Trust Me (6 page)

“
Charity events
.” Stark glowered at her. “What do charity events have to do with business?”

Dane stirred in his chair. “Those are the kind of events where you mingle with the movers and shakers, Stark. It's where business contacts are made. Pamela knew that. It was why she put them on your schedule.”

“Damn.” Stark took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Give me a minute to think.”

Maud fell silent. Dane waited expectantly.

Inspiration struck. Stark slowly replaced his glasses. “What I need is a professional.”

Maud tilted her head to one side. “A professional?”

“Yes.” Stark opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folder full of business cards. He slipped Desdemona's out of the plastic envelope. “Give the owner of this firm a call. Tell her what we need. See if she'll commit to a contract to handle all of Stark Security Systems' social events for the next quarter. We'll need her to cater and act as hostess at the events.”

Maud walked to the desk and squinted at the card. “Right Touch Catering Services. Got it.”

Dane's brows rose. “That's the firm that handled your wedding, isn't it?”

“My nonwedding.”

“A professional caterer under contract to us,” Dane mused. “Not a bad idea.”

“Thank you,” Stark said. He was suddenly unaccountably pleased with himself. “I should have thought of this days ago.”

Dane smiled. “You always were the brains of the outfit.”

Maud beamed. “When life give you lemons…”

The door of Desdemona's glass-walled office slammed open shortly after ten on Monday morning. Rafael Crumpton, ice sculptor and part-time server, struck a dramatic pose.

He was dressed in the pristine white uniform and cap that all of Desdemona's employees were required to wear when on duty in the firm's kitchens.

“Desdemona, I don't know how to tell you this, but I must leave you. Please don't hate me.”

Desdemona frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I must follow my destiny. I told you when I took this job that I was meant for bigger and better things. I know that it will be difficult for you to go on without me, but you will survive. You're strong, Desdemona.”

“Rafael, close the door, sit down, and tell me what's going on.”

Rafael straightened, shut the door, and dropped into the chair on the other side of Desdemona's desk. “I've got a new job.”

Desdemona groaned. “Oh, damn.”

“I'm going to the Fountains, the new hotel in Bellevue.”

Desdemona was stunned. “You're going to leave me for a hotel job on the Eastside? For crying out loud, Rafael, you'll be doing ice carvings for Sunday brunches. You call that destiny?”

Rafael gave her a mournful look. “I knew you would take this hard. It wasn't an easy decision, Desdemona. But I've been promised complete artistic freedom.” He spread his hands. “How could I refuse?”

“This is all because I made you do those swans for the Stark-Bedford wedding, isn't it? You're still in a snit because I wouldn't let you sculpt your own designs.”

“My designs were exquisite,” Rafael retorted. “I took my inspiration from the
Kama Sutra
. They were perfectly suited to a wedding banquet.”

“Rafael, be honest. Don't you think a series of ice sculptures featuring naked couples in various sexual positions would have been just a tad much for the buffet table of a formal wedding?”

“My designs were a superb realization of wedding-night ecstasy.”

“What would you know about wedding-night ecstasy? You've never been married. In any event the Stark-Bedford reception was a very classy affair. Your sculptures would have shocked the guests.”

Rafael gave her a reproachful look. “A true artist cannot allow himself to be chained by the mediocre tastes of the rabble. Nor can he allow his patron to dictate his creative vision.”

“I'm not your patron, I'm your employer.”

“Not anymore.”

“You think you're actually going to be allowed to carve anything you want to carve at the Fountains?”

“That's what I have been promised.”

Desdemona lost her temper. “All right, go ahead and take the job. See how long you get to enjoy your artistic freedom. When are you leaving?”

“Today.”

Desdemona was outraged. “You can't leave today. I've got the Cosini luncheon on Thursday and the Lambeth-Horton wedding on Friday. I'd planned to have ice sculptures on the tables for both events.”

“I'm sorry, Desdemona.” Rafael got to his feet. “You must find someone else to do your silly swans and dolphins. I am no longer willing to compromise my integrity as an artist. I must seek my true path.”

“Rafael, wait.” Desdemona leaped out of her chair and started around the edge of the desk. “Let's talk about this.”

“There is nothing more to discuss. I must be free of the shackles of commercial art.” Rafael flung open the door.

“Damn it, you're going to regret this. If you think your new employer is going to let you do a bunch of sexy ice sculptures for the Eastside Sunday brunch crowd, you've got another thought coming.”

The phone rang on Desdemona's desk. She snatched up the receiver. “Right Touch.”

“Desdemona Wainwright, please.”

Business first. Desdemona forced herself to speak calmly and pleasantly. “This is Desdemona Wainwright. How can I help you?”

“This is Maud Pitchcott. I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Stark of Stark Security Systems.”

Desdemona's hand clenched around the phone. For some reason she was suddenly a little breathless. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Stark wants to know if you would be interested in a contract with this firm. He would like to hire you as a social event consultant.”

“A social event consultant?” Desdemona waved Rafael out of the office. She sank slowly back down into her chair.

“You would assume the responsibility for handling all of Stark Security Systems' social commitments for the next three months. You would also act as his hostess when necessary. Are you interested in the contract, Miss Wainwright?”

“Are you kidding?” Desdemona grabbed a pen. “I mean, yes. Yes, I'm definitely interested.”

“In that case, Mr. Stark would like to see you in his office this afternoon.”

Anticipation and satisfaction surged through Stark as he watched Desdemona sign the catering contract. Absolutely perfect. He should have thought of this day he'd found himself standing alone at the altar. He wondered what the hell had taken him so long to realize that Desdemona was the answer to all his problems.

She put down the pen at that moment and raised her eyes to meet his. She smiled. Stark stopped breathing. He felt something twist deep inside him.

Perfect.

He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. This was business, he reminded himself sternly. “You don't have any objection to acting as my hostess?”

“No, not at all. Most people in your position have someone around who can help them host a business affair. A wife or a husband or, a, uh, something….” She broke off, blushing.

His recent debacle of a marriage hung in the air between them. Stark could see the sympathy in Desdemona's eyes, and it annoyed him. He didn't want sympathy. He wanted…something else.

He wanted her.

The realization poleaxed him.

“A something,” he repeated carefully.

“Yes,” she said hastily. “But once in a while a single person finds himself or herself in your shoes, and in those cases it's not uncommon to hire a professional hostess.”

“Good. Excellent.” He looked at her, unable to think of anything else to say. He badly wanted to delay her departure from his office, but he could not seem to find a clever way to do it. “Well, that's that.”

“Right.” She leaped to her feet as though the chair in which she had been sitting had been wired for electricity and someone had just flipped the switch. “I'll look forward to working with you. I'm sure you'll find Right Touch will suit all your catering needs.”

“Needs.” He had a lot of them, he though wistfully. So many needs. Odd that he hadn't realized how strong those needs were until this moment.

“I trust you'll be satisfied,” she added earnestly.

“Satisfied. Yes. That would be nice.”

“I will personally do my best to see that you don't regret this decision.” She put out her hand.

He got to his feet and closed his fingers around hers. Tightly. “I'm sure I won't.” He stared down into her eyes. After a moment he felt her fingers wriggle like so many trapped birds. He realized he'd been holding her hand for a long time.

She smiled very brightly as she tried to tug her fingers free. “Good-bye.”

Reluctantly he let go of her hand. “Good-bye, Desdemona.”

She bolted for the door, her copy of the contract clutched in her small fist.

Stark watched the door close behind her.

Perfect.

Juliet, Kirsten, and Henry were waiting for Desdemona two hours later when she sailed triumphantly back through the alley entrance of Right Touch.

“Did you get the contract?” Juliet demanded.

“I got it.” Desdemona waved the contract in the air. “My friends, this is the beginning of a beautiful business relationship. Once the word gets out that we are the exclusive caterers for Stark Security Systems, we will be unstoppable. Companies all over town will be begging for our services.”

Kirsten laughed. “Enough about the business side of this. I've got a more interesting question. Was Pamela Bedford right?”

“About what?” Desdemona regarded the contract in her hand with smug delight.

“Does Stark really wear jeans and running shoes to the office?”

“Yes, he does.” Desdemona studied Stark's signature at the bottom of the precious contract. It was a big, bold, utterly masculine signature. “And a cute little plastic pocket protector.”

Henry put a hand to his heart and groaned. “How can you work for someone who wears a nerd pack?”

Desdemona fixed everyone present with a steely glare. “I want to make something very clear here. There will be no nerd-bashing allowed. Stark is now a valued client. As such, unless he turns out to be a mass-murderer, he can do no wrong. Understood?”

Henry saluted smartly. “Understood, oh great, exalted leader.”

Kirsten laughed. “Got it.”

Juliet smiled, but her expression turned speculative. “Understood.”

“Excellent.” Desdemona swung around on her heel. “If anyone needs me, I'll be in my office admiring my new contract with Stark Security Systems.”
And thinking about the deeply disturbing sensation she had experienced when she had seen him again that afternoon
.

Desdemona had a full measure of the Wainwright intuition. She could feel it humming inside herself at that very moment. This second encounter with Stark had been no accident. A Wainwright knew the hand of destiny when she saw it in action.

Two weeks ago when she had first met Stark she had wondered about what might have happened had they come together in another place and another time.

Now she would have a chance to find out.

T
wo weeks later Stark stood with Dane McCallum and surveyed the lively crowd of people gathered in his living room. A sense of relief flooded through him. No one looked bored or uncomfortable. His guests appeared to be enjoying themselves. The food was terrific, and the service was flawless.

This was the first event that Right Touch had orchestrated for Stark Security Systems since Stark had signed the contract with Desdemona.

The cocktail party and buffet tonight followed a day-long seminar on corporate security issues that Stark Security Systems had put on for the benefit of potential clients. The seminar, so far as Stark was concerned, had been the easy part. It was the socializing afterward that he had dreaded. He always dreaded the social stuff.

No more. Desdemona had taken care of everything.

“You're going to have a hard time getting rid of this bunch,” Dane remarked. “They're all having a good time.”

“I'm telling you, McCallum, the decision to hire a professional caterer was the best idea I've had since I worked out the basic theory behind ARCANE's programming.”

“I'm not sure I'd go that far.”

“I would.” Stark was feeling almost euphoric with success. “Desdemona's operation runs like clockwork. There hasn't been a single glitch. And all I had to do was authorize the check. This is the way to do it, McCallum. Don't know why I didn't think of it earlier.”

Dane's mouth curved. “Sort of like having a wife-in-name-only, would you say?”

Stark was pleased with the analogy. “Exactly. All the convenience, none of the hassle.”

“And none of the fun?”

“I wouldn't know about that part.” Stark took a swallow of wine from his glass. “I've never managed to get myself married.”

“You don't know what you're missing.” Dane cast a speculative glance at Desdemona, who was busy on the other side of the room. “Then again, maybe you aren't missing a damn thing. Maybe you've got it all.”

“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.”

“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.”