“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?”
It dawned on him that she was asking about his past relationships. The not-so-subtle inquiry caught him off guard because he was not accustomed to discussions of this sort.
“Let me get this straight,” Stark said cautiously. “You want to know if I had an affair with a research physicist or one of the engineers?”
Desdemona made an odd little gasping sound.
“What's wrong?” Stark demanded.
“Nothing,” Desdemona got out in a choked voice. She grabbed a napkin and hurriedly covered her mouth. “Nothing at all.” She shook her head wildly. Her eyes watered.
“Are you laughing at me?” He reached across the table to slap her lightly between the shoulders.
“Sorry.” Desdemona flinched beneath the blow, and then she steadied herself. “It just struck me as funny.”
“My past love life? It never seemed very amusing to me.”
“Not your love life. Your response to my question. Do you always take personal questions so literally?”
“Literal is the only way I know how to be,” he warned her.
“I suppose it comes with the territory, doesn't it?” She composed herself, but her eyes still danced. “I've heard that you scientific t
ypes are very literal-minded.”
“Most of us are, I guess.”
“I assume it's a product of all the emphasis on critical and analytical thinking that you get in the course of your education.”
Stark considered the matter for a few seconds. “No, it comes naturally. People who think in literal ways gravitate toward engineering and the sciences because those disciplines suit the way they think.”
“A sort of chicken-and-egg scenario?” Desdemona chuckled. “Maybe we Wainwrights tend toward the theater arts because we think in arty ways.”
“You seem to be something of an exception in your family. The only one with a head for business, your cousin Henry said. The only one who can't act.”
“Don't be fooled. I'm not a good actress, but I'm a first-class Wainwright.” She grew thoughtful. “We really are different, you and I, Stark.”
“I know.”
“That should probably worry you.”
“Yes.” He got to his feet. “But for some reason it doesn't. Good night, Desdemona.”
She studied him with a mysterious, unreadable gaze. “You're going?”
“It's late.” He walked around the glass brick counter and came to a halt in front of her. Without a word he bent his head and brushed his mouth lightly across hers. “Be sure to throw the dead bolt on your door after I leave.”
“I will.”
“I'll call you tomorrow.”
“All right.” She hesitated. “I enjoyed this evening, even if it was just business.”
“It wasn't just business.”
Her eyes glowed. “I'm glad.”
“My secretary tells me I'm on the hook for a charity ball next week. Apparently Pamela committed me and a couple of thousand dollars of my money to some kind of fund-raiser for the arts. I was going to skip it, but Maud and McCallum inform me that I ought to go. Want to come with me?”
She smiled. “So that we can fish for new business together?”
“I thought it worked out tonight,” he said stiffly.
“It did,” she assured him quickly. “And I'd love to attend the charity ball with you.”
He relaxed. “Thanks. I'll get back to you on the details.”
“You do that. Sorry about the scene with Tony.”
“Forget it.” It took an enormous effort of will to turn and walk toward the door but Stark managed to do it. He had made a plan before he left the house this evening, and he intended to stick to it come hell or high water.
One thing he possessed in abundance was willpower, he reflected. He was a past master at techniques of deferred gratification. Being alone a lot taught a man that much, if nothing else.
Desdemona slipped off the stool and trailed after him to the door. She waited until he had it open before she touched his arm lightly. “Good night, Stark.”
He paused. “There was one thing I wanted to ask you before I go.”
“What's that?”
“It's about that stuff Tony found in your bedroom.”
Desdemona's cheeks turned pink. “Kirsten gave it to me. Samples from the product lines that Exotica Erotica will stock. It was a sort of thank-you gift.”
“I thought that might be it,” he said with grim resignation. “So you did cosign the loan?”
“Of course. Kirsten and Henry are family. The Wainwrights take care of each other. It's not a one-way street, you know. Kirsten and Henry were there when I needed a lot of free labor at the beginning of Right Touch.”
“Answer one more question for me,” Stark said. “Can you handle it financially if you wind up having to pay off their loan?”
Her mouth tightened. “Kirsten will make Exotica Erotica work. She's a lot like me. She's not only a wonderful set designer, she's got a head for business.”
“Sure.” He kissed her lightly again, stepped out into the hall, and closed the door.
He waited until he heard Desdemona throw the dead bolt before he went along the corridor to the elevator.
While he waited, he considered the two new factors he had learned this evening that would likely impact his relationship with Desdemona. The first was the unmistakable possessiveness and resentment that he had seen in Tony Wainwright's eyes.
The second factor was the high probability that Exotica Erotica would succumb to the terrible fatality statistics that afflicted new businesses. Every business faced such grim statistics. Stark Security had faced them and survived, but many did not. He knew that if Kirsten's shop went under, it would threaten to drag Right Touch down with it.
But he also sensed now that nothing could have dissuaded Desdemona from cosigning the loan. He recalled the fierceness in her eyes when she had told him that she was a true Wainwright. It reminded him of the old saying about the danger of being more royalist than the king. Whatever had happened when she was five years old had made her more of a Wainwright than any real flesh-and-blood Wainwright.
He wondered what it was like to feel that kind of bond with the members of one's family, to know that whatever happened, you were never completely alone in the world.
The significance of the flashing red and blue lights on the two patrol cars parked in front of his steel, concrete, and glass house took a moment to register on Stark.
Then he realized that the police must have come in response to his silent alarm system.
“Damn.” Stark pulled into the drive and switched off the engine. He contemplated the officer who walked toward him.
It was a bad ending to what had been a fairly decent evening, all things considered.
Stark opened the door and got out.
The officer came to a halt and took out a notebook. “This your house?”
“Yes. I'm Sam Stark.”
“Afraid you just had an attempted break-in.”
“The guy didn't get inside, did he?” Stark asked the question with cool confidence. The alarm system he had installed was unique. He had designed it himself.
“No. Just a couple of kids. Not pros. Tried to crack a window at the back. Never even got it open. They were still working on it when we got here.”
“I see.” His carefully engineered state-of-the-art security systems had all functioned properly. Stark took a moment's satisfaction in that knowledge. Well-thought-out design always paid off. “Kids, you said?”
“Yeah.” The officer shook his head. “Seem to get younger all the time. These boys are only ten and twelve years old. Probably after stuff to sell for quick cash. VCRs, stereos, that kind of thing. Luckily they didn't just smash the window and climb inside the house, grab the goodies, and run.”
“It would have taken them at least twenty minutes to get through the window even if they'd had a hammer,” Stark said absently. “And by then you would have been on the scene. I've got a special clear coating on all the glass. Acts like a spider's web. If someone breaks the window, the coating holds the fragments in place.”
The officer smiled. “I've got that stuff on my own windows at home.”
“We live in uncertain times.” Stark glanced at one of the patrol cars. He could see two small figures huddled together in the back seat. “What happens next?”
“A lot of paperwork, unfortunately.”
The second officer walked toward Stark. “I just had an interesting conversation with the kids. They claim they're related to the owner of the house. Said when they discovered he wasn't home they tried to let themselves in to wait for him. They swear they weren't trying to steal anything.”
“Damn,” Stark got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What did you say their names were?”
“I didn't say.” The second officer glanced at his notes. “The twelve-year-old is Kyle Stark. The ten-year-old is named Jason Stark. They say they're from Portland. Know 'em?”
An odd sense of resignation settled on Stark. “I've never met them, but I know who they are. They're my half brothers.”
The first officer cocked a brow. “Real close-knit family, huh?”
“You
noticed?” Stark said politely.
An hour later Stark went into his study while Kyle and Jason dug into the tuna sandwiches he had made for them. He hadn't known what else to do except feed them while he tried to sort out the situation.
There were three messages on his answering machine, all from Alison Stark, his father's third wife. Soon to be ex, according to Kyle and Jason. Stark had never met her.
Alison's recorded voice was laced with tension and anger.
Sam, this is Alison Stark. We've never met, but I'm your father's latest ex. Have you seen my sons, Kyle and Jason? They left a note saying they were going off to find you in Seattle. Please call.
In the next call, the urgent tone was even more pronounced.
Sam, this is Alison Stark again. Call me as soon as you get this message.
In the last message, Stark knew he was listening to a woman at the end of her rope.
Sam, it's Alison. I'm going to call your father. This is his fault. That bastard can damn well take some responsibility for once in his life. The boys have been acting out for the past six months, and their therapist says it's because of the divorce. I swear I've had all I can take. Kyle and Jason have been driving me up the wall, and now they've pulled this stupid stunt. It's too much, do you hear me? Call me, for God's sake.
Stark pressed the rewind button on the answering machine. This was the last thing he needed.
He contemplated his alternatives for a long moment. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.
A desperate-sounding Alison Stark answered midway through the first ring.
“It's about time you called me back, Hudson. I've been going out of my mind. Your sons took a bus to Seattle. Alone, for God's sake. They're only ten and twelve, in case you've forgotten, and they're all alone somewhere in Seattle. They'll never find their half brother. It's the middle of the night. They're probably on the streets right this minute, along with the drug dealers and the crazies. What are you going to do about it?”
“This is Sam Stark, Alison. Kyle and Jason are safe with me.”