Twisted Arrangement

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This book is a work of fiction.
 
Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
 
The characters and storylines are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Chapter 1

Emma scowled. They were about to be descended upon by the hedonistic hordes. The end of April, beginning of May was always a busy time in wine country. The see-and-be-seen crowd would arrive at their second (or third, or fourth, or who-knew-how-many) homes and throw their spring charity balls, and wine tastings, and soirees. And Emma would have to work them. She stared down at the list of functions for which she still had to write up releases. She’d been working for Picture Perfect Promotions for the last three years: three years of biting her tongue and helping the filthy (and wasn’t that an apt term) rich spend their money on lavish parties to impress each other.

She lived in a one-bedroom house on Montecito Boulevard that cost more than she could really afford. She scraped and saved, going without, and then she had to come to work and order cases of caviar and 800 thread count
napkins
.

Her phone chirped. She ignored it. It had to be Todd. No one else texted her—anyone from work who needed her would call. She still wasn’t ready to talk to him. She was too mad. What kind of job was ‘professional poker player’? It was just another one of his mad schemes, like the time he was going to be a bounty hunter or go on the rodeo circuit. He always got so excited about each new idea, so sure that this was going to be the one that made him rich. And if she could just lend him a small initial investment. . . .

Well, she couldn’t. Not again. She loved her brother with her whole heart, but she couldn’t keep bankrolling his crazy projects. He’d already wiped out most of her savings and the little she had left was going to stay in her account. But Todd always had a way of wheedling her. So she was just going to ignore his texts. For now. It’d been two weeks. If she could hold out for just a little longer, he’d move on to his next plan. Hopefully that one wouldn’t cost her anything.

The phone chirped again. And again. Emma sighed.

“Emma, have you finished those press releases yet?” Clarice Davenport’s silver bob swished as she ducked her head into Emma’s tiny closet of an office.

Emma plucked the last one out of the printer and shuffled them into a neat stack, trying not to roll her eyes. The woman was monumentally impatient. “Here you are, Ms. Davenport. I was just getting ready to bring them to you.”

Clarice brushed her fingers over the top of the rubber tree plant inside the door and then straightened the already straight Renoir print on the wall. “Well, good. Can you please go oversee Peter now? You know he always makes a hash of the catering schedule.”

Emma stood, tugging her facial muscles into a pleasant smile. “Of course, Ms. Davenport.” Her head was pounding. The teal paint on her office walls always gave her a headache when she was stressed. She wanted to press her fingers to her forehead and into her eye sockets, but she kept smiling.

Clarice flicked bony fingers through her silver hair. “You’re a jewel, Emma. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Get along just fine, I suspect, Ms. Davenport.” Emma patted her own French twist, smoothing back a few stray, fine brown hairs. “I’d best go check on Peter before the desserts get served with dinner wines.”

Emma made her way down the hall toward Peter Ostrander’s office, trying to ignore the once again chirping phone in her pocket. But it kept going. With a deep sigh, she pulled it out. Five missed messages, all from her brother, all begging to see her. An icy hand gripped her heart as she texted back.
Tonight. My house. I’ll cook
.

She hit send, slipped her phone back into her pocket, and strode into Peter’s office with her head high and her heart shivering.

She made grilled chicken and vegetables, but decided at the last minute to make some mac and cheese for Todd, too. It was his favorite. Though why she was bothering, Emma didn’t exactly know. Except he was her little brother and the only family she had left. No matter how many times he got into scrapes and dragged her into them with him, she couldn’t resist the urge to mother him. She’d look into his eyes, the same bright, emerald green as her own, and remember him as a boy in footy pajamas, crying his seven-year-old heart out when their father died.

“Hey sis.”

Emma jumped about a foot straight in the air, spinning around at the sound of Todd’s voice. Normally he flung open the door upon arrival, grinning, with a loud “Knock, knock!” But he’d entered quietly this time and leaned against the doorjamb, face drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. He chewed at a thumbnail, not meeting her eyes.

“Geez Todd,” she exclaimed, clapping a hand to her chest. “You scared me half to death. Come sit down.” Emma pulled out a chair for him and turned to the stove to start dishing up their plates.

He eyed the plate as she set it in front of him, his expression growing even bleaker when he saw its contents. “My favorite,” he said, but his voice was low and uninflected. “Thanks, Ems.”

Emma’s grip on her own plate was practically white-knuckled. This must be bad, if Todd was acting so subdued.
Really
bad. She sat across from him, sipping at the glass of wine she’d poured herself. A local vintage, very good. It was one of the perks of her job. She figured she’d probably need the alcohol before this conversation was over.

“I can’t stake you, Todd. That’s what it’s called, right? You need money to buy into one of these big poker games? I’m sorry, but I can’t. My savings are almost gone.” She’d done a little Googling after their fight. Nothing she’d found had changed her mind about the viability of Todd’s scheme.

He forked up a mouthful of mac and cheese, shaking his head as he chewed. His gaze met hers briefly and then slid away. “No, I don’t need you to stake me. I got into a game already. A
big
game.”

That didn’t make her feel any better, but she tried to smile. “Well, that’s good, right?” Please god, let it be good. “Was it one of those tournaments in Vegas?”

Todd coughed, sipping at his water and glancing around the small kitchen. It was all beige and white, empty but for the appliances. What little she spent on decor was reserved for her bedroom, her sanctuary, leaving the rest of the house as neutral and impersonal as it had been the day she’d moved in. Watching her little brother study the bare walls as if they held something of interest, Emma felt that cold hand on her heart again.

“Not Vegas,” Todd said, flashing her a quick look before returning to his perusal of the stove. “It was a local game, right here in Napa. Up at the Owens’ place.”

She gave a low whistle, impressed despite herself. Joshua Owens was a Hollywood producer, drop dead gorgeous and practically local royalty. He was also ridiculously, stupendously rich. More-money-than-he-could-spend-in-a-lifetime rich. That Todd had managed to get an invitation to a private game in Joshua’s home was actually pretty outstanding. But then reality came crashing in on her.

Her fingers clenched so tightly around the stem of her wineglass, she thought it might shatter. Because if Todd had already been in the game up at the Owens’ place, where she could guess the play was deep, and was now looking like a man the day after his own death, it could only mean one thing.

“How much?” she croaked.

Todd flinched at the ragged tone of her voice. Emma cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and repeated herself. “How much did you lose, Todd?” Her brain was frantically scrambling, calculating how much was left in her savings account. Not enough to cover Todd’s losses, she was sure. Maybe she could sell her car. Not that she’d get much for the ’97 Camry. Clarice might be willing to give her an advance on her salary, too, but that still probably wouldn’t be enough. Her stomach did a lazy roll, the few bites of chicken she’d taken sitting like a lead weight. There was always her great-grandmother’s ruby necklace. The stones were tiny, but she knew it was worth a decent amount.

Not as much as it was worth in memories. though.

“Not how much,” Todd muttered, ducking his head. “What.” He shoveled in another bite of food, as though clearing his plate might make this go over better.

Emma frowned, his words not making sense. Then she thought back over what she’d said first, and the hand on her heart squeezed so hard she dropped her silverware. “
What
did you lose, Todd?”

He set down his own silverware, hands knotting on the table in front of him. He did finally meet her eyes, but the grief and anxiety she saw in those emerald depths was like a physical blow.

“Dad’s watch.” The words fell from his lips like cannonballs, exploding into the charged silence.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath at the impact.
Dad’s watch
. By which he meant the antique pocket watch that had been passed down from father to son in their family for the last hundred years. That and the necklace were all they had left, besides each other. And he’d lost it in a poker game. The very first poker game of his so-called ‘professional’ career.

She shoved back from the table and snatched up her still half-full plate. She could feel the heat burning high in her cheeks as coldness gave way to the burn of anger. She scraped the food furiously into the trash with jerky movements, trying to quell the urge to strangle her brother. Once the plate was clean, she chucked it into the sink, not caring if it smashed to pieces, and whirled on her brother.

“I can’t believe you—”

“I can get it back!” he yelled, raising his hands up in a placating gesture. “I swear, Em. I know a way to get it back.”

She breathed heavily through her nose, hands clutching spasmodically at the cool porcelain of the sink at her back. “And how do you propose to do that? Are you just going to march up to Josh Owens and say ‘Pretty please, Mister Owens, can I have my watch back?’”

He slumped in his chair, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck. “Well. . . .” He trailed off and cast her a look she recognized well. He’d perfected it on their father as a chubby toddler. It was beseeching and beguiling at the same time.