In keeping with both the theme and spirit of the ball, Josh had wanted something very playful, child-like and almost fairy tale. Shinae had delivered in spades, turning his refined mansion into something halfway between Wonderland and Charlie’s infamous chocolate factory. Bright colors (heavy on the candy red, of course) popped out everywhere, from the flickering red globe lights that seemed to float above her head, to the arches of the doorways, which had been made to look as if they were carved out of black licorice.
Stunted trees with chocolate bark and glossy green leaves made of rock candy sat in tubs of crystalline ice grass. Several were heavy with Maraschino cherries. As Emma watched, one of the waiters strolled by and plucked a cherry with a gloved hand, popping it into his mouth surreptitiously. When he caught her eye, he winked through his make-up and twitched a shoulder at her in a shrug, making the discreet gossamer wings on his back seem to flap.
Tchaikovsky’s ‘March of the Sugarplum Fairies’ spilled down the stairs from the ballroom above. Unable to keep from grinning at the lighthearted atmosphere, Emma strode into the foyer, making her way toward the game rooms first. If she didn’t find Josh there, she’d try the conservatory and then the ballroom.
Her heart was flying inside her chest, and she could feel the flush of heat in her cheeks beneath the mask as she slid through the crowd, smiling and nodding occasionally as if she were well acquainted with these other dazzling people. Looking at the other women, she felt under-jeweled in just her great-grandmother’s rubies and the chandelier earrings. Her hands were bare of heavy rings while the other women dripped rubies from their fingers like fat drops of glistening blood.
Emma felt confident that her dress, at least, fit in with the designers and bespoke pieces the other guests wore. Red was, of course, prevalent with the women. Some of the men even sported a touch of crimson at the throat or cuff. She saw one brave fellow with carmine colored Oxfords. She smiled widely at the stocky brunette. He winked through his fox mask. A woman in an elaborate fairy ensemble, diamonds glittering in her blond hair, ducked hurriedly around him and scurried into the armoire behind him. She was giggling, cheeks flushed, as she began to pull the doors closed.
The man in the fox mask bent, quickly snatching the tail of her silk skirt before she could close it in the hinge. He presented it to her with a flourish. The fairy woman dipped a curtsey, pressing a delicate finger to her smiling, red-lipped mouth. Mr. Fox winked at her, too, and closed the armoire doors, turning to lean casually back against them. Emma suppressed a smile as she saw him muttering out of the corner of his mouth, obviously whispering to the beautiful woman he hid.
While she moved through the chattering, laughing, giddy crowd, Emma pulled her invented persona around herself like a cloak. She wasn’t Emma Ness, mid-level party planner with no one but a younger brother to care about her. She was a social climber, a grifter, a trophy wife to a rich old investment banker. She paused beside a young, handsome man in an elegant tux and an orange-red mask with a long plague doctor nose. He was contemplating the martini he held in his hand with some trepidation, clearly trying to puzzle out how to raise it to his mouth without dipping the tip of his mask’s protuberance in it.
Emma dropped her hand on his arm, sliding it slowly up to his shoulder to turn him slightly toward her. She watched his eyes light up as they traced her face and then dip down into the well of her cleavage. She squeezed his muscular bicep to bring his gaze back to hers.
“Here, sugar. Let me help you with that.” She took the glass from his unresisting hand and artfully maneuvered the rim to his lips, leaning into him in the process. She tilted the glass up, not breaking his gaze, stroking his arm in rhythm with his swallows. When the drink was gone, she lowered the glass again, plucking the olive-laden toothpick out and sucking the vodka and vermouth soaked fruit off the wooden skewer before tossing it aside.
“Who are you?” he asked huskily, eyes hungry on her mouth. Emma laughed.
“Madame Butterfly.” She leaned into his chest, dipping her fingers into his inner jacket pocket and lightly touching his wallet. She didn’t take it. Knowing she could have was thrill enough. She brushed a quick kiss on his cheek. “See you later, sugar,” she breathed in his ear, before gliding away into the crowd. Masked Emma liked to tease. She was crass, not very well educated, street smart, and always got what she wanted. And what she wanted right now was Joshua Owens.
Her mouth curled slightly, brown eyes scanning the crowd for her target. Everywhere, people were laughing. In the library, a gaunt woman with silver hair in a complex pile on top of her head was counting to one hundred, her ring-bedecked fingers pressed over her eyes. In the wide living room, a middle-aged actor with twinkling hazel eyes was finger-painting a picture of his leggy model girlfriend. Emma wove through them, looking for broad shoulders and the gleam of golden hair.
She swiped a glass of white wine from a passing waiter’s tray as she sidled through the conservatory, barely noticing the long, twisting horns sprouting from the server’s forehead. Emma saw a woman for whom she’d planned parties in the past bite into one of the fig and brie hors d’oeuvres and grab the wrist of the waitress to keep her from moving on with her tray. Sheila, the wife of a real estate mogul, was spoiled and petty, and she complained constantly every time Emma worked with her.
“Oh my god,” the bottle blonde crooned now. “These are the best things I’ve ever had in my mouth!”
Emma stifled a chuckle and glided to a halt at the woman’s side. The waitress smiled at her, but Emma could read the dread in the girl’s eyes. The waitress didn’t dare move for fear of aggravating Sheila. Emma plucked up one of the treats and popped it into her mouth, winking at the server. The flavors exploded on her tongue, just as they had during the tasting. She chased them with a sip of the wine, as Josh had encouraged her to do. The combination was heady and sensual. She groaned.
“Aren’t they divine?” she asked Sheila. Emma extended her hand. “I think we met at the Caldwell wine tasting. You’re Sheila McNamara.” Emma grinned as Sheila dropped the waitress’ wrist, and the girl scurried away. The socialite’s blue gaze narrowed slightly, sweeping Emma from head to toe as she took her hand.
“Oh, of course. You’re Bertram’s . . . wife. Lily, isn’t it?” Sheila’s smile strained. The pause before ‘wife’ made Emma’s lips twitch. Sheila didn’t approve of Bertram’s main squeeze, apparently, the poor girl. Lily Scow was actually quite nice, once you got past all the foul language. Emma’s heart flipped. She was talking to someone she’d worked with closely on many occasions to plan at least a dozen events, and the woman didn’t recognize her at all.
Emma chuckled, not answering directly. “That was quite a party. Nothing like
this,
though!”
“I know! Leave it to that snake Joshua Owens to throw the best fête of the year. I don’t know how he pulled it off.” Sheila’s thin brows twitched downward in disapproval.
“How I pulled what off, Sheila?” Josh asked, speaking from directly beside Emma. She felt a thrill of surprise and excitement shoot up her back the second he spoke. Her spine tingled at his nearness, and her heart beat nearly as frenetically as the waltz music drifting down from the ballroom upstairs. His mask was fire engine red and covered just his eyes from above his brows, curving over his straight nose and hooking over his ears. In the tuxedo, he looked like a superhero who’d forgotten to remove his mask.
Sheila waved a bony hand at the room around them. Emma angled her body toward Josh, looking up at him with a small, sultry smile, waiting for him to notice her. Now was her chance.
“This whole affair,” Sheila answered him, her bitterness as badly masked as she was. The bland plastic mask could have been picked up at any five-and-dime and hung slightly crooked on her face.
“I’ve worked with Picture Perfect dozens of times and they’ve never managed anything half this impressive. Clarice must have a real soft spot for you.” The blonde’s derisive tone made it clear what particular spot she was referring to. Emma bristled at the implication that she’d worked harder for Josh than for any of her other clients, but she forced it down.
Emma wasn’t a party planner tonight. She was a bored trophy wife, Bertram’s trashy Lily. She sipped her wine, and eyed the cut of Josh’s tuxedo pants instead. She had to admit, the man had a very fine rear.
Josh laughed aloud at Sheila’s words. “Actually, I worked with Clarice’s assistant, Emma. I found her very capable, but I don’t think she has any tender feelings for me whatsoever. More’s the pity.”
Emma blinked, surprised. He’d never expressed any interest in her mousy work persona in the least. He was always kind, occasionally condescending, but never flirty. Sheila snorted inelegantly, drawing Emma’s attention back to her.
“Doubtful. That girl—”
Unwilling to hear herself slandered by the likes of Sheila McNamara without being able to retort, Emma laid her hand on Josh’s arm and interrupted the other woman. “That girl is out of luck,” she quipped, grinning up at him. “She probably wouldn’t know what to do with someone like you anyway, Mr. Owens.”
There was a flare of light in his blue-green eyes as he smiled down at her. “I think I’ll take that as a compliment. And you are?”
Emma fluttered her lashes. “It was meant as one. And
I’m
dying for a dance. Would you care to?”
He chuckled, inclining his head to Sheila. “Would you excuse us, please?” He covered Emma’s hand with his own and turned to draw her out of the conservatory and back toward the living room. His palm was warm against the back of her hand; his thumb stroked the thin skin between her fingers. She shivered.
“I don’t think she likes me,” he murmured as they maneuvered through the busy living room to the stairs. She could hear the strains of Vivaldi grow suddenly louder as someone above opened the ballroom doors.
Emma pressed closer to his side, feeling the hard muscles of his forearm beneath her fingers. “Sheila doesn’t like anyone.”
“Do you know her well?”
“Better than some,” she said with a slight shrug and a grin. As they climbed the stairs, his eyes studied her face and then slowly slid down her body like a warm caress.
“You look so familiar, but I can’t place your face.”
Emma laughed, the sound much throatier than her usual light trill. “Isn’t that the whole point of a masquerade, Joshua?”
He cocked a brow. “I hadn’t thought there would be anyone here I didn’t recognize.”
“You’re awfully confident in your abilities.” She paused in front of the ballroom, waiting for the footmen to draw the doors open. The lilting strains of a waltz poured out to greet them.
“I am,” he agreed as he drew her into the room. There was a decent crowd on the dance floor, but he glided gracefully between them. “If you’re not going to tell me who you are, what am I supposed to call you?”
He pulled her into his arms, and Emma silently thanked Aunt Margaret for insisting that both she and Todd take dance lessons—even if it was only to get them out of the house. She followed his lead, skin tingling at the touch of his hands. “I don’t know, Joshua,” she said, breathless, rasping. “Sheila thinks I’m Bertram Scow’s new wife.”
He frowned slightly, tilting his head to the side for a second. Then he shook it. “No. Lily Scow isn’t nearly as petite as you are.” His fingers brushed along the curve of her side and rested at her hip briefly.
Emma shivered at the caress. “So, I’m not Lily Scow.” She leaned closer, looking up at him through her lashes, her voice husky and dark. “Who am I, Joshua? Name me.”
Josh stared down into the mystery woman’s dark brown eyes, feet moving mechanically through the steps of the waltz. There was something completely captivating about her. He’d never been so immediately entranced by a woman before. And he’d met and bedded Hollywood starlets whom other men only dreamed about.
He’d been crossing the living room, making his way through the throng toward Ben, snickering at his friend’s fox mask, when he’d first seen her. Though her ruby gown blended in with the sea of red and black, she herself stood out. Her sable hair was piled high atop her head, gleaming beneath the sparkling lights as if sprinkled with diamond dust. Her black lace and red silk mask disguised the curve of her cheekbones and brow ridge, making it difficult to tell the shape of her face. But the curve of her lips was sensual and enticing.