Trust Me

stopped pacing and turned to look at her. “Sorry I embarrassed you in front of your date last night.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “How was I to know you’d be bringing a man home with you? Specially a guy like that. Is he the one who got you into the bondage and feathers stuff?”
    “Don’t be silly. Kirsten gave me that stuff a few days ago as a thank-you present. Sort of a joke, really. She’s going to open Exotica Erotica soon.”
    “Oh, yeah. I forgot about her ladies’ sex boutique.” Tony eyed her closely. “So how serious are things between you and this techno-nerd?”
    “Don’t call him a nerd.”
    “Excuse me. How serious is this thing between you and Mr. Stark?” Tony said with elaborate sarcasm.
    Desdemona blushed. “I don’t know yet, but I have hopes. Tony, I’ve got to get dressed. If you want to get back on the payroll, go put on a uniform. You can help Henry and Vernon.”
    “He’s not your type,” Tony said softly. “He’s not one of us.”
    “So they say,” Desdemona said.

8

    “You gave your stepbrother a job?” Stark halted in the middle of the dance floor and stood glowering at Desdemona. “What is it with you, anyway? Do you have to find work for every single one of your unemployed relatives? Can’t any of them hold down a real job?”
    “Hush, you’re causing a scene.” Desdemona glanced uneasily around the crowded room. “The jobs at Right Touch are real jobs.”
    It was after ten on Wednesday night, and the Arts for the Future Guild ball was in full swing. The glittering downtown hotel ballroom was thronged with a curious mix of the elegant and the avant-garde as wealthy members of Seattle’s social elite hobnobbed with a host of artists, actors, musicians, and writers. Tuxedoes and shimmering silk gowns mingled with tacky sequined jeans and studded leather bustiers.
    Stark seemed unaware of the impropriety of halting in the center of a dance floor. His attention was focused completely on the subject of Tony. “I know the guy is your stepbrother, but that’s no reason to give him a job.”
    “Oh, come on, Stark, he’s family. Tony just needs a day job to tide him over until he and Ian can find a financial backer for Tony’s new play.”
    “I don’t give a damn if he’s family. What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “You ask me that? After you just agreed to take in your two half brothers for the entire summer?” Desdemona pushed forcefully against Stark’s shoulder in an effort to get him moving again. It was like trying to restart a freight train.
    “That’s different.”
    “How is it different?” Desdemona wished she had resisted the impulse to mention that she had given Tony a job. The evening had been going rather well up until that point.
    “Kyle and Jason didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Stark muttered.
    “Neither does Tony.”
    “He’s, what? Thirty-two? It’s time he learned to fall back on his own resources.”
    “Wainwrights fall back on each other.”
    “They fall back on you.”
    “It works out for all of us,” she said.
    “You know what your problem is?”
    “No, what is it?”
    “You’re a sucker when it comes to family. Face facts, Desdemona, there’s nothing sacrosanct about family. Every con man, thief, and embezzler who ever lived was a member of someone’s family.”
    A flash of uneasiness shot through her. She searched his face anxiously, telling herself that Stark could not possibly know about the unfortunate incident that had occurred ten years earlier when Tony had been falsely accused of embezzling funds from a small theater.
    “Oh, now, that’s a very shrewd observation,” she retorted. “And utterly meaningless. You know what your problem is? You’ve worked with electronic encryption techniques and computer security problems for so long you’ve become permanently paranoid.”
    “I am not paranoid. I’m looking at this situation with the sort of logical, unemotional, analytical detachment that you don’t seem to be able to manage.”
    She eyed him intently. “You really don’t like my brother, do you?”
    “He’s your stepbrother, not your real brother. And you’re right, I’m not overly fond of him.”
    “You don’t even know him,” she exclaimed, exasperated.
    “Calm down, you’re getting emotional.”
    “I’m a Wainwright. I was born emotional. It goes with the family.”
    “You were not born a Wainwright,” he reminded her grimly.
    “How I became part of the