Trust Me (2 page)

She could say one thing for certain about Stark, Desdemona decided. The man did look good in a tux.

He had the body of a medieval knight. Not overly tall, a shade under six feet, perhaps, but very hard and very solid. He was sleekly muscled, with no sign of flab anywhere.

He moved the way that a well-trained actor did, with grace and an instinctive sense of presence. When Stark entered a room, you would know he was there. Desdemona sensed that it was all unconscious on his part, however, not a carefully honed tactic to gain attention. He seemed completely unaware of the intensity that he projected. He simply was what he was, a self-contained force of nature.

The tails of his black bow tie hung down the front of his crisply pleated shirt. He had undone the tie a few minutes ago when he had stalked into his study. Now, as Desdemona watched apprehensively, he yanked open the collar of his shirt, exposing the strong column of his throat.

She stared in mute amazement as he impatiently ripped off his gold cuff links and tossed them onto the glass-topped desk. The twin spheres danced and skittered on the slick surface. Stark rolled up his sleeves, revealing sinewy fore arms and a large, stainless steel digital watch that was adorned with a lot of miniature keys. It was the sort of watch that looked as though it could provide weather information, stock market reports, and breaking headlines in addition to the time of day. It was a high-tech gadget-lover's watch.

From what Desdemona had seen, everything in the fortress was a high-tech-lover's dream. Lights came on automatically when you walked into a room. The kitchen was state-of-the-art. A household computer regulated everything, from the inside air temperature and the blinds that opened and closed according to the angle of the sun, to the extremely sophisticated security system.

Even the art on the walls looked as though it had been generated by a computer. The pictures were brilliant explosions of light and color formed into complex, surreal designs.

Desdemona struggled to change the subject. “A prenuptial agreement does seem to make a business deal out of a marriage, doesn't it? But that's neither here nor there. You'll be glad to know that the champagne can be returned to the supplier. I've deducted the amount from the total, as you can see.”

“What's wrong with treating marriage as a business deal? We're talking about a major financial commitment here, not some short-term affair. It's an investment, and it should be handled like one.”

Desdemona wished she had kept her mouth shut. It was obvious that Stark had been looking for a target, and she had made the mistake of providing him with one. She hastily tried to backpedal.

“Right. A serious business,” Desdemona said.

“Damn right. I thought Pamela understood that.” Stark paced back to his desk and threw himself down into his chair. Amazingly enough, the chair did not so much as squeak beneath his not inconsiderable weight. Stark did not glance at the invoice. “I thought I'd made a good choice this time. She seemed so stable. So sensible. Not one of those temperamental, emotional types who drive a man crazy with one scene of psychodrama after another.”

Desdemona arched a brow. “I don't know about that. I'd say Miss Bedford has a nice touch when it comes to dramatic scenes. Abandoning a man at the altar is definitely a colorful way to stage an exit.”

Stark ignored the comment. “Her father and I got along well. Stark Security Systems did a job for his company last fall. That was how I met Pamela.”

“I see.” Desdemona knew that Stark's extremely successful computer security consulting firm was rapidly becoming the premier company of its type in the region.

Stark Security Systems advised many of the largest Northwest businesses on matters ranging from computer security issues to corporate espionage. Word had it that Stark, who had started with nothing three years ago, was now, at the age of thirty-four, as wealthy as many of his clients.

“I had every reason to assume that Pamela wasn't a silly, starry-eyed romantic. She was well educated. She came across as calm and rational.” Stark drained the last of the brandy in a single swallow. His green eyes narrowed dangerously. “I'm beginning to believe that I was deliberately misled.”

“I'm sure it was all a terrible misunderstanding.”

“No, she misled me, all right. Made me think she was a reasonable, levelheaded female. She never said a word when we discussed the prenuptial agreement in my lawyer's office.”

“Maybe it took her a while to get over the shock.”

“What shock?” Stark glowered. “She knew all along that I planned to have a contract. Only reasonable thing to do under the circumstances.”

“Sure. Right. Only reasonable thing.” Desdemona eyed the empty glass that was positioned near Stark's big hand. Perhaps a little more brandy would get him past the surly stage.

“You're a businesswoman, Miss Wainwright. You understand why I wanted a prenuptial agreement, don't you?”

“To be perfectly honest, I haven't given the subject of prenuptial agreements a lot of thought.”

“Never been married?”

“No. Now, I'll be able to donate some of the food to a homeless shelter, and my staff will eat some of the rest, but—”

“Neither have I. I didn't think I was asking for too much.”

Desdemona got to her feet, seized the brandy bottle sitting on the corner of the desk, and leaned over to refill Stark's glass.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“You're welcome.” Desdemona moved a pen a smidgen closer to his hand before she sat down. “I suppose prenuptial agreements do make sense. Sort of like having a catering contract for a wedding reception.”

“Exactly.” He looked morosely pleased by her perceptive response. “A business contract.”

“Speaking of business contracts, Mr. Stark—”

“Logical, reasonable things, contracts. Lord knows, wedding vows don't amount to much these days. But a business agreement, now, that's something you can hold in your hand.” Stark made a broad fist. “Something you can see. A business agreement has substance. It has teeth. A business agreement is binding.”

“It certainly is. You'll notice that the business agreement in front of you was signed and dated by Miss Bedford, who made it very clear that you were going to cover the expenses for the reception.”

Stark looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The expenses for the reception, Mr. Stark. The total is there at the bottom of the invoice. If you would just take a moment to make out the check, I'll be on my way. I'm sure you'd rather be alone at this unhappy time.”

Stark scowled at the invoice. “What is this? Six thousand dollars? For a wedding reception that got canceled?”

“You only owe six thousand because I've already deducted the deposit that was paid at the time the contract was signed and the second payment which was made last month when the supplies were ordered.”

“I don't remember giving you two previous payments.”

“Miss Bedford said you gave instructions for her to collect whatever she needed from your accounting department. Someone at Stark Security Systems cut the first two checks. I've already cashed them.”

“Damn. Things are out of control here. Give me one good reason why I should pay you another six grand.”

It was clear to Desdemona that she finally had his full attention. The light of battle glinted in his eyes. It did not bode well.

“Because I've got a business contract that says you owe me another six thousand dollars,” she said bluntly. “Look, Mr. Stark, I'm sincerely sorry about what happened this afternoon. I know what a traumatic event this must have been for you.”

“Do you?”

“I can certainly imagine how upsetting it would be to be left at the altar.”

“You get used to it.”

She stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said you get used to it.” Stark pulled the invoice closer and studied it with a gimlet gaze. “Second time it's happened to me. I'm a pro at being left at the altar.”

Desdemona was horrified. “You've been through this before?”

“Two years ago. Her name was Lindsay Mills. Married a doctor instead.”

“Good grief,” Desdemona said faintly. “I hadn't realized.”

“It's not something I bring up a lot in the course of casual conversation.”

“I can understand that.”

“She left a note, too. It said that I was emotionally frozen and obsessively fixated on the subject of trust and loyalty.” Stark's teeth appeared briefly in a humorless smile. “She had a degree in psychology.”

Desdemona shivered. Stark's eyes were colder than the walk-in freezer in the Right Touch kitchen. “You asked her to sign a prenuptial agreement, too?”

“Of course. She agreed to sign it on our wedding day. But she failed to show up at the altar. Sent a damned note instead. Said she had to marry for love.”

“I see.”

“A mutual acquaintance told me that she filed for divorce from the doctor six months ago.”

“I see.”

“Apparently she fell for a tennis pro.”

“It happens.”

“So much for a marriage based on love,” Stark said with grim satisfaction.

“I don't think one should generalize,” Desdemona said cautiously.

“The way I figure it, I got lucky,” Stark said.

“Perhaps.”

“At least I didn't get stuck with the tab for the reception that time.” Stark picked up a pen and started going item by item down the invoice.

Desdemona breathed a small sigh of relief. He was at last examining the bill. That was at least one step closer to getting a check out of him.

Privately she thought she understood exactly why Pamela Bedford and Lindsay Mills had lost their nerve on the eve of marriage. It would take courage to marry Sam Stark.

His name suited him all too well. There was a hard, elemental quality about him that would give any intelligent woman pause.

The medieval knight image applied to his features as well as his build. His hair was nearly black, overlong, and brushed straight back from his high forehead. The broad, flat planes of his face and jaw looked as though they had been fashioned to wear a steel helm. His brilliant green eyes glowed with the power of very old gemstones. A prowling, predatory intelligence burned in those eyes.

All in all, there was a stern, unyielding, utterly relentless quality about Sam Stark. It was the sort of quality one might have valued in a knight a few hundred years earlier but that was unexpected and deeply disturbing in a modern-day male.

Desdemona told herself that she was profoundly grateful to know that as soon as she got her check from him, Stark would cease to be her problem.

On the other hand, she had never met anyone who had been abandoned at the altar, let alone abandoned twice.

“Two pounds of tapenade?” Stark glared at Desdemona. “What the hell is tapenade?”

“Basically it's an olive paste. You spread it on crackers.”

“It costs a fortune. Wouldn't it have been cheaper to just serve a couple of bowls of olives?”

“Probably, but Miss Bedford wanted tapenade.”

“And what about these cheese breadsticks? Who needs four hundred breadsticks?”

“Two hundred people were invited to the reception, Mr. Stark. Miss Bedford wanted to be able to serve two breadsticks apiece.”

Stark continued down the list. “Stuffed mushroom caps? I don't even like stuffed mushroom caps.”

“Apparently Miss Bedford was fond of them.”

“More fond of them than she was of me, obviously. What are these swans at fifty bucks each? Nobody eats swans these days.”

“They aren't real swans. They're ice sculptures. Rafael, one of my employees, did a beautiful job on them.”

Stark glanced toward the window. “I'm paying fifty bucks apiece for those blocks of ice that are melting away in my garden?”

“Think of them as works of art, Mr. Stark. Rafael definitely considers himself an artist.”

“They're made out of ice. I'm paying a total of one hundred and fifty dollars to water my garden with fancy ice sculptures?”

“I realize this is very difficult for you, Mr. Stark. I'll be glad to go over each item on the bill, but I can assure you that all the charges are quite reasonable.”

“Your idea of reasonable and mine are two different things, Miss Wainwright.” Stark went back to the invoice. “About this herbed goat cheese.”

“Very popular these days.”

“I don't see how it could be, at this price.”

“It's very special goat cheese. Made by a local firm.”

“What do they do? Raise the goats in their own private, waterfront condominiums?”

Desdemona opened her mouth to respond with a crack about the goats being worth it, but at the last instant she changed her mind. It dawned on her that Stark was using the line-by-line argument over the invoice as a means of venting some of the rage and pain he must surely be feeling.

She glanced at his very large fist, which was fiercely clamped around a slender gold pen. The muscles in his forearm were bunched and taut.