Trust Me

circumstances, nothing ever interfered with his concentration.
    Stark gazed thoughtfully at Desdemona, wondering if he had misread the warmth in her eyes. He knew he was not very good at interpreting the various subtle sexual cues that women used. Nevertheless, he could have sworn that she was as interested in him as he was in her.
    “Not to change the subject,” Dane murmured, “but have you heard from Pamela yet?”
    “Who?”

    Three hours later Desdemona saw her two assistants out Stark’s kitchen door. Henry went first with a load of glassware.
    Vernon Tate, the new ice sculptor and all-around gofer, paused on the back step. He gave Desdemona a diffident smile. Everything Vernon did was diffident and unassuming, she reflected. In temperament, he was the exact opposite of Rafael. Desdemona found him a pleasant change of pace.
    “I think that’s everything, Miss Wainwright,” Vernon said. “I double-checked the kitchen. Henry took care of the living room. Will you be needing anything else tonight?”
    “No, we’re through for the evening,” Desdemona said. “You and Henry take the van back to Right Touch and unload. I’ll follow you in my own car.”
    “Okay.” Vernon tightened his grip on the carton of plates that he was holding. “It went well, don’t you think? I mean, everyone seemed to have a good time.”
    “Everything went beautifully.” Desdemona gave him a grateful smile. “I don’t know what we would have done without you, Vernon.”
    It was the truth. Vernon had been nothing less than a godsend. He had wandered into her office early last week and shyly asked for a job. When she had glanced at his employment application she had seen the magic words ice sculptor. She had hired him on the spot.
    He had proven to be an industrious worker, eager to do whatever needed to be done. Best of all, he was not a prima donna when it came to his art. He was ready, willing, and able to sculpt to order. When Desdemona requested swans, she got swans. When she wanted dolphins, she got dolphins.
    And he never got last-minute casting calls because he was not involved in the theater.
    He was quiet, self-effacing, and a sober dresser. His features were regular, albeit rather nondescript. He appeared to be in his late thirties. Both his hairline and his chin were receding. He didn’t smile much, but neither did he frown. He walked with a slight stoop to his shoulders, as though he had once spent a lot of time hunched over a desk.
    Vernon gave a jerky nod, obviously embarrassed by her fulsome thanks. “I sure needed this job. I’m glad you took a chance on me, Miss Wainwright. I’ll see you later, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    Vernon went down one step and paused again. “By the way, I’ve got the ice carvings ready for tomorrow’s luncheon. Dolphins, just like you wanted.”
    “If they’re anything like the ones you did for the Sumner-Bench reception on Sunday, I’ll love them,” Desdemona assured him.
    “Don’t worry, I’ve been workin’ real hard on ‘em.”
    Unlike Rafael, who had created his masterpieces at Right Touch, Vernon preferred to work offsite. He had apologetically explained to Desdemona that he needed privacy in order to do his best sculpting.
    “Great. See you later, Vernon.” Desdemona raised a hand to wave to Henry, who had just started the van’s engine.
    Henry waved back as he waited for Vernon to climb into the van.
    Stark came up to stand behind Desdemona in the doorway. “No offense, but the new man doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of your staff. He’s a little too normal.”
    “I know. Makes a nice change.” Desdemona closed the kitchen door and turned around to face her client.
    Her first instinct was to step back because Stark was standing much too close. She still found him overwhelming in close quarters. There was no way to retreat, however, because the door was a solid barrier behind her.
    She looked up at him and caught her breath. Behind the lenses of his gold-framed glasses, his green eyes were lit with the heat of a banked fire.
    In that moment she knew for certain that he wanted her.
    The sensual awareness that jangled her senses whenever she was near Stark made her edgy. The sensation had grown more intense each time she saw him. She was unsure of what to do about it because the feelings were new to her. Her Wainwright intuition urged her to throw caution to the winds, but she hesitated.
    It wasn’t that she was completely lacking in experience where