Henry waved back as he waited for Vernon to climb into the van.

  Stark came up to stand behind Desdemona in the doorway. “No offense, but the new man doesn't quite fit in with the rest of your staff. He's a little too normal.”

  “I know. Makes a nice change.” Desdemona closed the kitchen door and turned around to face her client.

  Her first instinct was to step back because Stark was standing much too close. She still found him overwhelming in close quarters. There was no way to retreat, however, because the door was a solid barrier behind her.

  She looked up at him and caught her breath. Behind the lenses of his gold-framed glasses, his green eyes were lit with the heat of a banked fire.

  In that moment she knew for certain that he wanted her.

  The sensual awareness that jangled her senses whenever she was near Stark made her edgy. The sensation had grown more intense each time she saw him. She was unsure of what to do about it because the feelings were new to her. Her Wainwright intuition urged her to throw caution to the winds, but she hesitated.

  It wasn't that she was completely lacking in experience where men were concerned. She was twenty-eight years old, after all. True, her family had always been overly protective, especially her stepbrother, Tony, but her match-making cousin and aunt had sent her off on a number of carefully selected dates.

  Her Wainwright intuition had never so much as stirred, let alone voiced a strong opinion, in the presence of any of those handpicked males, however. And none of the men Juliet and Bess had chosen had ever made Desdemona's insides turn to warm mush the way Stark did.

  It was unnerving. Exciting, but definitely unnerving.

  In addition to dealing with her own chaotic feelings and the powerful proddings of her Wainwright intuition, Desdemona had another problem on her hands.

  She was very conscious of the fact that it was much too early to anticipate any sort of meaningful relationship with Stark. She reminded herself again that he was a deeply sensitive man. He needed time to recover from the traumatic experience of being abandoned at the altar.

  She took a deep breath and smiled brilliantly to mask her uncertainty and the longing that lay beneath it. “All clear.” She waved a hand at the neat kitchen. “I think it went well, don't you?”

  “Perfect.” He gazed at her mouth with a distinctly brooding expression. “Everything's just perfect. You're the best idea I've had in a long time.”

  “I'm glad you're pleased with the services,” she said briskly. “Now, then, according to my schedule, our next event isn't for another ten days.”

  “I've got a party Thursday night. Will you come with me?”

  Alarm shot through her. “Thursday night? I don't have it on my schedule.”
r />   “That's because I'm not the one giving the party,” Stark explained. “Someone else is giving it. I need a date.”

  “A date?” Desdemona repeated breathlessly. A real date. She felt a rush of heady excitement. He was asking her out on a real date. The moment of decision was upon her. Too soon. Much too soon. But she did not think she could bring herself to refuse.

  Stark's black brows formed a solid line across the bridge of his nose. “Sort of. I'd rather not go alone, but I don't feel like digging up a real date. I just need an escort for the evening.”

  “Oh.” Desdemona was crushed. He wanted a stand-in.

  “It's still a little awkward,” Stark said, apparently oblivious to her reaction. “Everyone I know is aware of what happened between me and Pamela. I don't want to spend the evening fielding questions or listening to sympathetic advice.”

  “I see.”

  “Hell, I don't want to go out at all, if you want the truth. But McCallum and my secretary have both told me that I should attend this damn party on Thursday.”

  “Uh-huh. A business thing, probably.”

  “Yeah.” Stark ran a big hand through his hair. “If I were married, my wife would accompany me.”

  “Naturally.” Desdemona's mouth suddenly felt very dry.

  “But I don't have a wife.”

  “I know.”

  “What I've got is you. On retainer.” Stark turned away without any warning. He peeled off his jacket and slung it across one of the counter stools. “I'll pay you the usual hourly rate, of course.”

  Desdemona gasped in shock. An instant later she was consumed with fury. “Right Touch does not provide escort services. I'm a caterer.”

  He glanced back at her over his shoulder as he loosened his tie. His eyes were unreadable. “The idea of attending the party with me doesn't appeal?”

  “The idea of being paid for it bothers me.” She was damned if she would let him turn her into a stand-in wife.

  He smiled humorlessly. “How about doing it for free?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come with me to the party. I won't pay you, but I think that I can make it worth your while.”

  She glowered at him. “I don't understand.”

  “You can use the evening to make new business contacts, just as I'm going to do. Who knows? Maybe you'll find some clients. That's how it works, doesn't it? Social connections lead to business connections.” He smiled encouragingly. “We can troll for business together.”

  Desdemona forced herself to project an outward calm. She was a woman in control. She would not pick up the nearest object and hurl it across the room.

  “I'll have to check my schedule,” she said grimly.

  “You do that.” His shoulders stiffened. He swung around and paced back across the kitchen to stand in front of her. With his unknotted tie and unbuttoned collar, he looked a good deal less civilized than he had a moment earlier. “See if you can manage to fit me in.”

  She blinked and stepped back quickly, coming up against the door once more. “Good grief. Don't tell me you're angry just because I don't know whether or not I'm free to accompany you to a business affair.”

  “Why the hell would I be angry?” He leaned close, reached out, and planted his wide palms on the door behind her, effectively caging her. “I've got no right to be angry, do I?”

  “No, you certainly do not.” Out of the corner of her eye she could not help but notice the sinewy strength of his wrists. Stark was no doubt capable of being dangerous under the right circumstances. She was a little surprised to discover that he did not inspire any genuine fear in her, merely a thrilling feminine wariness. “If anyone has a right to be annoyed, it's me.”

  “You've got no call to be mad, either. I'm offering you a chance to do some business.”

  “Business is just fine for me these days.”

  “Getting better all the time, isn't it? Thanks to me.”

  “I've never asked you to do me any favors,” Desdemona said.

  “If you attend this thing on Thursday with me, we'll be doing each other a favor. Let's call it an even trade.”

  “A trade?”

  “Yeah. How about it?” His mouth curved coldly. “If you're free, that is?”

  Desdemona felt goaded beyond endurance. “All right.” She lifted her chin. “If I'm free.”

  “Anybody ever tell you that you drive a hell of a bargain, lady?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  His mouth came down on hers with the impact of lava on snow. She went utterly still for the space of three lilting heartbeats. The world stopped while her senses frantically struggled to cope with the overpowering sensation of being kissed by Stark.

  He kissed her as though she were the only living woman on earth. It was a sensually devastating experience.

  While the rational side of Desdemona's brain scrambled to formulate an appropriate response, Wainwright intuition took over. Somewhere inside her a switch was turned on. Her feminine emergency backup system kicked in.

  She wrapped her arms around Stark's neck and kissed him back.

  He groaned, folded his arms around her, and clamped her against his chest. Desdemona felt as though she were being swallowed alive.

  Stark shoved his fingers into the coil of her hair and tugged the black velvet band free. Then he gripped the back of her head and held her still while he deepened the kiss.

  Desdemona clung to him, her senses reeling. Kissing Stark was everything she had known that it would be, a searing, mind-altering, earthshaking experience.

  It struck her in a flash of insight that this glorious, indescribable thrill was similar to what three generations of Wainwrights must have felt every time they went on stage. Being the only one in the family who could not act, she had never experienced it until this moment.

  Stark's hands moved down her back to cup her buttocks. He lifted her up against him.

  Desdemona could hardly breathe. He was hard, solid, strong. Deliciously masculine. She moaned softly and inhaled his indescribable scent. No after-shave or cologne. Just Stark and the soap he used. Everything that was female in her responded to it.

  She was vaguely aware of the room shifting around her. She realized that Stark was carrying her somewhere. Perhaps to the couch in the living room.

  Or perhaps to his bedroom, a dark, mysterious place she had not yet seen.

  Too soon, she thought. Too soon. He was not ready for this. He needed time.

  Desdemona knew she had to do something before they both got too carried away by the seething passion.

  Stark came to an abrupt halt. Desdemona felt the jolt that went through both of them. She realized that he had backed into the wooden work island positioned in the center of the kitchen.

  “Damn,” Stark muttered.

  The interruption was timely if not particularly welcome. Desdemona sighed and reluctantly lifted her lashes. She felt bemused and disoriented.

  “Maybe it's just as well,” she whispered.

  “You're right. This'll do.”

  “What on earth?” Before she realized his intention, he turned around and sat her down on the edge of the work island.

  He parted her legs and moved between them. With quick, deft movements he unzipped her dress. The bodice fell to her waist. An instant later his hand closed gently around one soft breast. Desdemona was shocked to the core by the desire that lanced through her.

  “Stark.” She clung to him as he kissed her throat. “This isn't what I meant.”

  “It's okay. It's clean. I saw that new guy on your staff wipe it off earlier.”

  “Yes, I know, but—” She broke off when he put his hands on her upper thighs. Her skin burned beneath the fine fabric of her dress. “Oh, my God.”

  He bit her ear with exquisite care. Desdemona shivered. Then his hand was under the edge of her dress, moving higher. He cupped her for a few seconds. She tightened her legs around him. His thighs were as hard as stone.

&n
bsp; “I like that,” he said. He seized a fistful of her hair and buried his face in it. “And I like this, too. You smell good.”

  The raw sensuality in his voice did strange and dangerous things to Desdemona. She heard something clatter on the kitchen floor. One of her black shoes had come off.

  He pushed her backward until she was lying on top of the island, her legs dangling over the edge.

  He leaned over her, pinning her to the wooden surface. His mouth sought the curve of her throat once more. His heavily aroused body was pressed against her. She could feel the hard, unyielding shape of his manhood. He stroked the crotch of her panties.

  “You're soaking wet.” He sounded dazed with wonder.

  She was excruciatingly aware that he was right. For some reason the evidence of her own arousal brought back a measure of reality. “Stark, please. This has gone far enough.”

  He raised his head and looked down at her with glittering eyes. “What?”

  “This is—” She levered herself up on one elbow and pushed hair out of her eyes. “This is all happening much too fast.”

  “Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I'll slow down if that's what you want. We've got all night.”

  “Wait.” She braced one hand against his massive shoulder. “I mean we're really going too fast. For heaven's sake, Stark, one month ago you were on the verge of marrying another woman.”

  Confusion flared in his intent gaze. “But I didn't marry anyone else. There's nothing to stop me from making love to you tonight.”

  “Yes, I know, but that's not quite the point I'm trying to make. Let's look at the motivation for this, uh, incident.”

  “Incident?”

  “We have to try to understand what's really happening here. Now, then, you were recently traumatized by the rejection you received at the hands of your fiancée.”

  “Ex-fiancée,” he said grimly.

  “Whatever. I suspect you were also very angry, too. Perfectly natural.”

  “You think so?” His voice turned unnaturally soft.

  “Of course.” Desdemona struggled to a sitting position. Stark did not move from between her splayed thighs. “That sort of thing is very hard on the ego.”