Trust Me

Bedford, I don’t think we should be discussing this. Your fiance’s body doesn’t have a whole lot to do with our menu decisions.”
    “He spent several years with a think tank in Colorado called the Rosetta Institute, you know. He specialized in applications of chaos theory. Some of his work was very hush-hush.”
    “I see.” Desdemona did not know what she was supposed to say in response. Her definition of chaos was what happened at Right Touch when a member of her staff, many of whom were involved in the theater world, was unexpectedly called to an audition just before an important catering event.
    “He has absolutely no sense of style. He wears running shoes, jeans, and an old corduroy jacket to work every day.” Pamela blotted her eyes. “And little round nerdy glasses and, oh, God, a plastic pocket protector full of pens and pencils. It’s so embarrassing.”
    “I guess it works for him.”
    “I’ve been doing my best to upgrade him, but it’s very difficult. You have no idea of how hard it was for me to get him to buy a tux for the wedding. He wanted to rent one, can you believe it?”
    “The mushroom quiches are nice, too, of course, but – “
    “He’s utterly bored by social events.” Pamela gave Desdemona a mournful look. “He detests cocktail parties and charity affairs. He never goes to the opera or the theater. He even tries to avoid routine business entertaining.”
    “But I think the asparagus tarts would be more visually interesting,” Desdemona said quickly.
    “It’s not as if I haven’t tried. God knows, I’ve tried. After all, I’m the one who has to be seen in public with him.” Pamela had sniffed back more tears. “But I’m not sure it’s possible to change him. He simply isn’t interested, you see, and you have to get Stark’s full attention before you can do anything with him.”
    “On the other hand, we could go for an entirely different effect, here,” Desdemona said. “Shrimp toasts, for example.”
    “I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem, is it?” Pamela had said again, smiling bravely. “I have to remember that this marriage is not a life sentence. I can always get a divorce if things don’t work out. Life goes on, doesn’t it?”
    “Right. Tomorrow is another day,” Desdemona muttered.
    “Let me see that menu again. Do you think we should go with the asparagus tarts or mushroom quiches?”
    “The asparagus tarts,” Desdemona said swiftly. “They’re quite distinctive. A little more expensive, however.”
    “Cost is not a problem. As I told you, Stark will be picking up the tab for the reception. He insisted.” Pamela’s mouth had twisted bitterly for an instant. “I’d say that he offered to cover the costs of the wedding because he felt guilty about that damned prenuptial agreement, but the truth is, I don’t think he felt at all guilty. A computer doesn’t have emotions, does it?”
    Looking back at that awkward scene in her office, Desdemona realized she should have heeded her intuition and declined to handle the reception. Stark was not an android, and he definitely possessed emotions. She could feel them swirling about somewhere deep inside him in the same way one could feel an approaching storm long before one got drenched.
    In spite of her doubts, she had gone forward with the wedding plans. She was businesswoman enough to put intuition aside in favor of the practical benefits to be had from catering a major social event. The bride’s impeccable family connections and the groom’s swiftly evolving financial profile made the Stark-Bedford wedding the wedding of the season. As the caterer for the gala event Desdemona stood to reap a gold mine of publicity and contacts.
    Business was business, after all.
    But, Desdemona reminded herself, it was folly to ignore the Wainwright intuition. It was never wrong.
    Stark took off his round, gold-framed glasses and polished them absently on the sleeve of his pleated shirt. “Tm trying to approach this problem in a logical, analytical manner, Miss Wainwright. I would appreciate your input.”
    Desdemona stifled a groan. “Perhaps the prenuptial agreement struck Miss Bedford as a little, shall we say, unromantic?”
    That was putting it mildly. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to realize that Pamela, blond, beautiful, and the apple of her parents’ eyes, had grown up in a privileged world. It was a world that had always given her everything she desired. She had been crushed to learn