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  “Who's Ian?” Stark asked, mildly curious.

  “Ian Ivers owns the Limelight,” Desdemona explained. “Actually, he is the Limelight. Producer, manager, artistic director, you name it, he does it all.”

  “The Limelight is his baby,” Henry said. “Ian's mission in life is to become known as the man on the cutting edge of Seattle's contemporary theater scene.”

  “Why?” Stark asked.

  Every Wainwright at the table looked at him as if he weren't very bright. It was a novel experience for Stark. He was not accustomed to that expression on the faces of those around him.

  Desdemona took pity on him. “So that he can go to New York and become really important, of course.”

  “I see,” Stark said politely.

  Desdemona bestowed a benign smile on him and then promptly turned back to the task of consoling Juliet. “Forget those people from the 'burbs. Your performance was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Wasn't it brilliant, Stark?”

  Stark, never at his best in social situations, realized that he was expected to say something intelligent about Juliet's role in a play that had, to him, been more indecipherable than scrambled computer code. He groped for words.

  “You were the most unusual flyswatter I've ever seen,” he finally managed.

  Juliet raised her head and looked at him with dawning hope in her golden eyes. “Do you really think so?”

  “No question,” Stark said.

  Desdemona gave him an approving glance. “Especially at the end when she finally swatted the fly on the wall. Wasn't that a terrific scene?”

  Stark cautiously edged his espresso cup out of the way of Juliet's billowing hair. “I could almost feel the sense of utter flatness that the fly must have experienced at the moment of impact.”

  Desdemona's look of approval changed to something resembling suspicion. Stark raised his shoulder a quarter of an inch. He was doing his best, but he could not deny that he was out of his league.

  What surprised him was not that he hadn't understood a word of the crazy play, let alone the significance of the flyswatter, but that he had actually enjoyed himself, albeit in a perverse fashion.

  It was because of Desdemona, and he knew it.

  He was still not certain why he had allowed her to drag him back to the Right Touch Catering kitchens for dinner with her flamboyant staff, most of whom appeared to be unemployed actors. He was even more at a loss to explain why he had accompanied Desdemona and some of her relatives to the weird performance in a theater so small he could have fit the entire production, stage and audience, into his office.

  On the other hand, it wasn't as though he'd had a lot of options this evening. If he were not sitting here in Emote Espresso in Pioneer Square with assorted members of the Wainwright clan, he would be sitting alone at home with a bottle of overpriced champagne, some goat cheese, and a too terse note from his bride. Which was exactly how he had spent his previous wedding night two years ago.

  Stark was accustomed to being alone when things went wrong. For that matter, he was accustomed to being alone when things went right.

  He had developed the habit of enduring defeat or celebrating triumph by himself long ago. It had become a way of life.

  In that moment when he'd known with icy certainty that Pamela wasn't going to show, all he'd wanted was to be alone again. His immediate goal had been to get rid of the two hundred wedding guests, the catering staff, and all the trappings of the debacle as swiftly as possible.

  Virtually everyone, including Dane McCallum, his friend, best man, and vice president of Stark Security Systems, had taken the hint and departed. The exception had been the caterer, one Desdemona Wainwright. Stark had been forced to pay attention to her for the first time when she had charged into the house, hard on his heels, waving her bill.

  He had finally gotten a good look at her in his study. She had been dressed in a rakish little tuxedo not unlike his own, except that on her the style was a lot more interesting. Stark had been vaguely surprised to discover that even in the midst of his foul mood, he was capable of appreciating the sight.

  Desdemona was not very tall, and her breasts were definitely on the discreetly pert side, but she was nicely rounded lower down. As far as Stark was concerned, that was where roundness mattered in a woman.

  Her determination to get a check out of him had started him initially. He had assumed that Pamela had taken care of the caterer's bill along with all of the other wedding details. Pamela was well aware that he knew nothing about handling such matters and that he had no interest in learning. He had little patience with the social side of business or life.

  Unfortunately, his rapidly growing financial success had catapulted him into a whole new realm where social demands were inextricably entangled with business demands. He had concluded that he needed a wife, and he had set out to find one.

  Stark had learned the hard way that he did best with cool, unemotional, undemanding women such as Pamela Bedford. Of course, judging by the day's events, that wasn't saying much. His best had obviously been a disaster.

  Tall, willowy, golden-haired, and blue-eyed, Pamela defined the phrase “cool blonde.” She had been endowed with the sort of aloof composure that was bred into the women of families whose money was old enough to have mold on it. She personified Stark's notion of a cultured, refined female.

  She was just what he had been looking for in a wife, he had told himself three minutes after meeting her. With her background and family connections she was the perfect woman to deal efficiently with the increasing social obligations confronting him. She would know how to entertain his high-powered clients. She could handle the local politicos and the society ladies who were forever trying to get money out of him.

  Making casual conversation at a cocktail party or a charity event was Stark's idea of a nightmare. Pamela, on the other hand, had grown up in a world where such skills were taught from birth. She knew the right thing to do and when to do it. Stark had looked forward to turning over to her all of the annoying details of his life outside of work.

  Pamela had seemed so wonderfully predictable.

  Abandoning her groom at the altar this afternoon was probably the first time in her life that she had ever done anything that would have offended Miss Manners or Emily Post.

  Stark suspected that Desdemona Wainwright was, on the other hand, a perfect example of chaotic dynamics in action. Expressions flickered across her features with the speed and volatility of weather fronts moving across the Seattle skyline. Not a good sign. He had made it a lifelong practice to avoid volatile women. He knew that he was no good with the emotional type, and they found him equally frustrating.

  The only sensible thing to do was steer clear of Desdemona, Stark told himself. He was intuitionally impaired, and he knew it. Sure, he could second-guess computer thieves with uncanny ease, but he had no talent at all for understanding the dynamics of interpersonal relationships. As far as he was concerned, human relationships, not the new frontiers of math and physics, deserved the popular label of chaos theory.

  Desdemona's catering firm was housed in an old, remodeled brick warehouse in Pioneer Square. There, seated at a table with the Right Touch staff, Stark had eaten a surprising quantity of the tortellini and asparagus tarts that had cost him so dearly.

  In the process he had discovered that Desdemona's entire family, for three generations, had been theater people.

  He'd always thought of theater people as high-strung, financially unstable, and temperamental. Nothing he had observed thus far this evening had altered his opinion.

  But for some reason that didn't seem to matter tonight. He supposed he needed something to take his mind off his problems, and Desdemona and her relations had done a fair job.

  He was even willing to concede that the production of Fly on a Wall, an ambiguous, obscure, totally incomprehensible bit of modern theater, had had its moments.

  “The utter flatness of the fly.” Henry nodded thoughtfully
. “You know, that's a hell of an insight, Stark. I hadn't considered that element of Juliet's role. She really projected it, didn't she?”

  Stark knew himself to be on dangerous ground. He hedged. “I was impressed by it.”

  Kirsten's eyes widened. “Absolutely. The flatness. It was perfect, Juliet.”

  “Do you really think so?” Juliet asked eagerly.

  “Definitely,” Desdemona said enthusiastically. She started to say something else but broke off as a shadow fell across the table. She looked up. “Oh, hi, Ian. Great show.”

  “Mona,” the new arrival exclaimed. “Good to see you. Who's your friend?”

  “This is Sam Stark. Everyone calls him Stark. Stark, this is Ian Ivers.”

  “Hello,” Stark said.

  Ian did a stagy double take. “Not the Sam Stark of Stark Security Systems.”

  Stark did not consider that the question warranted a response, so he took another swallow of espresso instead.

  Henry stepped in to cover the awkward moment. “One and the same.”

  “How about that.” Ian grinned and stuck out a hand toward Stark. “Glad to meet you. Didn't realize you were into theater.”

  “I'm not,” Stark said. He had a feeling he was not going to like Ian Ivers.

  Ian was in his mid-thirties. He was short, and as Stark discovered when he reluctantly shook hands, his palms were unpleasantly moist. Both his jawline and his waistline had already gone soft. Perhaps they had never been firm. He wore his shoulder-length hair, which was thinning on top, in a ponytail. There was a gold ring in one of his ears. His stylish, wide-legged, heavily pleated olive green trousers flowed over his shoes. His iridescent black and green shirt sparkled in the neon light.

  “Couldn't help overhearing your comment, Stark,” Ian said with an expression of deep admiration. “Henry's right. Great insight on Juliet's performance. Real flatness there. And don't overlook the cathartic sense of sexual release that occurred at the moment of impact.”

  Stark surreptitiously wiped his hand on a small napkin. “I'm not sure I picked up on that.”

  “It was very subtle,” Ian assured him. “Listen, I gotta run. Got some money people waiting for me. Promised 'em I'd talk to 'em right after tonight's performance. But I'd really like to get together with you soon, Stark. Contemporary theater needs guys like you.”

  Stark stared at him. “I doubt it.”

  “Hey, I'm serious here,” Ian said. “Not every man in your position appreciates the importance of fringe theater. I'll get back to you.” He winked at Desdemona. “See you, Mona.”

  He lifted a hand in farewell and hurried off to a booth in the corner.

  Desdemona wrinkled her nose at Juliet and leaned forward. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Honestly, I can't believe you and Aunt Bess want me to go out with him. You know I never go out with men who call me Mona.”

  “Give him a chance,” Juliet insisted in a low voice. “He's really a nice guy, and the two of you have a lot in common.”

  “Forget it.” Desdemona rolled her eyes and gave Stark a wry look. “Juliet and my aunt are incurable matchmakers.”

  “I see,” Stark said. He made a mental note never to call her Mona. “You have to admit that Desdemona is a rather unusual name in this day and age.”

  “I chose it myself when I was five years old,” Desdemona said proudly.

  Stark nodded. “So, what's your real name?”

  “Desdemona is my real name.”

  “I mean what were you called before you were called Desdemona?”

  “Susan or something,” Desdemona said carelessly. “I don't remember for certain.”

  Stark stared at her, amazed. No one at the table seemed interested in the topic. He reminded himself that actors frequently changed their names. Further evidence of their erratic natures, he supposed.

  Juliet sighed glumly. “I wasn't trying for a cathartic sense of sexual release, you know.”

  Desdemona's eyes gleamed. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Juliet said.

  “I guess that explains why I didn't get it,” Stark said.

  “Maybe I should have gone for it,” Juliet said. “Might have kept the Eastsiders interested.”

  “Don't worry,” Henry said in a consoling tone. “It'll take at least a week to close the show.”

  “And you've always got your day job,” Desdemona said cheerfully.

  Henry laughed. “That's right.” He put a comradely arm around Desdemona. “Thank God for the one member of the family who has achieved financial stability.”

  Juliet slumped gracefully against the back of the booth. “Sometimes I think I'm fated to stuff mushroom caps for the rest of my life.”

  “You can thank Stark for the fact that there are still mushrooms to be stuffed.” Desdemona's eyes met his over the top of her cup. “Right Touch is going to make it through another tax quarter because he was chivalrous enough to pay the tab for his canceled reception this afternoon.”

  For some reason, Stark was embarrassed. “Forget it.”

  “Abandoned at the altar.” Juliet was momentarily distracted from her own trials. “Incredible. I've never actually met anyone who was left standing at the altar. Sorry I had to miss it. I had rehearsal.”

  “I wish I'd missed it, myself,” Stark muttered.

  “Kirsten and I were handling the champagne,” Henry told Juliet. “We saw the whole thing. A very heavy scene. Audience of two hundred.”

  “No kidding?” Juliet's eyes widened as she gazed at Stark. “Two hundred people saw you get dumped?”

  “A full house,” Stark admitted.

  Henry hunched over his espresso cup and peered intently at him. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Depends,” Stark said.

  “What was it like when you realized she'd ditched you? I mean, what was the first thing that went through your head?”

  “The same thing that probably went through the fly's head a second before the swatter got him in Fly on a Wall,” Stark said.

  Kirsten grinned. “You mean you experienced a sense of being on the verge of a cathartic sexual release?”

  “Not exactly.” Stark glanced at Desdemona. “As I recall, it was more along the lines of ‘What am I doing here when I could be having a nice day at the office.’”

  Desdemona's soft mouth curved with wry sympathy. “That thought was no doubt soon followed by the realization that he was going to be stuck paying for a wedding even though he hadn't gotten married.”

  “The fiancée flamed out and left you with the whole tab, huh?” Henry shook his head. “Bummer.”

  “That's one way of putting it,” Stark agreed.

  “We're all very glad you paid the bill, though,” Juliet said. “Desdemona had to buy a lot of the supplies on credit for that gig. If you hadn't come through with the cash, she'd have been left high and dry.”

  “Which would have been bad news for us Wainwrights,” Henry added. “We depend on her to keep us employed when we're ‘resting between engagements,’ as my father likes to say.”

  “Desdemona's the first member of the family in three generations to have a steady job,” Juliet said. “To tell you the truth, the older generation of Wainwrights finds it a little embarrassing.”

  Desdemona hoisted her cup in a mock salute. “A blot on the Wainwright family escutcheon.”

  “But a useful blot,” Kirsten said. She looked at Stark. “Actually, I'm hoping to follow in her footsteps.”

  “You're going to get a steady job?” Stark asked.

  “I'm going to start a small business, just like Desdemona did.”

  Stark sipped his espresso. “Catering?”

  “Not exactly.” Kirsten's eyes lit with the excitement of the incipient entrepreneur. “I'm going to open an upscale, very classy boutique right here in Pioneer Square.”

  Stark eyed the long, purple, tunic-length sweater that she wore over a pair of tight purple pants. “Let me guess. Designer clothi
ng?”

  “No way,” Kirsten assured him. “There's a zillion clothing boutiques here in Seattle. I'm going to open a very special kind of shop. A place that will cater to women's sexual fantasies and consumer needs.”

  Stark wondered if he'd missed a conversational cue somewhere along the line. It happened all the time. “Sexual fantasies.”

  “You know, attractively colored condoms, for example. Women buy a lot of the condoms sold in this country, did you know that?”

  “Uh, no. No, I didn't,” Stark admitted.

  “Some pretty lingerie. Maybe some light leather, vibrators, instructional videos, erotica written by women, for women, that kind of thing.”

  “I see,” Stark said.

  “But all sold in a tasteful atmosphere.” Henry gave his wife a proud smile.

  “Tasteful,” Stark repeated cautiously.

  “I'm going to call it Exotica Erotica,” Kirsten said. “It will be a place owned and operated by a woman, catering specifically to female shoppers. Of course, men who are interested in buying sensual toys and such to give as gifts to the women in their lives will be welcome.”

  Stark looked at her. “Is that a fact?”

  “Exotica Erotica will be the kind of place where professional women and suburbanites will feel comfortable.”

  “Even Eastsiders?” Stark asked.

  “Especially Eastsiders,” Kirsten said. “I envision a place that will remind them of their favorite mall stores. Very upscale, like I said.”

  “Not tacky,” Juliet added in case Stark had not grasped the concept.

  “Definitely not tacky,” Henry agreed.

  Kirsten leaned forward, her eyes filled with the zeal of a crusader. “Do you realize that in this culture there are virtually no decent, pleasant places where a woman can shop for products that are geared toward her sensual needs?”

  “Uh, I hadn't given the matter a lot of thought,” Stark admitted.

  “Who knows?” Henry said. “If the concept works, maybe Kirsten can franchise it.”

  Stark looked at Kirsten. “When do you plan to open your store?”