Trust Me (21 page)

“Are you serious? It wouldn't be difficult for anyone to find out that I do my initial development work at home on an isolated system. Hell, Jason and Kyle know that much. They even know something about ARCANE. They could have mentioned it to Macbeth, who, in turn, could have told Tony.”

“Good lord, now you're implicating my cousin and your own half brothers. Don't you trust anyone?”

“I'm not accusing any of them of criminal intent,” Stark said evenly. “I'm just pointing out one possible route by which Tony could have learned about ARCANE. There are others. A lot of your people have been in and out of this house. They know the layout. Tony could have learned about it from any of your staff.”

“But why would Tony want to steal your stupid project?” Desdemona raged.

“Two reasons,” Stark said coldly. “The first is that it's worth a great deal of money to certain parties, and Kyle mentioned that your stepbrother just happens to be looking for a bundle of cash to finance his play.”

“Every playwright who does a script wants money to finance his play. That doesn't mean he'd steal in order to get it staged. What's the second reason?”

“Revenge,” Stark said simply.

Desdemona's mouth fell open. “Revenge? Against whom?”

“Me.”

“But, why?”

“Because he wants you, and I've got you.”

Desdemona was speechless. “Of all the—”

Stark leaned forward and planted his big hands on the desk. “Listen to me, Desdemona. Because Tony is your stepbrother and because I have no actual proof that he made an attempt to steal ARCANE, I'm going to let this die here tonight.”

A tiny flicker of hope came to life in Desdemona. “You will?”

“Yes. But there will be no second chances. Tell Tony that, Desdemona. Tell him if I ever again have any reason to suspect that he's trying to steal from me, I'll nail him to the wall.”

“Stark, listen to me—”

“I can do it, Desdemona.”

She believed him. There was something very cold and hard and relentless in his face. This was not the man she thought she knew. This was not the man with whom she had fallen in love.

Desdemona took a step back. “I'm going to find Tony. I want to hear what he has to say.”

She whirled around and ran for the door. She raced downstairs and nearly collided with Vernon on the floor of the atrium. He reached out to steady her.

“Whoa. Take it easy, Miss Wainwright.” Vernon peered anxiously at her face. “Are you okay?”

“No. Where's Tony?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Excuse me, Vernon.” Desdemona freed herself and dashed into the kitchen.

Tony looked up from where he was repacking glassware when Desdemona burst into the kitchen. He frowned when he saw her expression. “What's wrong?”

She came to a halt in front of him. “Tony, tell me the truth. Were you in Stark's study earlier this evening?”

“Hell, no. Why would I go in there? It's locked, anyway, isn't it?”

“How did you know that?”

“Macbeth said one of Stark's brothers mentioned that it's got a special security code lock on the door.”

Bess, Augustus, and Juliet stopped what they were doing and gathered anxiously around Tony and Desdemona. Vernon walked into the kitchen and stood to one side with a helpless expression.

“What's going on?” Bess demanded.

“Stark claims that someone tried to steal the hard disk in his computer this evening.” Desdemona did not look away from Tony. “He thinks Tony is guilty.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Tony muttered. “And you believe him, don't you?”

“No, I think he's wrong,” Desdemona said fiercely. “And I want you to confirm it. Tell me you didn't try to steal that damned hard disk tonight, Tony.”

“I didn't try to steal anything from that bastard.” Tony glanced past her. His expression hardened. “I swear it, kid. But I can't prove it.”

“No, you can't,” Stark said from the kitchen doorway. “Just as I can't prove that you did try to steal it. But that won't stop me if you try anything like this again, Wainwright. I'll find a way to deal with you. Trust me.”

Tony stiffened. “Who are you going to believe, Desdemona? Your brother or this son-of-a-bitch?”

“I think Stark is mistaken,” Desdemona said desperately.

“Mistaken?” Tony smiled humorlessly. “I think he's lying. I think he's concocted this whole damn story just to turn you against me.”

“No,” Desdemona whispered. “That's not true. Why would he do such a thing?”

“To get me out of the picture.” Tony kept his gaze on Stark. “Don't you see? He knows that you and I have a special kind of relationship, and he can't stand knowing that. He's the possessive type.”

“That's not true,” Desdemona said.

“Sure it is,” Tony insisted softly. “He wants you all to himself. For a while. When he's through with you, he'll chuck you out fast enough, but in the meantime he doesn't want any competition. Isn't that the real truth, Stark?”

“Desdemona's right,” Stark said. “This isn't personal. It's business. Very big, very dangerous business. I'll give you some advice, Wainwright. If you're playing games with the international industrial espionage crowd, you're way out of your league.”

“I'm not playing games of any kind.” Tony switched his gaze back to Desdemona. “Is it going to work, Desdemona?”

“Is what going to work?”

“Is he going to succeed in turning you against me?”

“No one can do that, Tony. You're my brother.”

“Your stepbrother,” he corrected softly. He lifted a hand and touched the side of her face. “There's a difference, kid. And Stark knows it.”

He turned and walked out of the kitchen. Desdemona felt the tears well up in her eyes.

Bess, Augustus, and Juliet watched in shock as Tony went out the door. Vernon stood in the center of the kitchen clutching his half-melted ice sculpture in gloved hands. He glanced nervously from face to face, clearly unhappy at being caught in the middle of a family scene.

“Tony certainly knows how to make an exit,” Stark said laconically. “I'll give him that.”

The cutting edge of Stark's voice jerked Desdemona out of her momentary paralysis. She whirled around to face him. “It's a family talent. If you'll excuse us, we'll finish cleaning up, and then we'll all get out of here. Right Touch has a policy of leaving the client's home in the same condition it was in when we arrived.”

H
e should have known that she would make a scene, Stark thought the following morning. Desdemona was a Wainwright.
Theater people
. Everything had to be done with a melodramatic flair.

His intention had been to deliver a simple warning, but she had turned it into a confrontation worthy of a soap opera. It was his own fault, he decided. He had virtually accused Tony Wainwright of attempted theft, and in Desdemona's mind, an attack against anyone in her precious family was an attack against her.

He had made a serious miscalculation. He had put Desdemona in a position where she felt forced to choose between his version of events and her stepbrother's. He should have thought it out more clearly ahead of time. He should have realized that he could not expect Desdemona to trust him rather than one of the Wainwright clan.

The kitchen was empty. Stark went through the routine of making coffee and pouring cereal into a bowl with a sense of weary fatalism. The day matched his mood, somber and gray.

He had gone over the scene with Desdemona a hundred times during the night in an effort to figure out how he could have handled it without alienating her.

He had not found an answer.

Another relationship down the tubes. Although he was not standing alone at the altar this time, for some reason the kicked-in-the-gut sensation was a lot worse than it had been the day Pamela had failed to show for the wedding.

What the hell was wrong with him
? he wondered as he poured milk on his cereal. He had known from the beginning that it was not a serious, long-term relationship. He'd only been to bed with Desdemona once. It wasn't as if he'd asked her to marry him. He had told himself that he would go with the flow this time.

The flow had turned into Niagara Falls, however, and he had just discovered that he was going over in a barrel.

What was he supposed to have done? Pretend that her beloved Tony had never tried to steal the hard disk?

“Morning, Sam.” Jason charged into the kitchen and grabbed the box of cereal that Stark had left on the counter. “You sure missed a good film last night.”

“Is that right?” Stark carried his bowl to the table and sat down.

Kyle appeared. “It was all about this android that everyone thinks is human. Only he's not. He's really a super computer with all sorts of weapons.”

“For some dippy reason he thinks he wants to be a real human being.” Jason made a face as he upended the cereal box and proceeded to dump a large portion of the contents into his bowl. “That was the only dumb part. Who'd want to be human if you could be an android?”

“Good question.” Stark munched cereal.

Kyle grabbed the cereal box from his brother. “The android's hand was actually a gun. And his eyes projected computerized heads-up displays of his targets the way computers do in the new fighter-bombers.”

“There were a lot of really neat special effects,” Jason said.

“Macbeth explained how some of 'em worked.” Kyle went to the refrigerator to get a bottle of orange juice. “But he said you could probably explain how the special effects were produced better than he could because they're computer-generated and you know all about computers.”

“He says theater people don't rely on gimmicks and computers the way the people who make movies do,” Jason added.

Kyle poured juice into a glass. “Macbeth says creating an illusion in a theater is an art form, not a technological trick.”

Stark raised his brows. “Are you sure Macbeth isn't slightly biased?”

“No, he's an expert,” Kyle assured him.

“I see.” Stark took another bite of cereal and finally noticed the unfamiliar taste. The stuff was as sweet as candy, but he was positive that he had not put any sugar on it.

“Macbeth says there's nothing like a live performance to capture the audience's emotions,” Jason explained. “He says people get much more involved with a live performance than they do with a filmed one.”

“He says live theater demands more from an audience,” Kyle said.

Stark contemplated the bleak memories of the live performance in which he had acted the previous night. “He may be right.” He cautiously tried another spoonful from his bowl. “Where did this cereal come from?”

“Macbeth took us to a store so that Jason and I could buy it and some other stuff,” Kyle explained.

“What other stuff?”

Kyle shrugged. “Some soda and peanut butter and potato chips.”

“A good assortment from the basic food groups?” Stark inquired.

“Yeah. Macbeth's taking us to the Limelight this morning. We're going to help him with some repairs on the stage.”

Stark stopped chewing as a thought struck him. “Hell.”

Jason looked up. “What's wrong?”

Stark wondered how to tell his brothers that Macbeth was unlikely to show up this morning. Desdemona would have gotten in touch with him by now and told him that the Wainwrights and the Starks were no longer on speaking terms.

Stark's next thought was that he would have to call his office and tell Maud that he wouldn't be in until he could arrange for a new sitter. The lid that covered the cauldron of chaos inside him had loosened sometime during the night. He was catching unpleasant glimpses of the contents.

“You okay, Sam?” Jason looked suddenly worried.

“Yeah, are you okay?” Kyle asked.

“I'm fine.” This wasn't Kyle and Jason's problem, Stark reminded himself. He glanced at the clock. It was almost seven-thirty. Macbeth always arrived promptly at seven-thirty. “Listen. there may be a change in plans today.”

“What kind of change?” Kyle asked.

“I'm not sure that Macbeth is going—” Stark broke off at the sound of Macbeth's Jeep in the drive.

“There he is now.” Jason jumped off his chair. “'Scuse me. I've gotta get my jacket.”

“Me, too.” Kyle made to follow his brother.

“Don't forget the dishes,” Stark said automatically.

Jason and Kyle grumbled, but they both rushed back to the table, scooped up their bowls and glasses, and deposited them in the dishwasher.

“Bye, Sam,” Jason yelled as he headed for the door.

“See you tonight,” Kyle called. “Are we going to send out for pizza again?”

“We'll see.” Stark got to his feet and followed his brothers to the door. He walked out onto the front steps.

Macbeth sat behind the wheel of the black Jeep. He was attired, as usual, in his black mirrored sunglasses, work shirt, and leather vest. He lifted a hand in greeting as the boys ran toward the vehicle.

“Mornin' Stark.”

Stark went down the steps. He walked to the Jeep and braced one hand on the top of the cab. “I wasn't sure you'd show this morning.”

Macbeth's teeth flashed briefly. “I heard about the fuss here last night.” He lowered his voice as Kyle and Jason scrambled into the Jeep and reached for their seat belts. “Desdemona said you were pissed because someone tried to get inside your computer.”

“Yes.”

“She said you thought it was Tony.”

“I have good reason to think that it was.”

“Nah,” Macbeth said easily. “Tony's no thief. He's a screwup, but that's different.”

“Do you think so?”

“Hey, don't worry about it.” Macbeth flashed a grin. “Desdemona's going to take care of everything.”

“She is?”

“Yeah.” Macbeth put the truck in gear. “She's going to hire someone to look into the situation.”

Stark stared at him. “She's going to do
what
?”

“Hire someone. You know, like a private eye.”

“A
private eye
. Is she nuts?”

“It'll probably cost her an arm and a leg, and we both know Tony's the one who should pay for it, but he can't. No money. So Desdemona is going to handle it. We'll all chip in whatever we can, of course.” Macbeth smiled again. “Good thing I've got this great day job.”

Stark stepped back when the Jeep's engine thundered. Kyle and Jason waved to him as Macbeth eased the vehicle back out of the drive.

Stark stood absolutely still for what seemed a very long time. Then he turned and went back up the steps. He strode into the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

“Desdemona, it's for you,” Juliet yelled above the din of early-morning activity.

“I'll take it in my office.” Desdemona put down a pan full of freshly shelled hard-boiled eggs and stripped off her plastic gloves. “Finish these stuffed eggs for me, will you, Aunt Bess?”

“Of course, dear.” Bess took charge of the eggs. “Roasted red pepper filling?”

“Right.” Desdemona hurried into her office and closed the door. She picked up the phone. “This is Desdemona.”

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Stark asked without any preamble.

Desdemona caught her breath.
He had called
. She had been almost certain he would, but she had not been completely positive. There were too many things about Stark that were not yet predictable.

“At the moment, I'm stuffing hard-boiled eggs.” She forced a determined lightness into her tone. “We're doing an eleven o'clock brunch for a sportswear company's clients. Do you have any idea of how long it takes to stuff a hundred eggs?”

“Forget the eggs,” Stark growled. “I'm talking about your insane idea to hire a private investigator.”

“Oh, that. Macbeth told you about my plan?”

“Have you gone completely nuts? It'll cost you a fortune, and it's a total waste of time.”

“Not in my opinion,” she said.

“Just what the hell do you think an investigator is going to find?” Stark demanded.

“The truth.”

“He'll have to interview me first, and I'll tell him about the toothpicks, Tony's history of embezzlement, his working knowledge of computers, and his hostility toward me, and that will be the end of the damned investigation.”

“I believe a good investigator will turn up some other suspects.”

“Desdemona, I do not want a private investigator involved in my affairs.”

“Why not? Have you got something to hide?”

“I do not intend to discuss Stark Security Systems' proprietary information with anyone,” Stark said grimly.

“You can't expect us Wainwrights to take your accusations lying down. We have a right to defend ourselves.”

“You act as if I'm accusing all Wainwrights of attempted theft. That's not the case.”

“You've accused Tony of attempted theft, and you've as good as accused me of being a trusting, naive, gullible fool for believing in him. Do you deny it?”

“Desdemona, listen to me—”

“Do you deny it?”

“Damn it, I issued a warning to that fool stepbrother of yours, and yes, I do think you're gullible where he's concerned. You're a sucker for his hard-luck stories because he's family.”

“So? As it happens, he's had a lot of hard luck.”

“Desdemona, he's used you, and he's going to continue using you as long as you allow it.”

“I don't care what you say, Stark, I'm going ahead with my plan.”

“You'll be wasting your time. Your investigator won't get anywhere without my cooperation, and I don't intend to give it to him.”

“Is that so?”

“What's more, I'll have a very long talk with your P.I. I will explain the facts of the situation to him. I will then explain the facts of business life to him. I'll inform him that if he interferes in my business affairs, I'll see to it that he never works for me or any of my clients.”

“You'd issue threats to my investigator?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it's going to be a little tricky issuing threats to yourself,” Desdemona murmured. “I wonder if you'll back off or if you'll tell yourself to go to hell. I'm betting on the latter.”

There was a distinct pause from Stark. “What are you talking about?”

“You're the investigator I intend to hire.” Desdemona slammed down the phone.

Within seconds the instrument warbled like an irate bird. She picked up the receiver. “Right Touch Catering. May I help you?”

“I am a computer security expert.” Stark sounded as though he were speaking between clenched teeth. “I don't do the kind of thrilling hard-boiled detective investigations that you read about in mystery novels.”

“This is a computer security problem, isn't it? You're a computer security expert.”

“The only kind of investigations I do are computer investigations.” Stark's tone implied he was holding on to his temper through sheer will power. “I search computer files and follow computer trails through various kinds of networks and systems while seated at my desk. I do not interview suspects. I do not carry a gun in a shoulder holster. I do not conduct stakeouts.”

“However you want to handle this is fine by me,” Desdemona said easily. “Look, you don't tell me how to put on a buffet for two hundred, and I won't tell you how to do your job.”