Trust Me (14 page)

“Don't say that,” Desdemona whispered.

“Why not? It's the truth. I apologized, Stark said forget it. I told him that I felt we had never really learned to communicate, Stark said forget it. I explained that I wished things could have been different, Stark said forget it. I tried to tell him…well, you get the picture.”

“Forget it.”

“Exactly.” The skirts of Pamela's sapphire gown rustled softly as she settled on the neighboring stool. “But at least it's over. I've been dreading this scene ever since I left that note the day of the wedding. We were bound to run into each other sooner or later.”

“Yes.”

“Tonight I realized almost immediately that I was the only one who had worked up a serious case of nerves over the encounter.” Pamela grimaced. “I do believe Stark had trouble recalling my name, let alone the fact that we were once engaged.”

“Of course he knew who you were.”

“I'm not so certain of that. I think he'd already filed me away in some remote computer archive along with the rest of the obsolete and outdated programs. He's a strange man.”

“He doesn't allow his emotions to show.”

“I used to believe that was the case. But about one month before the wedding I finally decided that the reason he didn't show his emotions was that he didn't have any.” Pamela hesitated. “I have no right to ask this, but do you mind telling me how you and he got together?”

“Business.”

Pamela's fine brow furrowed slightly. “I don't understand.”

“Business brought us together. You stuck him with the tab for the wedding reception, remember? I had to break the bad news to him that just because there was no wedding it didn't mean that the caterer didn't get paid.”

“Yes, of course.” Pamela flushed. “I'm sorry. I forgot all about the aspect of the thing.”

“Everybody forgets the caterer. You probably had a lot on your mind.”

“There's no need to be rude. I was very upset at the time. It was an extremely traumatic event for me. And then there were my parents to deal with. They were mortified, and I felt so guilty. You have no idea.”

“Yes, well, life goes on, doesn't it?” Desdemona got to her feet. “Excuse me. I'd better go find Stark. He'll be wondering where I am.”

“Probably. He said something about wanting to leave. He doesn't enjoy social affairs, you know.”

“I know.”

“I think that was one of the reasons he decided to marry me.” Pamela's dainty jaw tightened. “He wanted a permanent social secretary and hostess.”

“That's nonsense.”

“No, it's not.” Pamela reached for a tissue and sniffed delicately into it. “I can hardly complain. One of the reasons I got involved with him in the first place was because Daddy insisted that I be nice to him.”

Desdemona stilled. “I don't understand.”

Pamela burst into tears. “Daddy said that Stark is doing very well these days, but in a few years he'll be worth an absolute fortune. And Daddy's had some financial difficulties lately. The blue chips aren't what they used to be, you know and, oh, God, I shouldn't be talking about any of this.”

“No, probably not.”

“It's a private family matter.”

“Sounds like it.”

Pamela raised a stricken face. “Promise me you'll never breathe a word about this to anyone. Mother and Daddy would just die.”

“Trust me, I wouldn't dream of it.” Desdemona had no intention of ever telling Stark that he had almost been married for his potential earning power.

Perhaps he had sensed that possibility right from the start, she reflected. There had been that business with the prenuptial agreement, after all.

“It wasn't just the money,” Pamela went on quietly. “Daddy said the family needed new blood. He said it was time we restoked the gene pool with some fresh, raw talent. He said too many generations of Bedfords had married within their own social strata, and the result was a general weakening of the bloodline.”

“Your father is a believer in the Darwinian approach to marriage, I take it?”

“You could say that.” Pamela sighed. “Mother didn't agree with him, but she went along with the idea. Mother does believe in restoking the family fortunes from time to time. My point is, regardless of why we were introduced, I found Stark
interesting
.”

“Interesting.”

“In a physical sense,” Pamela clarified.

“Right. A physical sense.”

“You know what I mean.” Pamela tossed the crumpled tissue into a waste can. “The man has abysmal social skills and absolutely no tact, but there is something sort of sexy about him.”

“I think I'm getting the picture. You were physically attracted to him, so you thought you could tolerate marriage to him.”

“I was wrong. The physical attraction soon faded. He made me nervous, if you must know.”

“Nervous?”

“He was so…” Pamela groped for words. “
Intense
.” She turned red. “I won't bore you with the details.”

“Please, don't.”

“Let's just say that he was a little too primitive for my taste.” Pamela shuddered delicately. “At any rate, I finally realized that I couldn't go through with the wedding.”

“Did you love him at all?” Desdemona asked before she could stop herself. “Even a little?”

Pamela frowned. “I've asked myself that same question any number of times. I'm still not certain of the answer. How do you define love?”

“I don't think you can. It's one of those things that you only recognize when you run smack into it. I'd better be on my way.” Desdemona opened the door.

“Do you know,” Pamela said, regarding her own lovely face in the mirror, “I think my apology tonight actually bored him.”

Desdemona shot the princess in the mirror an impatient glance. “I doubt it. I think it's far more likely that he simply didn't know what to say.”

Pamela considered that with a wistful expression. “I suppose I should have expected it. Stark never had a lot to say at the best of times, unless the conversation happened to be about computers.”

“Yes, well, that is his field.”

Pamela did not appear to hear her. “I think what bothered me the most was that he never had much to say after he finished making love. Doesn't it upset you that he just gets out of bed, says good night, and leaves?”

“Forget it,” Desdemona said as she fled the rest room.

*  *  *

The short drive from the hotel to Desdemona's apartment was conducted in near silence. Stark apparently felt no obligation to make conversation, and Desdemona could not think of anything appropriate to say.

As annoyed with him as she was because of his nasty remarks concerning Tony, she still felt deep empathy for Stark. The man had to be suffering after his encounter with Pamela. No one could go through a scene like that without experiencing a lot of pain.

It was raining, a light, misty summer rain that dampened the streets and made the traffic lights shimmer. Stark drove through the city with a quiet competence that spoke volumes about his self-control.

“Are you okay?” Desdemona said as Stark eased the car into the garage.

“I'm fine.” Stark scowled at the question. “Why?”

“I just wondered,” Desdemona said.

“Do I look sick?”

“No, of course not. You look fine.” More than fine, she thought. The man really did look good in a tux.

“Then why did you ask?” Stark slid the car into a slot and switched off the engine.

“Just making conversation. How do your brothers like Macbeth?”

Stark frowned at the change of topic. Then he shrugged. “They seem fascinated by him. I think they believe he stepped straight out of a virtual reality game. A real live video hero.”

“Macbeth has that effect on kids of all ages. When he's in town he organizes plays for children who are living in shelters or institutions. They love him.”

“He's got Kyle and Jason working as volunteer stagehands for some group called the Strolling Players.”

“That's the company of actors and crew that puts on the children's plays,” Desdemona explained. “It was Macbeth's idea. He started it a couple of years ago. Everyone's a volunteer, from the lighting director to the costume designer.”

“I see.”

“We Wainwrights are all very active in the Strolling Players. Even Right Touch gets involved. I cater the children's parties that are held before the plays are staged.”

Stark nodded and made no comment. He opened the door, got out, and came around to open Desdemona's door. “I'm scheduled to see a matinee on Saturday. Something called
Monsters Under the Bed
, I believe.”

“I'll be around before the show. I'm doing pizzas for the kids in the audience.” Desdemona got out of the car. “Aunt Bess is in the play. She's one of the monsters. Uncle Augustus is running lights.”

“Let's hope I understand this play better than I did
Fly on a Wall
.” Stark took her arm and walked with her to the elevator.

When the doors slid open, Desdemona stepped inside and gazed straight ahead at the indicator panel. “Do you have time to come in for coffee?”

“Yes.” Stark glanced at his watch. “Macbeth is with the boys. I told him I'd be home around one.” He eyed her intently. Then, without a word he put his arm around her shoulders.

Some of Desdemona's claustrophobic tension ebbed away.

The doors slid open. Desdemona stepped quickly out of the elevator. She led the way down the hall to her apartment.

Stark took her key and inserted it into the lock as if he had been doing it for years. “There's something I've been meaning to ask.”

“Yes?” Desdemona flipped on the light and walked into the loft apartment. She bent over to remove her high heels.

“Do you remember when I kissed you the first time? It was after the cocktail reception you put on for my seminar clients.”

Desdemona, one shoe off, glanced up swiftly. “Of course I remember. What about it?”

Stark closed the door and turned to look at her. His eyes were brooding and intent. Very focused. “You said then that we needed time to get to know each other before we went to bed together.”

Desdemona swallowed. “Yes, I know. You need time to recover from your experience with Pamela. That sort of rejection is very hard on a sensitive person.”

“Let's leave the issue of my sensitive nature out of this. I was wondering if you could be more specific?”

“Specific?” Desdemona croaked. “About what?”

Stark glanced at the key in his hand. When he looked up, his eyes were fathomless pools of green. “About the length of time I'm supposed to wait.”

“That's a difficult question to answer.”

“Is it?”

“It's not exactly the kind of thing you can quantify.” She stepped out of her other shoe. “I mean, there's no established waiting period.”

“Just tell me how I'm supposed to know when it will be okay to ask you to go to bed with me,” Stark said quietly.

Desdemona leaned back against the brick wall, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “We'll have to feel our way as we go along, I guess. I'm sure we'll both know when the time is right.”

“I won't,” Stark said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I'm not good at feeling my way in a relationship. Especially in a situation like this where you're making all the rules.”

Desdemona opened her eyes and glared at him. “You make it sound as though I'm inventing them as we go along.”

“Aren't you?”

“Of course not. For heaven's sake, Stark, you just saw your ex-fiancée not more than an hour ago.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I'm sure you're experiencing some very strong emotions.” Desdemona straightened away from the wall and stalked toward the bank of windows on the other side of the room. “It must have been difficult for you.”

“Is that why you asked me how I felt downstairs in the garage? You thought I was shaken by the meeting with Pamela?”

“Aren't you?”

“No.” Stark followed her across the room. He came to a halt directly behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I don't give a damn about Pamela. I'm asking you for an estimate of how long I'm supposed to wait for you. It seems like a perfectly reasonable request to me.”

“You think so?”

Stark touched the nape of her neck. “I can wait as long as necessary, you know.”

Desdemona shivered. “Would you?”

“Yes. I'm a very patient man.” He kissed the curve of her shoulder. “But right now I'd trade my soul for some idea of how long you're going to keep me dangling.”

“Oh, Stark, you're impossible.” Desdemona turned abruptly in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her hot face against his broad shoulder.

“Six weeks? Three months? Next summer?” he breathed into her hair. “Please, Desdemona. Give me a time frame. Any time frame. I can work with that.”

She gave a choked laugh. “You'd wait until next summer?”