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where social demands were inextricably entangled with business demands. He had concluded that he needed a wife, and he had set out to find one.
    Stark had learned the hard way that he did best with cool, unemotional, undemanding women such as Pamela Bedford. Of course, judging by the day's events, that wasn't saying much. His best had obviously been a disaster.
    Tall, willowy, golden-haired, and blue-eyed, Pamela defined the phrase “cool blonde.” She had been endowed with the sort of aloof composure that was bred into the women of families whose money was old enough to have mold on it. She personified Stark's notion of a cultured, refined female.
    She was just what he had been looking for in a wife, he had told himself three minutes after meeting her. With her background and family connections she was the perfect woman to deal efficiently with the increasing social obligations confronting him. She would know how to entertain his high-powered clients. She could handle the local politicos and the society ladies who were forever trying to get money out of him.
    Making casual conversation at a cocktail party or a charity event was Stark's idea of a nightmare. Pamela, on the other hand, had grown up in a world where such skills were taught from birth. She knew the right thing to do and when to do it. Stark had looked forward to turning over to her all of the annoying details of his life outside of work.
    Pamela had seemed so wonderfully predictable.
    Abandoning her groom at the altar this afternoon was probably the first time in her life that she had ever done anything that would have offended Miss Manners or Emily Post.
    Stark suspected that Desdemona Wainwright was, on the other hand, a perfect example of chaotic dynamics in action. Expressions flickered across her features with the speed and volatility of weather fronts moving across the Seattle skyline. Not a good sign. He had made it a lifelong practice to avoid volatile women. He knew that he was no good with the emotional type, and they found him equally frustrating.
    The only sensible thing to do was steer clear of Desdemona, Stark told himself. He was intuitionally impaired, and he knew it. Sure, he could second-guess computer thieves with uncanny ease, but he had no talent at all for understanding the dynamics of interpersonal relationships. As far as he was concerned, human relationships, not the new frontiers of math and physics, deserved the popular label of chaos theory.
    Desdemona's catering firm was housed in an old, remodeled brick warehouse in Pioneer Square. There, seated at a table with the Right Touch staff, Stark had eaten a surprising quantity of the tortellini and asparagus tarts that had cost him so dearly.
    In the process he had discovered that Desdemona's entire family, for three generations, had been theater people.
    He'd always thought of theater people as high-strung, financially unstable, and temperamental. Nothing he had observed thus far this evening had altered his opinion.
    But for some reason that didn't seem to matter tonight. He supposed he needed something to take his mind off his problems, and Desdemona and her relations had done a fair job.
    He was even willing to concede that the production of Fly on a Wall , an ambiguous, obscure, totally incomprehensible bit of modern theater, had had its moments.
    “The utter flatness of the fly.” Henry nodded thoughtfully. “You know, that's a hell of an insight, Stark. I hadn't considered that element of Juliet's role. She really projected it, didn't she?”
    Stark knew himself to be on dangerous ground. He hedged. “I was impressed by it.”
    Kirsten's eyes widened. “Absolutely. The flatness . It was perfect, Juliet.”
    “Do you really think so?” Juliet asked eagerly.
    “Definitely,” Desdemona said enthusiastically. She started to say something else but broke off as a shadow fell across the table. She looked up. “Oh, hi, Ian. Great show.”
    “Mona,” the new arrival exclaimed.