Trust Me (8 page)

He paid no attention. “I've been too results-oriented. It's only natural for me.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

His eyes narrowed in a considering scowl. “It's true that my specialty is finding practical applications for theories derived from the science of complexity. I'm in that field because something in me wants to find patterns. I like to produce useful results. Do you understand?”

“I think so. You want to bring order out of chaos.”

“I suppose that's one way of putting it. The point is, I tend to take the same approach in everything I do. I like to identify patterns. Establish goals. Produce results.”

She eyed him uneasily. “This is the approach you've used in your past relationships?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“Obviously it hasn't worked.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I'd like to try a different approach with you.”

“What does that mean? That I'm going to be some sort of experiment?”

He looked pleased at her perception. “In a way. With you, I'm going to try to let myself go with the flow. For the first time in my life, I'm going to go into a relationship without being overly logical about it.”

“Be still, my beating heart.”

“Hell, this is coming out all wrong. I knew I shouldn't have started talking. I'm no good at talking.”

“You noticed?”

“You've got a right to be annoyed,” Stark said. “I'm really screwing this up, aren't I?”

“Uh-huh.”

He braced one hand against the wall and regarded her with an expression of savage concentration. “Look, I've apologized. If I swear that I won't try to rush things between us again, that I'll give you plenty of space, that I won't pressure you, will you go to that party on Thursday night with me?”

Desdemona hesitated. Saying yes would probably be one of the dumbest things she had ever done in her life. On the other hand, her panties were still damp. She had never met a man who had such a lethal effect on her senses. And the siren's call of the Wainwright intuition was singing in her blood.

“All right,” Desdemona said.

Relief flared in Stark's eyes. “You mean it?”

“Yes. Provided you stick to your promise.”

“I will. And you're still my official caterer?”

“Business is business, isn't it?” Desdemona gave him a flippant smile that she hoped would hide her shaky nerves.

“Sure.” Stark's expression was one of bone-deep satisfaction. “Business is business.”

I
t had been a near thing.

He'd come close to blowing it, Stark thought the following evening. He had a rare talent for screwing up his private life.

Stark sat in his darkened study and contemplated the elegant, colorful, seemingly random pattern he had created on the computer screen.

The apparent chaos was a thing of beauty to his eyes. It flowed endlessly from one fascinating shape into another. Impelled by a hidden mathematical imperative, it evolved, changed, and reformed itself until the original pattern disintegrated into nothingness.

But Stark knew how to retrieve the original pattern, and that was the secret that was going to make ARCANE the most sophisticated encryption and decryption software in the world. At least for a while.

Given the rapid pace of software design development, no single program could hope to remain state-of-the-art forever. ARCANE would need to be constantly improved and updated. But Stark was willing to bet that it would be a long time before anyone caught up with ARCANE.

Stark Security Systems stood to make a great deal of money off the security program. The biggest customer would be the U.S. Government, which wanted it to protect several of its most sensitive computer systems and those of its high-tech research labs.

Stark intended to plow the profits from ARCANE into the development of a variety of other security systems that would, in turn, be suited for the private sector.

It was all so beautifully complicated and yet so astoundingly simple. A perfect example of the dynamics of complex structures.

Stark wished he could employ the same mathematics on Desdemona.

She was entirely different from any other woman he had ever held in his arms. Not that there had been all that many. Long periods of celibacy punctuated by a few sputtering affairs had marked his adult love life thus far. He had not enjoyed the instability of the pattern. He wanted a predictable relationship, just as he wanted predictability in his software designs.

Marriage had, therefore, been the obvious solution. Except that he hadn't been able to implement it.

It was not as though he hadn't done his best to select a suitable mate. He had applied all of his powers of logic and rational thinking to the problem of obtaining one. But somehow, something always went wrong.

Desdemona had been right when she had guessed that she would be an experiment for him. She definitely did not fit his profile of a suitable wife. But he wanted her with a sense of deep, restless urgency that was startlingly new and excruciatingly intense.

Stark promised himself that he would not go into the relationship with the notion of making it permanent. That way lay disaster. For once in his life, he would allow the whims of fortune and fate to carry him where they wished.

It was a disturbing but strangely exciting thought.

Stark gazed at the glowing screen, aware that his whole body was already stirring in anticipation of Thursday night.

It occurred to him that his rationalization of an affair with Desdemona might simply be the by-product of another extended period of celibacy. The truth was, it had been a long time since he had gotten laid.

Pamela had been too busy for sex for at least two months before the wedding date. And things hadn't been what one would call lively between them before that.

Looking back on the string of excuses he'd heard during those last weeks before the wedding, Stark glumly acknowledged that he should have had a clue that something was amiss. But, as usual, he hadn't figured out that something had gone wrong in the relationship until he had found himself standing alone at the altar.

Thursday morning Desdemona was hunched over her computer when Henry and Kirsten swept through the doorway of her office.

“Be with you in a second.” Desdemona nibbled anxiously on her lower lip as she hit the enter key to store the latest version of a luncheon menu featuring spinach and feta cheese in phyllo pastry. “Oh, damn.”

“What's wrong?” Kirsten asked.

“I think I just lost the earlier version of this menu. I wanted to save it, too, in case I change my mind.” Desdemona glared at the screen. “I wish Tony were here. He's the only one who actually understands this stupid machine.”

“Forget the computer,” Kirsten said cheerfully. “I've got a surprise for you.”

Desdemona's attention was still on the menu. She was not overly fond of computers. The only reason she had one in her office was because Tony had talked her into it. Tony was fascinated by high-tech hardware. Whenever he was around, he was forever fiddling with her software. “My birthday isn't until next week.”

“This isn't a birthday present,” Henry informed her grandly. “It's a thank-you gift.”

Desdemona glanced up from her work and saw that Kirsten held a large box in her arms.

Kirsten and Henry were both grinning from ear to ear. That was nothing new. They had been wearing similar expressions since Desdemona had agreed to cosign the loan papers for Exotica Erotica two weeks earlier.

“A gift? For me?” Distracted at last, Desdemona studied the box with interest. “That was very thoughtful of you. But you really shouldn't have. You ought to be putting all of your money into Exotica Erotica.”

“This stuff didn't cost much,” Kirsten assured her.

“Free samples, for the most part,” Henry explained as he opened the box.

“Free samples of what?” Desdemona asked.

“The products I'm going to stock in Exotica Erotica.” Kirsten reached into the box and lifted out a black leather garter belt trimmed with steel studs. “There's a matching brassiere in here somewhere. Also a darling mask and a red and black harness.”

Desdemona stared at the garter belt. “Oh, dear.”

“Two different sizes of battery-powered personal vibrators.” Henry produced the small, anatomically correct implements with a flourish. “And a selection of massage balms and oils.”

Desdemona felt herself turn very pink. “I don't know what to say.”

“I threw in some feathers, some little velvet whips, and one of these things.” Kirsten held up a device that consisted of two small balls linked by a string. A tag dangled from it. “Instructions are attached, as you can see. There's also a supply of condoms in assorted colors and some strawberry-flavored lubricant in here somewhere.”

Desdemona was speechless. She gazed helplessly at the items in the box. “Uh…”

“Don't say a word,” Kirsten said warmly. “I want you to have these things.”

Desdemona cleared her throat and finally found her voice. “Won't you need this stuff as floor samples or something?”

“Kirsten wants you to have them.” Henry fixed her with a determined expression. “And she's got the right idea. It's time you put some fun into your life, Desdemona. You live like a nun. You're practically married to Right Touch.”

“I'm perfectly content the way I am,” Desdemona said quickly. “Honestly I am.”

“Impossible,” Henry said. “You're a Wainwright. You were born for passion.”

“Passion is dangerous these days.”

He held up the box of condoms. “So you're going to be careful.”

“It takes two to tango,” Desdemona said weakly.

“Juliet and Aunt Bess have someone new for you to meet,” Kirsten said. “An actor who's working on the East-side in a dinner theater production of
Camelot
.”

Desdemona dropped her head into her hands. “Not another blind date.”

“Okay, so it's an ancient musical, and he's not exactly the lead,” Henry said, not without sympathy. “You can't have everything.”

“I know.”

“Juliet says the guy's straight, single, and employed,” Kirsten put in. “Bess knows his family. They're theater people, too. What more do you want?”

“This is getting embarrassing,” Desdemona said. “Juliet's and Bess's blind dates never work out. Furthermore, I don't need any assistance with my love life.”

Juliet came through the office door in typical Wainwright fashion, as though she were making an entrance onstage. “Once you get yourself a love life, we'll all bow out.”

“For heaven's sake,” Desdemona muttered.

Before anyone could pursue the argument, Desdemona's Aunt Bess swooped into the already crowded office. A tall, statuesque woman in her early sixties, she had flashing dark eyes and a wealth of silver hair.

Bess Wainwright had played everyone from Lady Macbeth to Guinevere in the course of her long career. She and her husband, Augustus, were officially retired, but they still found time for the occasional summer stock or dinner theater production, just as Desdemona's parents did.

There was an old Wainwright family saying:
You can take the Wainwright out of the theater, but you can't take the theater out of the Wainwright
.

“Desdemona, my dear,” Bess said firmly, “you've simply got to get over this stage fright.”

“Stage fright?” Desdemona stared at her aunt. “That's ridiculous. I don't have stage fright. I've never even been on stage except when I took acting lessons.”

“I know stage fright when I see it,” Bess said. “My dear, Augustus and I had a long talk. We concluded that your problem is that you put all your energy and Wainwright passion into Right Touch and none of it into your private life. There must be a reason for that.”

Desdemona was exasperated. “The reason is that it takes a lot of energy and passion to run a business. At least I've got something to show for it.”

“It's not normal,” Bess insisted. “Not for a Wainwright.”

“I haven't noticed anyone in the family complaining,” Desdemona retorted.

Bess sighed. “We all admit that it's useful for someone in the family to have a steady day job, especially a business that can employ other members of the family. But that doesn't make it normal.”

“For heaven's sake, Aunt Bess…”

“You're wasting the best years of your life on a business, for God's sake,” Bess declared in ringing tones.

Juliet lounged on a corner of the desk. “Either you're just being too picky, or Aunt Bess is right when she says you have stage fright. You've got to come out of the wings and go out in front of the lights, Desdemona. You're a Wainwright.”

Desdemona had had enough. She shot to her feet and confronted her well-intentioned relatives. “It may interest all of you to know that I have a date tonight.”

Everyone stared at her in astonishment.

Juliet recovered first. “With who?”

Desdemona blushed. “Sam Stark.”

Henry's mouth fell open. “Stark of Stark Security Systems?”

“Yes.”

“The nerd?” Juliet's eyes widened in horror.

Desdemona rounded on her instantly. “I said there was to be no nerd-bashing around here.”

“I beg your pardon,” Juliet muttered. “Let me rephrase that. Are we talking about the Super Client?”

“We're talking about Stark.” Desdemona snapped. “Just plain Sam Stark.”

Henry groaned. “Stark, the human computer.”

Desdemona turned on him. “He is not a computer.”

Henry held up a hand. “Sorry.”

“I'm sure he's a very nice man, dear,” Bess said soothingly, “and a valued client. But you're a Wainwright. Wainwrights don't get involved with people who aren't in the theater. It isn't natural.”

“I don't believe this,” Juliet said. “What can you possibly see in him?”

Desdemona lifted her chin. “He's honest. He's sincere. He's trustworthy.”

“How do you know that?” Bess shot back.

“Wainwright intuition,” Desdemona said proudly.

There wasn't much anyone could say in response.

“Honest, sincere, and trustworthy.” Henry made a face. “He sounds like a St. Bernard.”

“He sounds dull,” Juliet said. “But I suppose you've got to start somewhere. Just be careful, okay? Don't get too involved, because there can't possibly be any future for you with him.”

“That's right,” Bess said quickly. “He's not your type, dear.”

Kirsten nudged the box full of samples. “Take this stuff home and keep it handy. Who knows? Maybe after you experiment a bit with the android, you'll want to move on to a real flesh-and-blood male.”

*  *  *

Shortly before midnight, Desdemona sat in the front seat of Stark's car and watched as the locked gate of her apartment building rose. She was experiencing the same sense of anticipation that she always did when she watched the curtain go up on a new play.

But for the first time in her life she felt as though she were actually on stage, a real character in the drama, an
actor
, not part of the audience. This was the way a Wainwright was meant to feel, she decided.

A chill of exciting dread shot through her. Stage fright? she wondered.

She hoped that she had not made a mistake by inviting Stark in for coffee.

“You can park over there.” Desdemona indicated an empty parking stall marked
visitor
.