Trust Me

held up a hand. “Sorry.”
    “I’m sure he’s a very nice man, dear,” Bess said soothingly, “and a valued client. But you’re a Wainwright. Wainwrights don’t get involved with people who aren’t in the theater. It isn’t natural.”
    “I don’t believe this,” Juliet said. “What can you possibly see in him?”
    Desdemona lifted her chin. “He’s honest. He’s sincere. He’s trustworthy.”
    “How do you know that?” Bess shot back.
    “Wainwright intuition,” Desdemona said proudly.
    There wasn’t much anyone could say in response.
    “Honest, sincere, and trustworthy.” Henry made a face. “He sounds like a St. Bernard.”
    “He sounds dull,” Juliet said. “But I suppose you’ve got to start somewhere. Just be careful, okay? Don’t get too involved, because there can’t possibly be any future for you with him.”
    “That’s right,” Bess said quickly. “He’s not your type, dear.”
    Kirsten nudged the box full of samples. “Take this stuff home and keep it handy. Who knows? Maybe after you experiment a bit with the android, you’ll want to move on to a real flesh-and-blood male.”

    Shortly before midnight, Desdemona sat in the front seat of Stark’s car and watched as the locked gate of her apartment building rose. She was experiencing the same sense of anticipation that she always did when she watched the curtain go up on a new play.
    But for the first time in her life she felt as though she were actually on stage, a real character in the drama, an actor, not part of the audience. This was the way a Wainwright was meant to feel, she decided.
    A chill of exciting dread shot through her. Stage fright? she wondered.
    She hoped that she had not made a mistake by inviting Stark in for coffee.
    “You can park over there.” Desdemona indicated an empty parking stall marked visitor.
    “All right.”
    Silence descended as Stark eased the car into position. There had been a lot of silence on the way home from the cocktail party. They were like a couple of tongue-tied teenagers returning from a first date, Desdemona thought.
    “Your car will be safe here,” she assured him.
    Stark nodded once and switched off the engine. He opened his door, got out, and walked around the rear fender to open her door.
    Desdemona stood and smiled tentatively. “I thought the evening went well.”
    “Yes.” Stark closed the door and took her arm. He walked her to the elevator.
    More silence descended. The elevator arrived. The doors opened. Desdemona got in and automatically started to do her deep-breathing exercises. Stark followed her and stood quietly as she punched the button for the fifth floor.
    The doors closed. Desdemona focused intently on the bank of indicator lights.
    Stark frowned. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes. I have a little trouble in elevators, that’s all,” Desdemona said tightly.
    “Claustrophobic?”
    “Yes.”
    “All your life?” Stark asked.
    “Since I was five. I can just manage in an elevator because I can count the floors, and I know I’ll only be confined for a few minutes. I have a totally irrational fear of getting trapped in one of these things.”
    Stark put an arm around her shoulders. Desdemona stiffened briefly and then found herself relaxing against him. The warmth of his body and the weight of his arm were oddly soothing.
    Together they gazed at the indicator lights.
    The doors opened on the fifth floor. Desdemona breathed her customary sigh of relief and fairly leaped out of the elevator.
    Stark followed. “Which way?”
    “To the left. Number 506.”
    He held out his hand for her key. Desdemona hesitated and then surrendered it to him. She was surprised by the intimacy of the small act.
    He took the key and her arm, went down the hall to number 506 and opened the door.
    Desdemona stepped into her darkened apartment and groped for the light switch. Before she could find it, something moved in the darkness.
    She switched on the light and shrieked at the masked apparition that materialized out of the shadows.
    “Welcome home, sweetheart,” the creature hissed.
    Desdemona instinctively flung herself backward and came up hard against Stark’s unyielding frame.
    The masked figure came toward her, arms outstretched. It was clad in a steel-studded red and black leather vestlike garment, black jeans, and boots. Eyes glinted behind the leather mask. Leather-gloved hands gripped a small whip.
    “What the hell?” Stark did not even flinch as