Trust Me

men were concerned. She was twenty-eight years old, after all. True, her family had always been overly protective, especially her stepbrother, Tony, but her matchmaking cousin and aunt had sent her off on a number of carefully selected dates.
    Her Wainwright intuition had never so much as stirred, let alone voiced a strong opinion, in the presence of any of those handpicked males, however. And none of the men Juliet and Bess had chosen had ever made Desdemona’s insides turn to warm mush the way Stark did.
    It was unnerving. Exciting, but definitely unnerving.
    In addition to dealing with her own chaotic feelings and the powerful proddings of her Wainwright intuition, Desdemona had another problem on her hands.
    She was very conscious of the fact that it was much too early to anticipate any sort of meaningful relationship with Stark. She reminded herself again that he was a deeply sensitive man. He needed time to recover from the traumatic experience of being abandoned at the altar.
    She took a deep breath and smiled brilliantly to mask her uncertainty and the longing that lay beneath it. “All clear.” She waved a hand at the neat kitchen. “I think it went well, don’t you?”
    “Perfect.” He gazed at her mouth with a distinctly brooding expression. “Everything’s just perfect. You’re the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”
    “I’m glad you’re pleased with the services,” she said briskly. “Now, then, according to my schedule, our next event isn’t for another ten days.”
    “I’ve got a party Thursday night. Will you come with me?”
    Alarm shot through her. “Thursday night? I don’t have it on my schedule.”
    “That’s because I’m not the one giving the party,” Stark explained. “Someone else is giving it. I need a date.”
    “A date?” Desdemona repeated breathlessly, A real date. She felt a rush of heady excitement. He was asking her out on a real date. The moment of decision was upon her. Too soon. Much too soon. But she did not think she could bring herself to refuse.
    Stark’s black brows formed a solid line across the bridge of his nose. “Sort of. I’d rather not go alone, but I don’t feel like digging up a real date. I just need an escort for the evening.”
    “Oh.” Desdemona was crushed. He wanted a stand-in.
    “It’s still a little awkward,” Stark said, apparently oblivious to her reaction. “Everyone I know is aware of what happened between me and Pamela. I don’t want to spend the evening fielding questions or listening to sympathetic advice.”
    “I see.”
    “Hell, I don’t want to go out at all, if you want the truth. But McCallum and my secretary have both told me that I should attend this damn party on Thursday.”
    “Uh-huh. A business thing, probably.”
    “Yeah.” Stark ran a big hand through his hair. “If I were married, my wife would accompany me.”
    “Naturally.” Desdemona’s mouth suddenly felt very dry.
    “But I don’t have a wife.”
    “I know.”
    “What I’ve got is you. On retainer.” Stark turned away without any warning. He peeled off his jacket and slung it across one of the counter stools. “I’ll pay you the usual hourly rate, of course.”
    Desdemona gasped in shock. An instant later she was consumed with fury. “Right Touch does not provide escort services. I’m a caterer.”
    He glanced back at her over his shoulder as he loosened his tie. His eyes were unreadable. “The idea of attending the party with me doesn’t appeal?”
    “The idea of being paid for it bothers me.” She was damned if she would let him turn her into a stand-in wife.
    He smiled humorlessly. “How about doing it for free?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Come with me to the party. I won’t pay you, but I think that I can make it worth your while.”
    She glowered at him. “I don’t understand.”
    “You can use the evening to make new business contacts, just as I’m going to do. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find some clients. That’s how it works, doesn’t it? Social connections lead to business connections.” He smiled encouragingly. “We can troll for business together.”
    Desdemona forced herself to project an outward calm. She was a woman in control. She would not pick up the nearest object and hurl it across the room.
    “I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said grimly.
    “You do that.” His shoulders stiffened. He swung around and paced back across the kitchen to stand in front of her. With his un-knotted