Trust Me (9 page)

“All right.”

Silence descended as Stark eased the car into position. There had been a lot of silence on the way home from the cocktail party. They were like a couple of tongue-tied teenagers returning from a first date, Desdemona thought.

“Your car will be safe here,” she assured him.

Stark nodded once and switched off the engine. He opened his door, got out, and walked around the rear fender to open her door.

Desdemona stood and smiled tentatively. “I thought the evening went well.”

“Yes.” Stark closed the door and took her arm. He walked her to the elevator.

More silence descended. The elevator arrived. The doors opened. Desdemona got in and automatically started to do her deep-breathing exercises. Stark followed her and stood quietly as she punched the button for the fifth floor.

The doors closed. Desdemona focused intently on the bank of indicator lights.

Stark frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I have a little trouble in elevators, that's all,” Desdemona said tightly.

“Claustrophobic?”

“Yes.”

“All your life?” Stark asked.

“Since I was five. I can just manage in an elevator because I can count the floors, and I know I'll only be confined for a few minutes. I have a totally irrational fear of getting trapped in one of these things.”

Stark put an arm around her shoulders. Desdemona stiffened briefly and then found herself relaxing against him. The warmth of his body and the weight of his arm were oddly soothing.

Together they gazed at the indicator lights.

The doors opened on the fifth floor. Desdemona breathed her customary sigh of relief and fairly leaped out of the elevator.

Stark followed. “Which way?”

“To the left. Number 506.”

He held out his hand for her key. Desdemona hesitated and then surrendered it to him. She was surprised by the intimacy of the small act.

He took the key and her arm, went down the hall to number 506 and opened the door.

Desdemona stepped into her darkened apartment and groped for the light switch. Before she could find it, something moved in the darkness.

She switched on the light and shrieked at the masked apparition that materialized out of the shadows.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” the creature hissed.

Desdemona instinctively flung herself backward and came up hard against Stark's unyielding frame.

The masked figure came toward her, arms outstretched. It was clad in a steel-studded red and black leather vestlike garment, black jeans, and boots. Eyes glinted behind the leather mask. Leather-gloved hands gripped a small whip.

“What the hell?” Stark did not even flinch as Desdemona crashed into him.

He shifted her aside with a swiftness that shocked the already-stunned Desdemona. In one smooth movement, he shoved her out into the hall, then stepped into the path of the masked monstrosity.

He kicked out hard and fast, catching the creature in the ribcage.

“
Shit
.” The apparition crumpled, gasping for air. The whip bounced on the hardwood floor.

Desdemona gripped the edge of the doorway. “Stark, are you all right?”

“Yes.” Stark didn't look at her. He walked toward his victim. “Call 911.”

“For Christ's sake,” the masked man managed hoarsely, “are you crazy? Desdemona, it's me. Do something before this idiot calls the cops.”

“What on earth?” Desdemona stepped back into the hall and peered closely at the figure on the floor. “Tony, is that you?”

“Of course, it's me. Who the hell else would it be?” Tony glared up at Stark through the eyeholes of the black mask. “Call off your pit bull, here, will you?”

Stark looked at Desdemona. “You know this guy?”

“Yes, I do. That's my stepbrother. I hope you haven't hurt him.”

“May have cracked a rib,” Tony gasped.

“Oh, no.” Desdemona started toward him. She halted when she heard a couple of doors open in the hallway behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw two of her neighbors.

Miriam Eckerby, clutching the lapels of a faded housecoat, her gray hair in pink rollers, looked out through the crack in her door. She stared at Tony. “What's going on here? Want me to call the cops?”

“No, no, it's okay.” Desdemona smiled apologetically. “Someone arranged a little surprise for me. I overreacted.”

“No one ever bothers to surprise me, anymore,” Miriam muttered. “Haven't had a real surprise since my husband, Clive, died. He didn't mind a bit of leather now and again, either.” She banged her door shut.

Christopher Peters, owner of an art gallery located not far from Desdemona's shop, appeared in the doorway of 508. His robe was fashioned of embossed black silk. The rings on his fingers glinted in the hall light. “Are you all right, darling,” he demanded in his artificial British accent.

“I'm fine, really,” Desdemona said quickly. “It's my brother. I wasn't expecting him. Sorry for the disturbance.”

Desdemona slammed the door and whirled around to confront her visitor. “Tony, what on earth did you think you were doing?”

“It was just a little joke.” Tony sat up cautiously. He winced and put a leather-clad hand to his ribs.

“Why are you wearing all that stuff?” she asked.

“Found it in your bedroom.” Tony sucked in a breath and staggered to his feet. “Where did you get it, anyway? No offense, but it isn't you.”

“Long story. Oh, Tony, it's so good to see you.” She ran forward and threw her arms around him in welcome. “But you should have called. I wasn't expecting you.”

“Ouch.” Tony hugged her gingerly. “Take it easy. I'm still thinking of suing the pit bull.”

“His name is Stark.” Desdemona said. She stepped back and smiled. “Stark, this is my stepbrother, Anthony Wainwright.”

Stark said nothing. Tony ignored the introduction. Neither man offered to shake hands.

Tony removed his mask, revealing his classic Wainwright features. He pointedly turned his back on Stark and looked at Desdemona. “I just got in from L.A.”

“I thought you were busy with the production of that soap opera.” She searched his face anxiously. “Oh, Tony, did something go wrong?”

“I'll tell you all about it later.” Tony slanted Stark a speculative glance, as though sizing him up. Then he turned back to Desdemona with a familiar smile. “Mind if I bunk here for the night? I gave up my apartment when I left town, remember?”

Desdemona realized that Stark was watching her in stoic silence, waiting for her to decide which man would leave and which would stay. “Well…”

“Look, if it's a problem,” Tony said sarcastically, “I'll find another place to sleep. Wouldn't want to interrupt anything here.”

Desdemona flushed. “I'm sorry, Tony. Any chance you could go to Mom and Dad's apartment? They're still in Arizona.”

He scowled, obviously startled by her decision. “You and the pit bull got something going, is that it? I'm surprised. He doesn't look like your type.”

“Stark is a client of Right Touch,” Desdemona said quickly.

“Since when do you bring your clients home with you?” Tony asked.

Stark folded his arms across his chest and propped one shoulder against the nearest wall. He regarded Tony with a cold, unblinking gaze. “Since she realized that a woman living alone can never be too careful.”

“You think it's your job to protect her?” Tony jerked at the fastenings of the red and black studded vest. “Think again. I'm the one who saved her life when she was five years old, pal. I've been taking care of her ever since. She doesn't need a knight in shining armor. She's got me.”

“Please, Tony, don't make a scene,” Desdemona pleaded. “This is awkward enough as it is.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Tony held up the leather vest, mask, and velvet whip. “Guess your big brother is in the way tonight, huh?”

“Tony…”

“You've changed during the past few months, kid,” Tony tossed the leather gear aside in disgust. “Tell me, is the pit bull, here, the guy who introduced you to the fancy sex toys?”

“That's enough, Tony,” Desdemona said sharply.

“Which one of you uses the whip?” Tony drawled

“We like to take turns,” Stark said.

S
tark closed the door on the sullen-faced Tony. He took some satisfaction from the knowledge that the other man was temporarily out of the picture even though he suspected that the real battle had just begun. He watched as Desdemona hurried around the room, scooping up the leather accessories.

“This is so embarrassing,” she said. “I don't know what to say.”

Stark eyed the erotic gear piled high in her arms. “Say you'll get your locks changed as soon as possible.”

She gave him a quick, surprised glance. “Because of Tony? There's no need. He's family.”

“A stepbrother, you said?”

“That's right.”

“Not a blood relation, then?” Stark asked carefully.

She scowled. “Well, I guess not, if you're speaking in the strictly technical sense of the word.”

“I usually speak in the strictly technical sense.”

“Tony is my brother in every way that counts,” Desdemona said forcefully. “We grew up together.”

Stark realized he had struck a nerve. “I didn't intend to start an argument about it. I just wondered, that's all.”

Desdemona eyed him uncertainly for a moment and then appeared to relent. Her eyes softened. “My mother married his father when I was five. Tony was nine at the time. His mother had died when he was a baby.”

“He said he saved your life when you were five years old.”

Shadows swirled in Desdemona's turquoise eyes, the same dark shadows Stark had seen there a few minutes earlier when they had stood together in the close confines of the elevator.

“It's true.” Desdemona turned away quickly. “But it's another long story. I'd really rather not go into it tonight. Excuse me while I put these things away.”

Stark watched her hurry across the hardwood floor. When she disappeared behind the sliding panel of a shoji screen, he switched his attention to the rest of the loft.

The first thing he noticed was that there were no defined rooms. Raw brick walls formed the perimeter on three sides. Windows lined the entire front of the loft. Opaque shoji screens provided privacy for the bedroom area. A waist-high counter made of glass bricks marked off the kitchen. The bath was concealed behind more glass bricks and another shoji screen.

It was an open, airy, unconfined living space. A good place for a woman who did not like to spend too much time in small, close places such as elevators.

Stark walked around the corner of the low, glass brick counter and found the shiny black espresso machine. He located the dark-roasted coffee in a glass jar nearby.

Stark studied the machine for a moment. It was similar to the one he owned. He was good with high-tech gadgets.

He went to work.

“Whew. What a way to end an evening.” Desdemona gave him an apologetic smile as she emerged from behind the shoji screen. “For a Wainwright, Tony sometimes exhibits lousy timing. Here, let me make the coffee. You're supposed to be my guest.”

“I'm almost finished.” Stark pulled a lever. The espresso machine hissed and steamed like a small, electronic dragon.

“So I see.” Desdemona smiled uncertainly. “Okay, thanks.” She sat down on one of the stools on the other side of the kitchen counter.

“Your stepbrother said something about having just returned from L.A.”

“Yes. He went down there to work in a new soap. The fact that he's back after only three months means something probably went wrong. Launching a new soap opera is a very iffy project.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Hollywood is a dreadful town for a true actor,” Desdemona confided. “Definitely no place for a Wainwright. Wainwrights are theater people, not movie or television people.”

“There's a difference?” Stark asked.

“Of course.” Desdemona looked shocked. “For three generations Wainwrights have been on the legitimate stage. None of them has ever gone to Hollywood.”

“Until Tony tried it?”

“The whole family hated to see him get involved in television, but he wanted to take a shot at it.” Desdemona sighed. “And since nothing else has ever really worked for him, we all kept our fingers crossed that this time he'd find himself.”

“In Hollywood?” Stark filled one tiny espresso cup. “That doesn't seem very likely. I've always thought of Hollywood as a place where people go to get lost.”

Desdemona wrinkled her nose. “That's what Uncle Augustus said. Still, we had hopes. Tony has been growing increasingly frustrated for years. Nothing he has ever tried has succeeded. I worry about him. We all do.”

Stark set the espresso cups down on the counter. “Did you ever take up acting as a profession?”

“I tried. Lord knows I tried. Took courses in fine arts. Took acting lessons. But eventually I had to face the fact that I was the only one in the family without any talent. It was hard for me to accept. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to hold up the Wainwright family tradition.”

“But you're not exactly a true Wainwright, are you?” Stark pointed out softly.

Her eyes turned fierce. “I most certainly am a true Wainwright. I've been a true Wainwright since I was five years old.”

“Take it easy. I didn't mean to upset you. I was just trying to get the facts straight. Were you adopted?”

“Yes.” Desdemona's tone was frosty. “My name was legally changed to Wainwright.”

“You said your mother married your stepfather when you were a little kid. Did your real father die?”

“Before I was born.” Desdemona sipped espresso. “Car accident.”

“So you and your mother were alone until you were five?”

“No. Not exactly.” She looked down at the dark, rich coffee.

Stark got the distinct impression that she was sidestepping the explanation. That only made him all the more curious. “Your mother remarried twice, then?”

Desdemona hesitated. Then she shrugged. “A couple of years after my father died, she married his business partner, George Northstreet. He wasn't right in the head, but she didn't know that at first.” A drop of espresso spilled over the edge of her cup. “Not until he began to have violent outbursts. He went into therapy. The doctor said he was making progress. But then he started to hurt Mom.”

Stark went cold. “And you?”

Desdemona clutched the espresso cup so tightly that her fingertips blanched. “When he turned on me, Mom gave up on therapy. She packed me up, and we left in the middle of the night. I remember her telling me that we had to be very quiet. I was terrified.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“I was so afraid of George Northstreet, afraid that I couldn't protect my mother from him, afraid of what he might do to me. My only clear memories of that time in my life have to do with being afraid. I don't like to think about it.”

“Chaos,” Stark said quietly.

“What?”

“The sense of fear must have seemed like a kind of chaos to a small child.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Where did you and your mother go when you left Northstreet?”

“California.” The shadows retreated from Desdemona's eyes. She smiled. “Mom is a costume designer as well as an actress. She got work in a little theater down there that was doing a Shakespeare festival.”

“Is that where you met the Wainwrights?”

“Yes. They took us under their wing. Made us part of their family. Mom and Benedick Wainwright fell in love.”

“And you got a new name.”

Desdemona nodded. “I wanted a whole new name to go with my new life. I wanted to be a real Wainwright. Everyone in the family has names from characters in Shakespearean plays, so I chose Desdemona.”

“Any particular reason?” Stark asked.

“I just liked the sound of it.”

“This isn't exactly my area, but wasn't Desdemona an innocent, faithful wife whose husband, Othello, didn't trust her?” Stark asked thoughtfully. “As I recall, she came to a bad end.”

“I know.” Desdemona made a face. “I told you, I was only five at the time, and I liked the sound of it. I admit that if I had it to do all over again, I might have chosen another name. Helena, maybe, from
All's Well That Ends Well
.”

“So your mother and Northstreet eventually got divorced?”

“Mom started the paperwork, but Northstreet died before it was finished,” Desdemona said quietly.

“How did he die?”

“He shot himself in the head.” Desdemona shifted slightly, as though shaking off a dark, smothering cloak. “Look, if you don't mind, I'd like to change the subject.”

“Sure.” There was more to the story, Stark thought. But he sensed that he had pushed far enough for one evening.

He was vaguely surprised that he had probed at all. It wasn't like him to go digging into someone else's private life. He had always guarded his own privacy well and respected it in others. But for some reason he needed to know everything about Desdemona. Sooner or later, he promised himself, he would get all the answers.

Desdemona gave him a determined smile. “Enough about me. Where did you learn that neat trick you used on poor Tony? It looked like some kind of martial arts maneuver.”

“It is.”

Desdemona tilted her head to one side. “I don't think of you as the physical type.”

Stark gazed at her without comment.

She blushed. “I mean, you look physically strong, but I don't think of you as the kind of man who would study the martial arts. I see you as a brainy, scientific type. More intellectually oriented, if you know what I mean.”

“I also lift a few weights,” Stark said dryly.

Desdemona's eyes skimmed over his shoulders. Blatant feminine approval gleamed in the blue-green depths. “Now that I can believe.”

Stark felt himself grow unaccountably warm. “I don't spend all of my time in front of a computer screen,” he said gruffly.

“What, exactly, did you do before you came to Seattle? Your ex-fiancée said something about a high-tech think tank.”

Stark raised his brows. “You and Pamela discussed me?”

“Well, yes. Sort of. Only casually, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Stark said. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Never mind.” Desdemona gave him an overly bright smile. “It was nothing. Just something Miss Bedford mentioned in the course of a business discussion.”

“A business discussion,” Stark repeated in a deliberately neutral tone.

“Right.”

“About me.”

“No, not about you. About your wedding reception plans.” Desdemona waved that aside. “Tell me about the think tank.”

“It's called the Rosetta Institute.”

Desdemona's eyes widened. “I get it. Named after the Rosetta stone? The artifact that gave the first clue to deciphering the Egyptian hieroglyphics?”

“Yes, that's right. The Rosetta Institute is a small, loosely knit group of people who work in the science of complex structures.”

“You mean chaos theory? I've heard of that.”

“It's a lousy catchphrase,” Stark said, irritated. “I prefer the term ‘complexity.’ Chaos implies absolute meaninglessness. Complexity, on the other hand, exists at the edge of chaos, a frontier where there is still meaning. There are patterns in even the most complex systems. They're just hard to find and identify, that's all.”

“What did you do at this Rosetta Institute?”

“My specialty was the study and development of encryption techniques. Most of the projects I worked on were tailored for intelligence and research applications.”

“Wow. That's impressive. Were you a government agent of some kind? Did you help track down terrorists and hijackers?”

“Hell, no,” Stark muttered. “At the most, I occasionally acted as a consultant on technical matters.”

“Oh.”

Stark smiled. “Disappointed?”

“No, just curious.” Desdemona tilted her head to one side. “So why did you lift weights and learn the martial arts stuff?”

“The Institute is located in the Colorado foothills,” Stark explained patiently. “It was a long drive to Denver or Boulder or anywhere else for that matter. There wasn't a whole heck of a lot to do except work. But sometimes a person needs a break. When I did, I worked out with weights and took the classes in martial arts.”

She gave him an ingenuous look. “That's what you did for fun?”

“No,” Stark said. “For fun, I worked.”

“Right. You worked.”

“I use the physical stuff to clear my mind.”

“An antidote for stress,” Desdemona said wisely.

“You could say that.”

She gave him a mischievous look from beneath her lashes. “Were there a lot of female scientists and engineers at the Rosetta Institute?”

“Some. Not many. Why?”

“Would you say you lived a cloistered existence?”

“Cloistered?” Stark had the feeling that he was being teased, but he wasn't certain what to do about it. “I'm not tracking here.”

“Okay, I'll spell it out.” Desdemona braced her elbows on the counter and rested her chin on her folded hands. “Did you have any special female friends at the Institute?”