Trust Me

natural empathy to weaken her resolve. She could not afford to be swayed by sympathy. There was too much cash at stake. She had gone way out on a financial limb to handle the Stark-Bedford reception.
    She struggled to find a diplomatic response to Stark’s question.
    “I couldn’t say whether or not Miss Bedford was concerned about a prenuptial agreement,” Desdemona said gently. She leaned forward until she was sitting on the very edge of her chair.
    She kept an eye on Stark’s incredibly broad shoulders, making certain that he did not turn around as she reached across his glass and steel desk.
    Quickly she edged Pamela Bedford’s apologetic note aside. Then she carefully positioned the catering invoice so that Stark would be sure to see it when he came back to his chair.
    “I just wondered,” Stark said, his attention still on the swans. “I’ve always made it a practice to conduct a detailed failure analysis when things have gone wrong.”
    “Failure analysis?”
    “It’s standard procedure after a disaster.”
    “Oh. I see.” Desdemona cleared her throat. “Well, it’s not really any of my business, Mr. Stark. I’m just the caterer. Now, then, I believe my invoice is completely self-explanatory. If you’d care to look it over?”
    “I made it clear right from the start that there would be one.” Stark braced one big hand on the windowsill and continued to study the swans down below.
    “A failure analysis?”
    “A prenuptial agreement. Do you think she thought I’d change my mind at the last minute?”
    “I have no idea, Mr. Stark.” After a couple of seconds of further consideration, Desdemona reached across the desk again and flipped Pamela’s short note facedown. “Unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to freeze the tortellini salad. And I don’t have another menu featuring asparagus tarts scheduled for this week. I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you for everything that Miss Bedford ordered.”
    “Damn it, what the hell was so unreasonable about asking her to sign a prenuptial agreement? What did she expect me to do? Did she actually think I’d trust her to stick around for the next fifty years?”
    The bleak outrage in Stark’s voice made Desdemona turn to stare, astonished, at his broad back. She realized he was genuinely baffled by his ex-fiancée’s behavior. Amazing. The man was reputed to be brilliant. She had overheard one of the wedding guests refer to him as a human computer. But apparently he was quite dense when it came to the important things in life.
    Even Desdemona, whose only association with Pamela Bedford had been the series of consultations regarding the reception arrangements, knew very well how Stark’s fiancee had reacted to the notion of a prenuptial agreement. Last month Pamela had broken down and sobbed in Desdemona’s office. They had been in the middle of choosing between the asparagus tarts and miniature mushroom quiches.
    “A prenuptial agreement,” Pamela had wailed into a tissue. “Can you believe it? He doesn’t love me, I know he doesn’t. Isn’t that an awful thing for a bride to discover four weeks before the wedding? What on earth am I going to do?”
    “Uh, the asparagus tarts are very popular – “
    “No, don’t answer that. It’s not your problem, is it? I’m sorry to burden you with this, Desdemona. It’s just that I’ve got to talk to someone, and I don’t want to worry my parents. They’re so happy about this wedding.”
    “Are you thinking of calling it off?” Desdemona had asked anxiously. “If so, please let me know now. I’ll be ordering ingredients and supplies and hiring extra help soon.”
    “Of course I’m not going to call it off.” Pamela had blown her nose one last time and then wadded up the tissue. She had straightened her shoulders and given Desdemona a brave look. Joan of Arc on her way to the stake. “I’ll have to go through with the thing, of course. One doesn’t cancel an affair of this magnitude at the last minute, does one? It isn’t done. The family would be horrified.”
    “Perhaps you should go home and think about this,” Desdemona had said. “Marriage is an awfully big step.” And it’s impossible for me to return fresh asparagus and basil to my supplier.
    Pamela had heaved a small, tragic sigh. “He’s a nerd, you know. Or maybe an android would be a more accurate description. He’s got the brain of a computer and the body of a hunk. What a waste.”
    “Miss