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.”
She studied his face, trying to determine if he was being genuinely self-deprecating or if he was one of those people who falsely claimed to be really bad at things so people would marvel at how good they really were. She’d dated a guy in college like that. He had always tried to pull the ‘What, this old thing?’ routine when he bought a pricey new toy . . . like a Porsche. Shoving the useless memory away, Emma sipped her mocha.
“We do have people on staff who can handle it for you, if you’d prefer. Your level of involvement is really up to you.”
He brought his mug briefly to his lips and then set it back down again quickly, with a grimace. Emma quirked a brow. “Not quite to your liking? I’m sure Amber would remake it if you asked.”
He shook his head, leaning in conspiratorially. Emma backed up a little, alarmed by his nearness. Josh cast a glance sideways, as if checking for spies. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I can’t stand Red Bull. Loathe the smell of the stuff.”
“Then why did you order it?”
“I’m willing to try anything once,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve never had it with espresso before. But honestly, I would have preferred something closer to what you ordered. I’ve got a
massive
sweet tooth.” He grinned at her, the smile lopsided. Emma was a little taken aback. This was not the mega-watt Hollywood smirk he usually employed. It looked almost sheepish, as if he felt genuinely embarrassed about the ‘secret’ he’d just revealed. She cleared her throat to rid it of the sudden thickness that had appeared.
“About the decorations: I can have Shinae work up some sketches for you, if you’d like. Or I can send her by the house to walk you through what you envision the ball looking like.”
Josh sipped at his coffee gingerly, eyeing her half-finished mocha. “Definitely come by. Tuesday at 4 p.m., if that works. I want to be as involved as possible, I’m just not sure how to go about it.”
Emma pulled out her cell phone and made a quick note on her calendar so she’d remember to schedule the appointment with Shinae. “Tuesday at four. That should be fine. I’ll give you a call Monday if there’s any problem.” She glanced at the time display on her phone and sighed. Todd was due at her house for supper, and she could just imagine what his dinner conversation topic of choice was going to be. “I really need to get going. Thank you for the coffee.”
She slid from the chair and quickly gathered up her bag, still half worried he’d glance inside and go ‘Aha! You’re planning to crash my ball and steal back the watch your no-good brother lost to me fair and square!’
But she
wasn’t
. She’d just bought a very pretty, miraculously cheap, bright red ball gown. She pushed the rest of her mocha at him in the hopes of distracting him with sugar. “Here. For your sweet tooth.”
He snatched the cup up and took a big gulp, once again flashing her that lopsided smile. “Thanks, Emma. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
She muttered a quick goodbye and hurried out of the coffee shop, heart fluttering aggravatingly fast. It was just a stupid
smile
, for God’s sake, she told herself. There was no reason for her lungs to go all tight.
Emma was so busy fuming at herself for her ridiculous physical reaction to Josh that she had walked several blocks before his final words penetrated her brain. Obviously he expected her to accompany Shinae to the mansion. Some clients were like that, preferring her hand on every trigger, so they knew who to blame if things didn’t go the way they liked.
Emma slid into the driver’s seat of her beat-up old Camry and sighed. Straight from one demanding man in her life to another. Just what she needed. She started the car and headed home.
Josh sat in his office, twirling the pocket watch he’d won at poker a few weeks ago between his fingers. It was a handsome piece and had a good heft in his hand. He stared moodily at the etched gold case. He’d just gotten off the phone with Morse Goodweather, the director he’d hired months ago for this project. Morse had called him all in a lather, wanting to know why he hadn’t been informed that half their funding was being pulled. It took him almost two hours to calm down the volatile wunderkind and convince him they were not about to sink.