Trust Me (35 page)

It took determination and fortitude, but he got her all the way to the bed before he succumbed to the relentless tide of physical desire.

Forty-five minutes later, Stark savored the delicious ripples of Desdemona's impending release. Her whole body clutched at him, drawing him irresistibly, inevitably toward the glittering storm.

“Stark.
Stark
.”

Braced on his elbows above her, he looked down, captivated, as always, by the sight of her face in the moment of climax. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. Her skin glowed with a damp sheen. Her nails bit deeply in his shoulder.

She was impossibly beautiful, impossibly sensual, a creature of magic. And she was going to marry him.

He groaned as he felt her tighten around him. He held himself back with an effort of will, wanting to delay his own release until he had experienced hers to the fullest.

At last it was over.

He began to move within her again.

“No.” Desdemona kissed his throat. She opened her eyes and pushed against his shoulders. “My turn.”

“What?”

“Hush. Let me do this.” She pushed harder.

He hesitated. He was poised on the brink and the last thing he wanted to do was withdraw from her tight, moist body, even for a few seconds.

But he sensed her determination and found it deeply erotic. Reluctantly he allowed himself to be rolled onto his back. Desdemona came down on top of him. She fitted herself to him. Her eyes were brilliant in the shadows. Her body was still so hot that he wondered why it didn't set fire to his blood.

She rode him with a sweet, wild energy that took his breath.

He glimpsed the patterns at the border between chaos and complexity, and once more, just for an instant, he comprehended them.

“Stark?” Desdemona spoke from the other side of the shoji screen where she was dressing.

“Yes?” Stark picked up the shirt he had left midway between the kitchen and the bedroom area. He glanced toward the shoji screen. Desdemona's nude body was clearly silhouetted against the opaque white barrier.

“You said Vernon Tate's client received his e-mail communications through one of the computers at your company.”

“Looks that way.”

“And you said that theoretically it could be someone outside your company. Someone who's cracked your security system.”

“Yes.” He studied the lush curve of her hips as she bent over the bed.

“He'd have to be good to do that, wouldn't he?”

“Yes. But there's no such thing as a perfectly secure system once you're hooked up to a modem or involved in a computer network. All of Stark Security machines have vulnerable spots. That's why I do serious development and design work at home on a completely isolated computer.”

“I was just wondering,” Desdemona said, “do you have any enemies?”

Stark watched the sexy shadow of her figure as she moved about behind the opaque white screen. She raised her arms over her head for a moment. The action tilted her delicately curved breasts in a provocative manner. He was aware of a deep, satiated sensation thrumming through his body. And of the hunger that lay beneath it.

“I could probably name one or two if I tried.” He buttoned his shirt. “Why?”

“I'm not sure. I just had a strange feeling.” Desdemona appeared from behind the screen. She looked up from the task of tying the sash of her kimono robe. Her eyes were huge with concern.

“Is this another example of the famed Wainwright intuition?” Stark asked, amused.

“Maybe. There's something very intimate about this situation, if you know what I mean.”

Wistfully he eyed her little bare toes. Damn, but he hated to leave here tonight. “I know what you mean.”

She frowned. “I'm talking about the person behind the attempted theft of ARCANE. Stark, whoever hired Vernon Tate and then killed him knows a lot, not just about you, but about me. About us. Don't you see?”

Stark's fingers stilled on the last button of his shirt. “You think that whoever is behind this was the one who sent Vernon Tate to Right Touch to pose as an ice carver?”

“Yes. And that person also knew enough to realize that he could set Tony up to take the fall if things went sour. He had to know that Tony was into computers and that he was sort of a…well, you know.”

“A screwup. Right. But that still leaves a lot of possibilities,” Stark said quietly. “Down to and including my secretary.”

“I suppose so.”

“You're saying it's not my enemies I need to worry about. It's my friends.”

“Maybe it's
my
friends we need to check out,” Desdemona said softly. “Some of them know as much about computers as your secretary. All of them could have known about my relationship with you and also that I needed a new ice carver. And there's no getting around the fact that one or two are desperate for cash at the moment.”

Stark buckled his belt. “You're thinking about Ian?”

Desdemona gave him an unhappy look. “Well, the thought did cross my mind.”

“Forget it,” Stark said. “It's not Ian Ivers.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure. I've got my own kind of intuition.”

L
ate the following afternoon Juliet stuck her head around the door of Desdemona's office. “Everyone else has gone for the day. Floors are mopped, counters are clean, and I'm off to rehearsal.”

“Right. Thanks.” Desdemona, immersed in the proposal for a wedding reception, did not look up. “Don't forget the charity luncheon tomorrow.”

“I won't.”

Desdemona studied the list of menu items she was considering. “You know, this reception literally cries out for ice sculptures. I wonder if that man, Larry Easenly, who did those carvings for Vernon Tate would be interested in a commission.”

“Personally, I don't care if I never see another ice sculpture,” Juliet said. “Every time I look at one I'm going to think of Vernon and this whole mess.”

“So am I.” Desdemona put down her pen and leaned back in her chair. “I'll be glad when it's over.”

“All of us will be glad when—” Juliet broke off. “What's that sound?”

A tiny, muffled
beep-beep-beep
reverberated shrilly from some unseen location.

Desdemona glanced speculatively at her jacket, which was hanging on a hook. “I do believe that is the sound of my new, handy-dandy, state-of-the-art, personal digital assistant.”

Juliet made a face. “It probably wants to give you the latest weather report.”

“Or the final score of the Mariners' game.” Desdemona reached into the jacket pocket and removed the PDA.

“Neither of which are of any great interest to you. Be honest with me, Desdemona, are you really sure you want to marry a man whose idea of a birthday present is a miniature computer?”

“It's the thought that counts. Don't forget, if it hadn't been for Stark's gift, I'd have been stuck in that freezer with poor Vernon for Lord knows how long.”

“True.” Juliet smiled. “Well, I'll let you deal with the fancy high-tech stuff by yourself. I've got an acting career to pursue. See you.”

“Bye.” Desdemona put the personal digital assistant on her desk.

Juliet waved farewell and disappeared. The front door of Right Touch closed behind her a moment later.

Silence filled the kitchen and Desdemona's office. It was broken only by the insistent
beep-beep-beep
of the PDA. Desdemona hoped she could figure out how to turn it off.

She read the message on the screen.

NEW MAIL

Someone had sent her a message via computer. Tony perhaps. Or maybe Stark had had a change of plans. Desdemona pressed the enter key. A tiny message addressed to her appeared on the screen.

Desdemona briefly considered sending an e-mail message back to Kirsten and then decided it was easier to pick up the telephone. She reached for the receiver and dialed the number of Exotica Erotica.

There was no answer. Desdemona glanced at her watch. It was after five-thirty. Kirsten had already closed the shop and left for the Limelight.

Perhaps Henry and Ian actually had figured out a way to persuade an angel to back the Limelight for another season.

Desdemona replaced the PDA in her jacket pocket. She collected her purse, locked her office, and walked through Right Touch one last time to make certain everything was shipshape for the night.

As always, the sight of the gleaming counters and sparkling tiles filled her with a great sense of satisfaction. She stood in the center of the kitchen and turned slowly in a circle to examine her private, personal stage. Everything was back to normal, ready for the next performance.

Desdemona smiled to herself and went out the door. She paused to lock up carefully.

The balmy warmth of a long summer evening had settled over Pioneer Square. The last wave of shoppers was emerging from the boutiques and galleries that lined the streets. The taverns and clubs were still quiescent. They would not come to life until much later in the evening.

Desdemona walked down a side street toward the water, went around the corner underneath the viaduct, and down a row of dark, sullen, old warehouses until she came to the Limelight. There were no cars parked in front of the loading dock that served as an entrance. Henry and Kirsten had probably walked, just as she had. There was no one hanging around in front. The background roar of the traffic on the elevated highway was the only sign of life.

Desdemona knocked loudly on the black and white door. There was no response. Kirsten and Henry were probably already inside. It was too noisy to wait outside.

Desdemona opened the door and stepped into the gloom-filled lobby of the tiny theater. A single dimly glowing lamp lit the passageway that led into the seating area.

“Kirsten? Henry?”

She closed the door to cut off the roar of traffic. The soundproofing insulation that Ian had installed was surprisingly effective. Silence settled on the lobby.

“Ian?” A disturbing sense of uneasiness coursed along Desdemona's nerve endings. Wainwright intuition. She recalled the short conversation she'd had with Stark yesterday as he was leaving her apartment.

You're thinking about Ian
?

Well, the thought did cross my mind
.

Trust me. It's not Ian Ivers
.

Stark knew about that sort of thing, Desdemona reminded herself. He would be the first one to harbor a suspicion of Ian if there were grounds. In any event, it wasn't Ian who had summoned her here. It was Kirsten who had sent the e-mail message.

Desdemona took a grip on her nerves and on the heavy black curtain that separated the lobby from the small auditorium. She lifted the curtain aside.

The weak glow of the dimmed footlights lit the tiny stage. The light illuminated the prone body of a man. He lay unmoving, his face turned toward the back of the stage. But Desdemona recognized the ponytail and the gold earring.

“Ian? My God,
Ian
.” Desdemona ran down the narrow center aisle. Dread rose within her. The thought of encountering another dead body was too much to bear.

She jumped up onto the stage, stepped over the footlights, and hurried to Ian's still body.

To her enormous relief, Ian groaned just as she reached him. He was alive.

“Don't move.” Desdemona crouched beside him. “Let me see if you're bleeding. Then I'll call 911.”

She leaned over him to check for a wound of some kind and nearly screamed when she saw that his eyes were open and filled with an urgent warning. It was a warning he could not verbalize because his mouth was sealed with duct tape.

“Oh, my God.” Desdemona saw that his hands were bound. With trembling fingers she ripped the tape from his mouth.

Ian's chest heaved as he gasped for breath. “Get out of here, Mona. Now. The cops. Call the cops.”

“I'll get them.” Desdemona staggered to her feet.

A brilliant white spotlight struck the stage with the intensity of a star gone nova. Desdemona froze, trapped by the light.

“I'm afraid it's too late for heroics.” The voice that boomed down toward the stage was disembodied and severely distorted by a deliberately abused microphone and sound system. It was the voice of a robot. Mechanical and completely unidentifiable. “We are gathered here this evening to perform a short play in one act. No one leaves until the final curtain.”

“Shit,” Ian muttered. His head fell back onto the stage in silent defeat. “I was afraid that he was still up there.”

“Who?” Desdemona whispered.

“Don't know. Never saw him. Came up behind me.”

Desdemona raised her hand in a futile attempt to shield her eyes from the blinding whiteness of the spotlight. She looked toward the control booth. The glare of the spot was so intense it hurt her eyes. It was impossible to see anything behind it.

“I don't know who you are,” she said very loudly, “but you had better get out of here while you can. Other people are on their way.”

“Your cousin Henry and his wife, Kirsten? Don't hold your breath, Miss Wainwright. I sent the e-mail message that brought you here. Your relatives know nothing about it.”

Desdemona fought the fear that twisted her insides into a knot. “What do you want? If it's money, you picked the wrong people. Neither Ian nor I have very much cash. The Limelight is on the verge of bankruptcy, and everything I've got is invested in my business.”

Ian stirred briefly. “Not bankrupt. The Limelight is going to make it,” he muttered. “Got a new plan.”

Desdemona ignored him.

The amplified voice thundered down from the lighting booth. “It's not your money I'm after, Miss Wainwright. And I do not give a damn about Ivers's impending bankruptcy, either. Unfortunately, he was in the way when I got here. It was you I needed. And now I have you.”

“I don't understand,” Desdemona said.

“I know you don't.” The robotic voice seemed to grow even more metallic. “But Stark will.”

“Stark?” Desdemona's heart thudded. “What has this got to do with him?”

“Everything.”

“This is about ARCANE, isn't it?”

“Yes, Miss Wainwright,” the distorted voice said. “It's about ARCANE. It was always about ARCANE.”

“What happens next?”

“We wait.”

“For what?” Desdemona demanded.

“For Stark to bring ARCANE to me.”

“Are you crazy?” Desdemona said. “He'll never do that.”

“You're wrong, Miss Wainwright. He'll hand over ARCANE quite willingly in exchange for you.”

Desdemona swallowed. “That's why I'm here? I'm a hostage?”

“You may as well sit down on the stage, Miss Wainwright. I just sent the e-mail message to Stark. It will take him a while to get here.”

“He'll probably have the cops with him when he arrives,” Desdemona warned.

“I don't think so,” the mechanical voice said. “I told him what would happen to you if he brought the police. He likes to think that he's the star of the show, but this time I'm the director. This time I give the orders.”

“And just what will happen to me?” she shot back recklessly.

“I will kill you, Miss Wainwright.” The voice was chillingly hollow as it echoed off the walls. “Just as I killed Tate. I will also put a bullet through Ian Ivers while I'm at it.
Now sit
.”

The final words were a shattering blast of sound. Desdemona cringed and put her hands over her ears. She crouched down beside Ian.

Together they waited in the pool of hot, dazzling light.

Desdemona spent the time concocting a dozen different methods of escape. There were two basic problems with each scenario. They all depended on whether or not she could leap out of the spotlight and into the shadows before the man in the lighting control booth pulled the trigger. And they all required that she leave Ian behind to face the killer alone. She could not do that.

Desdemona drew her jeaned legs up and rested her forehead on her folded arms. It was the only way to gain some relief from the intense light.

She did not know that Stark had arrived until she heard his voice from the far end of the auditorium.

“Are you all right, Desdemona?”

“Stark.” She scrambled to her feet and instinctively started toward the edge of the stage.

“Stop,” the mechanical voice boomed. “Don't move, Miss Wainwright. Not another step.”

Desdemona stumbled to a halt at the outer rim of the circle of light. She tried to see Stark, but it was impossible. “I'm okay.”

“Good.” Stark's voice was closer now. His large frame came into view. He walked down the center aisle.

“Get on the stage,” the amplified voice ordered. “Move into the light. Hurry. I don't have a lot of time.”

Stark stepped over the footlights and walked into the ring of light. His face was no longer in shadow. Desdemona smiled tremulously at him. He looked solid and reassuringly familiar in his rumpled corduroy jacket, jeans, and running shoes. He carried a briefcase-sized computer in one big hand. Desdemona suddenly felt much calmer than she had a few minutes ago.

“I'm sorry,” Desdemona said quietly. “I got an e-mail message, and I walked right into this.”

“I see.” Stark swept her with an intent, searching gaze, as if making certain that she really was all right. Then he looked down at Ian. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Ian grimaced. “I walked into the mess a few minutes ahead of her. The bastard was waiting behind a curtain. Hit me on the head. Didn't knock me out, but I was dazed for a while. He tied me up, gagged me, and dragged me out here onto the stage.”

“You two have been busy,” Stark said mildly.

“Stark.” The mechanical voice boomed once more from the lighting booth. “Did you bring ARCANE?”

Stark held up the small computer. “I loaded it onto this laptop.”