“I'm okay, Tony. Remember the personal digital assistant Stark gave me? I used it to contact him. He got me out.”
There was a short, pregnant pause. “Stark rescued you?”
“Yes. The place is a mess, but we should be ready to reopen on Monday. Tony, what's going on down there?”
“Nothing.” Tony's voice dripped with disgust. “That's why I'm calling. The soap concept is still on the shelf. There are no plans to take it into production. And no one here wants to see my face.”
“I don't understand. Why did they pay for your ticket if the project isn't going forward?”
“Damned if I know. No one down here knows anything about that, either. It's a little weird, to tell you the truth.”
“Maybe it was just a clerical glitch.”
“You mean somebody told a secretary to send a ticket to some other actor and it got sent to me by mistake?” Tony sighed. “Given my luck, that's a real possibility.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“What can I do? I'm coming home.” Tony paused. “Uh, there's just one small problem, kid.”
“What's that?”
“I don't have the cash to buy a return ticket, and my credit cards have all been sort of temporarily cancelled. Can you buy a ticket for me? I'll repay you as soon as I can.”
Desdemona groaned. “Take a bus.”
“A bus.” Tony was scandalized. “All the way to Seattle? You wouldn't do that to me, would you?”
“I've got a question for you.” Desdemona tapped the tip of her pen against the computer manual. “Did you do any work on my computer before you flew down to L.A.?”
“No. Why?”
“I'm getting a message on the screen that says there was a power failure in the middle of a work session and some files have been saved. I'm having trouble recovering them.”
“No big deal. Pay attention. I'll walk you through the process.”
A few minutes later Desdemona recovered the lost work. She gazed at it, frowning.
“What is it?” Tony asked.
“A string of gibberish. Just a bunch of keyboard characters run together.”
“Sounds like someone tried to type up something personal on your computer and got interrupted before he could figure out how to save the document properly. I'll bet it was Kyle or Jason. They love to play with computers.”
“That's true.”
“About that airline ticket…”
“All right, all right. Take the plane. But you're going to owe me free labor here at Right Touch for a year.”
“You got it.” Tony paused. “How are things going with Super Nerd?”
“Call him that once more and you'll be taking the bus home from Hollywood.”
“Message received.”
Desdemona got into the Jeep and reached for the seat belt. “I appreciate the lift, Macbeth.”
“No problem.” Macbeth worked the gears and eased the big, black, four-wheel-drive vehicle out of the alley behind Right Touch. “I'm on my way to pick up Jason and Kyle, anyway. We've got a matinee this afternoon.”
“I heard from Tony.”
“Yeah?” Macbeth glanced at her. Light danced on the mirrored lenses on his sunglasses. “Anything come of that L.A. call?”
“No.” Desdemona wrinkled her nose. “He talked me into buying him a return ticket.”
“Damn. You know something? Maybe Stark's got a point. You let Tony take advantage a little too much.”
“It's hard for me to say no to him. He's my brother.”
“And he saved your life, I know, I know. But that was a long time ago. You've grown up, but I don't think he has.”
Desdemona gazed unseeingly at the tourists who crowded the boutiques and shops along First Avenue. “I keep hoping that one of these days one of those dreams he's always chasing will finally come true.”
“Not bloody likely. He's a Wainwright, but there's no getting around the fact that he's not the best actor in the family.”
“Just as I'm not the best actress in the family.”
They drove past the Seattle Art Museum. Desdemona glumly watched as the arm of the massive metal sculpture know as Hammering Man rose and fell. The figure, which stood in front of the museum, was doomed to an eternity of labor. Hammering Man might eventually rust, but he would never to able to rest. The sculpture reminded Desdemona of Tony. Futility in motion.
“Too bad Tony's got his heart set on acting,” Macbeth mused. “He's actually fairly good with computers.”
“I know.”
“Be nice if Ian and Tony could get Dissolving off the ground.”
“Not likely. Not if they're depending upon Stark to back it. Does it occur to you that when we talk about Tony we do a lot of wishful thinking?”
“Yeah.”
Desdemona fell silent for the remainder of the drive to Stark's fortress.
When Macbeth pulled into the drive a short time later, Desdemona reached into the backseat for the picnic basket she had packed.
“Thanks again, Macbeth,” she said as she got out of the Jeep.
“Right.”
Desdemona walked up the steps. Kyle opened the front door just as she was about to knock.
“Hi, Desdemona. If you came to see Sam, he's busy. He worked on Vernon Tate's computer all night long. He only came out of his study once this morning, and that was to take a shower and change his clothes.”
Desdemona brightened. “Has he found something interesting?”
“Don't know yet. He's inside the system though, and he's searching for some hidden files.”
“Sounds hopeful.” Desdemona held up the picnic basket. “I brought him some lunch.”
“That's good. Jason and I made him breakfast, but we don't have time to make his lunch.” Kyle glanced over his shoulder. “Hurry up, Jason. Macbeth's here.”
“I'm coming.” Jason dashed around the corner. “Hi, Desdemona.” He raced past her down the steps. “Bye.”
“See ya.” Kyle followed his brother.
Desdemona waved to them as they got into the Jeep. She waited until the drive was empty before she went into the atrium foyer and closed the door.
It was easy to imagine that she was the only one in the house. A deep silence cloaked the two-story entrance hall.
Picnic basket on her arm, Desdemona went slowly up the steel staircase to the second level. There she turned and went down the corridor to the door of Stark's study. It was open.
The heavily shadowed interior was lit only by the cold glow of a computer screen.
Stark sat in front of the screen, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair. His fingers were steepled in front of him. The strong, blunt planes of his face were etched by the icy light. There was an alien remoteness about him, an eerie stillness that made Desdemona catch her breath.
He seemed so distant and so unreachable, a starship captain contemplating the vast reaches of interstellar space. A man without a home, doomed to wander the frozen reaches of the galaxy forever.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Hello.” Stark glanced at her with a vaguely distracted air, his attention clearly on whatever occupied the computer screen. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought lunch.” Desdemona smiled. “I'm your official caterer, remember?”
“Lunch? Stark looked baffled by the concept.
“You know. A meal that is traditionally eaten in the middle of the day.”
“Right. Lunch.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I forgot about it. Did Kyle and Jason leave yet?”
“A few minutes ago.” Desdemona came farther into the room. She peered at the glowing screen. “What have you found?”
“Nothing yet.” Stark put his glasses back on and followed her gaze back to the screen. “A whole lot of nothing. Too much of it, in fact.”
“I don't understand.”
“Vernon Tate knew his way around a computer. His files were locked up nice an
d tight. Very sophisticated system. I got in through a trapdoor.”
“What's that?”
“It's impossible to make any operating system completely secure. There are always a few glitches, mistakes, oversights, you name it. With a lot of luck, patience, and good knowledge of the system, a determined intruder can get past the security.”
“And you're a determined intruder?” Desdemona set the picnic basket down on the desk.
“I'm very determined. Tate has hidden some of his files. I'm going to find them.”
The ironclad determination in his voice made Desdemona look at him. Stark's eyes glittered like emerald crystals in the chilled glow of the screen. He was one hundred percent on, she realized. Wholly focused.
The only other occasions on which she had observed this level of riveted awareness in him were when he made love to her.
“If the files are hidden, how did you discover that they even exist?” Desdemona asked.
“I instructed the computer to show me how much space has been filled up on the hard disk. The number it gave me doesn't match the figure I get when I add up all of the bytes used by the displayed files. Tate hid something. I've got ARCANE looking for it.”
“Can you eat lunch while you wait to see what ARCANE discovers?”
“Sure.” But he did not look at the picnic basket. His attention was back on the screen.
Desdemona busied herself laying out the pita bread sandwiches she had made. She arranged one on a plate together with a cherry tomato and some celery stuffed with feta cheese.
She put the plate down on Stark's side of the desk. He picked up the sandwich without even glancing at it and bit into it.
Desdemona propped one hip on the corner of the desk and nibbled at the second sandwich.
“Tony called,” she said after a bit.
Stark yanked his gaze away from the screen and pinned her with it. “When?”
“Earlier this morning.” Desdemona did not like the predatory light in Stark's eyes. “He said the soap is off. He got the brush-off from the Hollywood crowd. He said no one down in L.A. can recall sending for him. He's on his way home.”
“He claims he doesn't know who paid for his ticket?”
“Uh-huh.” Desdemona finished her sandwich and brushed pita bread crumbs from her fingers. “Weird, isn't it?”
“Yes,” Stark said softly. “Very.”
“Want a chocolate-chip cookie?” Desdemona picked one up out of the picnic basket.
“Thanks.” Stark took it from her fingers and downed it in two bites.
Desdemona got off the desk. “I'll clean up, and then I'll make some coffee.”
“All right.” Stark turned back to the computer.
Desdemona repacked the picnic basket, set it in the corner, and then went downstairs to make the coffee.
When she returned a few minutes later, Stark was on his feet behind his desk. His back was to the door of the study. He was stretching.
Desdemona came to a halt in the doorway, a mug of coffee in each hand. She watched, entranced, as Stark raised his arms over his head. He moved with the fluid power of a waterfall. His big hands clenched into large fists. His back and shoulder muscles shifted smoothly beneath his wrinkled white shirt. The motion jerked the tail of the garment free of the waistband of his trousers.
“I've got the coffee,” she whispered.
Stark lowered his arms and slowly turned around to face her. His eyes locked with hers. He was still completely focused, but the direction of the focus had suddenly and without warning switched from the computer to her.
Desdemona stopped breathing. Ripples moved across the surface of the coffee. They were caused by her racing pulse. She knew that if she did not set the mugs down quickly she would spill the contents.
She managed to move her feet, but it took an effort. She walked across the room and carefully set down the mugs. “How's it going?”
“Nothing yet.” Stark walked slowly around from behind the desk. He came to a halt in front of her. He took off his glasses and set them down on the desk. “I need a break.”
“Stark?”
His hands closed over her shoulders. He pulled her against him. “What about you?”
Desdemona wrapped her arms around his neck. She smiled. “I guess I could use one, too.”
“I'm glad to hear that.” Stark covered her mouth with his own.
Desdemona was instantly enveloped by the storm. It rolled and crashed, sending shudders through her.
She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to the impact of Stark's lovemaking. She knew that even if she were to become used to it, she would never, ever grow tired of it.
She felt his hands slide down her back, kneading her spine, pressing her closer. Stark groaned and wrenched his mouth from hers with obvious reluctance. And then he was kissing her throat, unfastening her blouse, undoing the front of her jeans.
He went down on one knee in front of her and tugged the denim down to her ankles and off her feet. Her panties went with the jeans.
The shadowy room whirled as Stark rose and lifted Desdemona. He settled her on the desk. The glass was cold beneath her bottom. Stark gripped her knees and eased her legs apart. She speared her fingers through his hair as he stepped between her thighs.
The urgent rasp of his zipper was very loud in the silence. Desdemona closed her eyes and reached down to cradle him in her fingers as he readied himself.
He touched her intimately.
Desdemona felt herself swell and soften.
He sucked in his breath when she tightened her hand around him.
“Wrap your legs around my waist,” Stark said into her hair.
Desdemona obeyed. The position opened her further to his touch. He stroked her gently, slid a finger inside her and probed deeply.
Desdemona cried out.
He fitted himself to her. “I need this.” His voice was jagged and torn, as though the words had been ripped from his soul. “I need you.”
It was as close as he had ever come to telling her that he loved her. Perhaps it was as close as he would ever be able to come, Desdemona thought. From a man like Stark, the words were enough. They were real.
“I love you, Stark,” Desdemona said against his shoulder. “I love you.”
Stark flinched as though he had been shot. He surged suddenly, uncontrollably, into her. His body convulsed. His hoarse shout could have been a cry of either anguish or triumph. It was impossible to tell.
Desdemona clung to his granite-hard shoulders. She did not know if he had even heard her soft confession of love. There was no time to wonder about it. She was already lost somewhere in a whirling vortex of sensation. Her only guide was the man who had taken her to the edge of chaos.
Stark returned to his senses slowly. He deliberately tried to make the process last as long as possible. The joyous pleasure of being inside Desdemona, of feeling as though he were a part of her, was too good to rush.
Her words rang in his mind. I love you.
Stark opened his eyes. His gaze rested on the glowing screen behind her. It took him a second to realize that a message had appeared.
He grabbed his glasses and shoved them onto his nose.
NAME OF HIDDEN FILE: Insurance.text
A second wave of satisfaction crashed through him. It was almost as intoxicating as the first.
ARCANE had worked.
Some days were definitely better than others.
“Gotcha,” Stark said.
16
But what does it mean?” Desdemona demanded.
She was leaning so far over his shoulder that Stark was amazed that she did not fall into his lap. Not that he would mind if she did. His body still hummed with the aftereffects of passion.
He felt so good, so right. The way he did when he sensed himself on the verge of comprehending a vast, complex pattern. It was the kind of moment that pushed back the borders of chaos.
Desdemona had pulled on her jeans and rebutt
oned her shirt, but she still smelled warm and moist and sexy. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls, and her mouth was still swollen from his kisses. The invisible bonds that bound them together when they made love still linked him to her.
Stark forced himself to concentrate on the screen. “Insurance.txt is the name of the hidden file. Look at the number of bytes in it. That's exactly the number that aren't accounted for when you add up the bytes used by the other files.”
“Maybe it's just a private file he used to store insurance records,” Desdemona said.
“Maybe. But I doubt we'll find the usual sort of insurance records. You saw his landlady and the place where he lived. I don't think that Tate was the kind of guy who bought a lot of insurance.”
“So why name the hidden file Insurance.txt?”
“Let's find out.” Stark gave the command to view the file.
The screen went dark for a few seconds, and then a short memo preceded by an e-mail address appeared. Stark saw that the address was that of an anonymous mail server. The message was short.
Order filled. Second half of payment must be received within five days of this date. Delivery of product will follow.
Desdemona scowled. “That string of characters at the top of the message is an e-mail address, isn't it?”
“It's an e-mail address, all right. To an anonymous server.”
“What's an anonymous server?”
“It's an automatic computer mail service which receives and forwards mail to and from people who want their identities kept secret.”
“From each other?” She glanced at his face in astonishment. “But why would Vernon want to send a message to someone he didn't know?”
“There are all kinds of reasons why people want to remain anonymous,” Stark said quietly. “Let's see what else is in this file.”
He hit a key, and another message appeared. It, too, was preceded by an e-mail address identified only as anonymous.
Price for chips is one thousand. Delivery by first of month.
The next message was one that Tate had received rather than sent.
Understand you can supply software for new hotwire program. Request info on price.