by Mora Early
They hadn’t visited the office yesterday during the walk-through, but the entire time she’d been in Josh’s house, all she could think about was Todd’s stupid plan. While she tried to picture where and how they’d set up the elaborate ball that she was supposed to be planning, her mind kept piping up with ridiculous observations, like how the various rooms full of games would make for an atmosphere of gaiety, but also for controlled chaos. Todd was right. Josh was unlikely to notice one woman slipping quietly into his office.
And now, looking at these plans, her mind pointed out that Josh’s office was on the same floor as the ballroom. It was, in fact, between the ballroom and the billiard room, which would make for a perfect excuse should she be caught wandering in there.
Not that she would get caught, because she was not going through with this plan! She was just humoring Todd while she thought up with some other method. Something that didn’t involve James Bond tactics. There would be no disguise, no sneaking and no stealing, no matter what her younger self might have done in her place.
Sure, there’d been a time when she had loved dressing in costumes and pretending to be someone else. Todd made friends easily but didn’t keep them, and she’d never had any close buddies, so it had just been the two of them. Playacting had made that not so bleak. Plus, Todd thought it was the height of cleverness.
He still did, apparently. Her head thumped down on the blueprint and she gave a sigh. Now she wasn’t just arguing with Todd, she was arguing with herself, too! This was ridiculous.
It’s not, a mischievous little voice whispered. You could pull this off. Owens barely looks at you, and when he does. . . .
Emma knew what the voice was getting at. When Josh looked at her, he pitied her. She’d seen it in his eyes. He was a millionaire many times over, and she had to bow and scrape to the likes of him and Clarice Davenport for an hourly wage. He was always expecting Clarice: at the walkthrough, when he’d called late at night. He thought Emma was a pathetic little peon. A pathetic little unattractive peon, she corrected. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Josh Owens flirted with any female within range of his mega-watt smile. Except her.
She didn’t know why that irked her. She shouldn’t care. She didn’t want Josh Owens to find her attractive. She didn’t find him attractive.
Except that was a big fat lie. She found him arrogant, flashy, high-handed, condescending and smarmy. But attractive. In fact, more than just attractive. The man was gorgeous. His thick, wavy hair was golden blonde, and his eyes were a lovely light blue-green. He had a square chin, full lips and broad shoulders. He looked a bit like a young Brad Pitt in that movie Cool World. Only more handsome. And he thought she was a troll, the only woman in Napa Valley he didn’t deem worth flirting with. Heck, he’d even flirted with Clarice!
Emma pulled herself upright and squared her shoulders. What Josh thought of her didn’t matter. How convenient the location of his office was didn’t matter. She had to stop wasting her time and energy on pointless thoughts and try and come up with a reasonable plan.
As if he could hear her thoughts, her phone buzzed with Todd’s ringtone. She pressed it to her ear, sighing.
“I don’t want to talk to you, little brother.”
“C’mon Ems, don’t be like that,” he said, cheerfully.
Emma considered lifting her head from the desk, but thought it probably wasn’t worth it. “What do you want?”
“Have I ever told you that your eyes are a really striking shade of green?”
It was so not what she was expecting him to say that she was momentarily stunned. “Aw, thanks T-rex. I was sure you were going to say something—”
“We need to get you some contacts. In case you run into Owens at the ball.”
“—about the stupid ball,” she finished with a grimace.
“What?” he said. “Look, I doubt you will. There are going to be over 300 people there, right?”
Emma sat up, a little surprised. “Where are you getting your information?”
“None of your business,” he replied. “Better you not know.”
Fear seized her heart at those words. Was her little brother in more trouble than he told her? Bigger trouble? The idea sent an icy shaft of pain through her chest.
“Todd—”
“Fine, fine. Geez. I have a friend who happens to also be friends with Owens’ assistant.” She could practically hear him preening.
“Wait, what? For Christ’s sake, Todd, if that’s the case, why doesn’t your friend just get Martin Kellar to steal the watch back for you?”
Todd sighed. “He already asked. Or hinted, anyway. But Martin is a hundred percent pro-Owens. It was a no-go. I don’t know why. Owens probably pays the guy pocket change to do all his dirty work. You know how those types are.”
She did know. She had to work with them all the time. She had, in fact, thought that exact same thing about Josh Owens with regard to Martin Kellar in the past. Martin was always hustling somewhere doing errands for Josh. Could the man do nothing for himself? Apparently not. His poor assistant had to do everything. Except plan this particular party, her perverse mind noted. But it’s not like that redeemed Josh. He was probably doing it for the same reason men did most things: to impress one bimbo or another. She snorted.
“Fine,” she acquiesced. “Why would I need contacts?”
“Color contacts,” Todd clarified. “Brown ones. In the very unlikely event you run into Josh at the ball, your green eyes could be a dead giveaway.”
Emma groaned. “Please don’t use that term.”
“What term?” Todd asked, bewildered.
“Dead. That’s what we’re going to be if we’re caught.” Which was why she had to come up with a different plan. Fast.
Todd scoffed. “Stop being so melodramatic, Ems. The worst we’d get is some jail time.”
Emma’s tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. Maybe she could beseech a higher power. “‘Jail time,’ he says. As if ‘jail time’ were synonymous with ‘Brussels sprouts time’.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Brussels sprouts are awful. Jail is just jail.”
Emma could hear the grin in his voice, but her stomach was tied in knots. “Not funny, T-rex.”
He sighed. “Okay, you’re right, it’s not. Look, you don’t even have to worry about that because we’re not going to get caught. You’re the master of disguise, remember? And Owens won’t even realize the watch is gone until you’re out of the house. Even if he suspects me, there’s no reason for him to suspect you. And he won’t be able to prove anything against me because I won’t be anywhere near the watch. Hence, the beauty of my plan!”
Emma rubbed her temples. “Where do you even get color contacts? Don’t you need a prescription for that?”
“I know a guy.”
“Of course you do,” she sighed. “Fine. Get the contacts. But only because I always kind of wondered what I’d look like with brown eyes.”
“You’re the best sister in the history of siblings,” Todd said, and hung up.
Emma was absolutely not shopping for an evening gown. She was just enjoying a lazy Saturday afternoon, strolling through the shops, and happened to see it. Anyone would admire it, she told herself. It was a lovely creation: a halter neck with the dress’s front cut into a deep V that would nearly reach the wearer’s navel. The back plunged daringly low, as well. The skirts were full, long and ruffled, but asymmetrical, rising nearly to the thigh on one side, reminiscent of a flamenco dress. The fact that the silk and sequin confection was a deep ruby red was just a coincidence.
She fingered the soft fabric lovingly. Lacking friends and all but the most awkward romantic prospects, Emma had never attended a formal school dance, or even gone to her own prom. The most dressed up she’d ever gotten was—she struggled to recall—six years ago. She smiled, recalling one of Todd’s elaborate lies to a high school buddy. Her little brother had been roped into some scheme (according to him; Emma thought it mor
e likely that he was the instigator) and, in a frantic attempt to extricate himself, he claimed he had to go to his sister’s wedding. When that excuse was brushed aside, Todd called her in a panic, begging for her help.
Emma had been almost twenty then, away at college, but she’d dropped everything (including her term paper) to run to his rescue. She raided Aunt Margaret’s attic and found a truly atrocious wedding dress from the 80’s, complete with shoulder pads, hoop skirt and thousands of seed pearls. It fit passingly well after inserting judicious bra padding. She fixed the veil crookedly atop her head and slathered on copious amounts of mascara. It had been a lot harder to make herself cry than she had thought, but by the time she reached Todd’s friends’ house, tears had left smeary black streaks down her face. She’d run into the garage barefoot and wailed—
“Excuse me, miss, are you going to try that on?”
Emma jumped, startled by the saleswoman’s voice. “Oh! Well, I’m not sure. I’m not really—”
“You should. It would look just lovely on you, I can tell.” The woman beamed at her, revealing blindingly white teeth. “I have an eye for these things, you know? It’s a real asset in this job. I can just look at a woman and know what will work on her. And this will work.” She plucked the hanger from the rack and began ushering Emma toward the dressing rooms. “Trust me.”
Emma thought about arguing, but decided it wasn’t worth it. She’d try it on just to appease the smiling, chatty saleswoman. She wasn’t going to buy it. She didn’t need a fancy evening gown. And she certainly couldn’t afford one. But trying it on didn’t cost anything.
“Didn’t I tell you?” crowed the saleswoman, whose name turned out to be Beatrice, as Emma emerged from the changing room. Beatrice clapped her hands and stepped aside so Emma could see herself in the full-length mirror.
Emma blinked, staring stupidly at the reflection. That couldn’t be her. The woman in the mirror was tall, with a long white neck and about a mile of leg. Her hips and breasts curved invitingly in the red silk, and when she turned around, the slope of her bare back and the swell of her butt looked erotic and alluring.
“Of course, you’ll need a bit of double-sided tape to keep everything in its right place,” Beatrice was saying as she fluffed out the skirt. Emma shook her head and cleared her throat.
“No, I. . . .” She trailed off as the price tag, which was dangling under her arm, caught her eye. “This isn’t right, is it?” There was no way this vision of a dress cost only $200. Emma’s business suits cost more than that.
Beatrice glanced up from her crouched position. When she saw that Emma was indicating the price tag, she nodded. “That’s right, all right. A lady had it custom-made and then decided she didn’t want it after it was finished. Demanded a whole new dress. It was already mostly paid for, so I said ‘what the heck?’ The two hundred dollars covers what was left on the tab.”
Emma gasped. “You made this?”
“I told you knowing what will look good on a woman comes in handy in this line of work,” Beatrice said, chuckling.
“It’s amazing, really.” Emma stroked her fingers over the silk, turning slightly and marveling at the heavy swish of the fabric around her legs. She smiled. “Did you make the woman her other dress?” Emma could well imagine one of the super rich women who she planned parties for pulling a stunt just like that.
The older woman nodded, standing behind Emma and tugging the halter straps a little bit tighter. “Charged her for it, too. So, miss, what do you think? I hope you’ll take it. I’d like to see it go to a good home.”
Emma bit her lip. “I’ll take it,” she replied, before she could second-guess herself. “And please, call me Emma.”
Half an hour later Emma left Beatrice and her shop, cleverly named Bea-spoke, with the dress and matching pair of dangerously high heels wrapped up neatly in a bag. Still, she assured herself, just because she had a ball gown now didn’t mean she was going to the ball. She just couldn’t pass up a deal, that’s all.
She was humming as she popped into a local coffee shop to grab a quick latte.
“I almost didn’t recognize you without the business suit,” said someone behind her. Emma froze. She knew that voice.
“How are you, Miss. . . .” Josh trailed off, blinking. “I just realized I don’t know your last name.”
Emma’s heart was doing its own flamenco dance as she spun to face him, trying to surreptitiously hide the bag behind her back. Which was ridiculous. It’s not like the man had x-ray vision. “Emma’s fine.” She forced a small smile, hoping he’d let it go.
She breathed a small sigh of relief when he shrugged. “Emma, then. And call me Josh, please.” He flashed her that mega-watt Hollywood smile.
She flushed, ducking her head to hide her eyes in case they flared with her anger. Now he was flirting with her? He must have finally realized that Clarice would be as involved in planning his party as she was with the price of tea in China. Clearly buttering Emma up, distasteful as it might be, was his next best plan. She kept her voice quiet and even as she replied.
“Okay, Josh,” she said, trying to bite back the irritation she felt at his intrusion on her day off. She waited to see if he was going to say more.
He motioned her up to the counter ahead of him. “What’ll you have?”
“I can get my own—”
He held up his hand to forestall her. “Call it a business meeting. I insist.”
Of course he did. That’s what people like Josh Owens always did. They insisted. Like spoiled children going ‘mine, mine, mine’. Her back stiff, Emma nodded and turned to the teenage barista. “I’ll have a mocha latte, extra whip, please.”
The girl pressed a series of buttons and called the order back over her shoulder before shooting a big smile in Josh’s direction. “What can I get ya, Mr. O? The usual, or you want to try something new today?”
Josh chuckled. “I don’t know, Amber. What do you recommend?”
Emma was surprised he knew the girl’s name, and even more surprised at their easy banter. She wouldn’t have imagined Josh was the type to do more than bark his order. Amber made a face, screwing up her forehead and pursing her lips.
“I bet you’d like the Zombie,” she said at last, looking triumphant. “It’s two shots of espresso mixed with a Red Bull, garnished with a coffee bean ‘brain’.”
“I see,” Josh said. “And it’s called the Zombie because. . . ?”
Amber grinned. “One of those and it’ll take a bullet to the head to put you down.”
Josh laughed. “Sold. One Zombie and one mocha latte, extra whip. Put it on my tab.” He winked.
“Sure thing, Mr. O.” Amber’s fingers flew over the buttons, and then she bustled back to the coffee machines to start making their drinks. Emma watched the whole exchange with interest. She was surprised that Josh talked to the barista like a normal human being, true, but it hardly counted. This ‘normal human being’ was, after all, a pretty young girl. He apparently couldn’t help but flirt, even with girls almost half his age.
Josh ushered Emma toward one of the small cafe tables a short distance away. “So,” he said, pulling out her chair, “I’ve been wondering when we get to the part with the decorations.”
Emma sat, shoving the bag from Bea-spoke under the table. Her heart was almost afraid to beat, wondering if he’d see it and ask her about it. Did he know the shop? Later, when he discovered the watch missing, would he recall that Emma had bought an evening gown? Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, because there would never be a connection.. The fact that she had bought the dress was just a coincidence. She still wasn’t going to steal the watch back.
“Well. . . .” She drew the word out, stalling for time. She’d barely registered his question and needed to scramble for an answer. “Oh. Decorations, right. Normally, I would say that they come after the guest list but before the invitations are sent out. But if you’d prefer to discuss them now, we can, of course.”
>
They both paused as Amber placed their drinks in front of them. Josh handed her a folded bill, but Emma couldn’t see what the denomination was. As soon as the barista was gone, he turned back to her. “That’s fine. I was just curious. I’ve always left this sort of thing to Martin, and I’m not quite sure what I’m doing. Should I be trying to come up with ideas? Because I’m afraid I’m kind of hopeless when it comes to decorating.”