“Oh no.” Emma shook her head. “Whatever you have in mind, forget it.”
Todd stood, reaching for her. “Listen, Em. It’ll be easy. I have a plan!”
She crossed her arms over her chest, one brow quirking at that. “And your plans always work out so well.”
He flinched, and she saw the genuine hurt in his green eyes. If she wasn’t still so angry she would have apologized. She knew Todd meant well. He just wasn’t very good at thinking anything through. He scrubbed a hand through his hair now, and Emma remembered brushing it for him when he was little. It was several shades lighter than hers, closer to their mother’s dark blonde. At least, that’s how it looked in the pictures they had of her.
Todd’s birth had been a difficult one for their mother. She’d died of complications when he was only a few days old. Emma had been only two at the time and had only the vaguest recollections of Marian Ness. They were more like impressions, really. And then their father had been in a multi-car pile-up on the interstate seven years later, leaving them in the care of a very elderly great-aunt whose idea of raising children mostly involved ignoring them unless they required food, discipline or first aid. They’d only really ever had each other. Emma sighed and sat back down at the table.
“Tell me your plan, T-rex.”
He grinned at the nickname. It had been a long time since a dino-obsessed nine-year-old Todd had dubbed his big sister Emmaceratops and proclaimed himself T-rex, king of all reptiles. “I know where Owens is keeping it. The bastard made a big show of putting it in his damned trophy case. So all we have to do is sneak into his office and take it back. Easy as that.” He snapped his fingers.
Emma stared at him, blinking in astonishment. “
That’s
your big plan?
Steal
it back?” She lowered her head into her hands. “Todd—”
“He’ll never know it’s gone! Josh Owens doesn’t care the tiniest bit about that watch. It’s just a symbol of a win. It’s the
win
that matters to him.” He grinned.
“Even if I was agreeing to go along with this plan, which I’m not, how do you propose to get in and out of his office without him figuring out what you’re up to?”
Todd actually leaned back in his chair, as if this was the question he’d been waiting for her to ask. “I can’t. He won’t let me anywhere near it. I made a bit of a scene the other night when I lost.”
That leaden feeling in the pit of Emma’s stomach returned. She had a bad feeling she knew where this was going. Todd reached forward suddenly and grabbed her hands, squeezing tightly. “You, on the other hand, can just sashay right into his office, pocket the watch and slip right back out again. He’ll never suspect you.”
“Okay, one,” Emma said, tugging her hands free, “I don’t ‘sashay’ anywhere. And two, how exactly am I supposed to explain my presence in Joshua Owens’ house to begin with?”
Todd’s grin was Cheshire wide, showing off the deep dimples in both cheeks. “I’ve got that covered.”
Josh climbed out of the pool, smoothing his wet blond hair back from his forehead, and reached for the phone his assistant handed him. “Owens,” he barked, peeved at the interruption. He’d been in the middle of his laps, enjoying the rush of blood through his veins, the feel of the water on his skin and the steady slapping sound of his arms cleaving the pool’s surface. He found swimming relaxing, and he could use a little relaxation.
“Geez, tone down the growl a little buddy,” his best friend Ben replied. “I’ve got good news for you.”
Josh plucked his towel from the nearby lounge and began rubbing himself dry. “Please tell me you’ve found something —
anything
I can use to get Ransler on board.”
He glanced up sharply as his assistant Martin’s cell rang, but the skinny man caught his look and waved him off, stepping to the other side of the pool to answer his phone.
Ben cursed under his breath, and Josh heard a car horn honk in the background.
“Maybe,” Ben said. “Ransler’s on the board of a charity, Children of Hope. They do a lot of work with orphans, foster kids and low income families.”
Josh stretched out on the lounge, letting the sun warm his slightly chilled skin. “And you’re thinking if I donate a big enough chunk of change, Ransler might change his mind about me?” Ben was one of the few people who knew how much time and attention Josh gave his charitable work.
In Hollywood, image was everything. Most of his peers only involved themselves with charity just as much as they had to do to keep up their brand. But Joshua Owens was a brand that stood for personal extravagance and a strong hand in business matters. He was considered a shark. So, naturally, no one had any idea that he donated anything more than money.
“Well. . . .” Ben paused. “I don’t know if just writing a check, however hefty, will do it. The man thinks you have the morals of a snake. And not just a regular snake, but like, a Garden of Eden tempting-Eve-with-the-apple type snake.”
“Why? Honestly, what did I ever do to him?”
Ben chuckled. “Nothing. But he’s apparently really good friends with Lolly Tate.”
Josh groaned at the mention of the actress’ name. He’d met Lolly while working on a film four years ago. She was blonde, buxom (thanks to her surgeon) and gorgeous. She also happened to be a really great actress. They’d dated briefly. He’d known she wanted to use him to boost her career but it hadn’t bothered him. He wasn’t in love with her.
Unfortunately, she had a bit of a substance abuse problem. When she began making crazier and crazier demands of the production team, using his name as a cudgel to get her way, he broke it off. She had not been pleased. The tabloids had a field day with the stories she fed them. Almost all of them were untrue, but no wonder William Ransler thought Josh was Satan in a suit, if that’s where he was getting his information.
“Maybe we should go with Tom Cruise. He’s just as big a name as Ransler.”
Ben snorted. “And currently in New Zealand filming that new sci-fi thing for the next ten months.” Josh heard Ben’s car door slam.
“Damn. Okay, so I can’t just write a check. What about a fundraiser?” He motioned to Martin to bring him something to drink. The day was growing warmer. “I could do a poker tournament and donate all proceeds to Children of Hope.”
Ben strode out of the house, eyeing Josh’s bare chest and legs sardonically as he hung up his phone. “Can’t you put on some clothes? You’re making the rest of us schlubs self-conscious.” The stocky brunette patted his belly beneath his button-down shirt, which showed no signs of a paunch. “And I thought you were over poker.”
Josh ignored the jibe about his physique. He kept in good shape mostly because he had the time and money, and felt that, with his height, even the smallest amount of excess weight made it look like he had a beer gut. “Over poker? After that win last week I’m hardly likely to give it up. I’m on a roll. I raked in nearly ten thousand that night, all told.”
Ben relaxed back in another lounge chair, crossing his arms beneath his head. “I thought you referred to anything under a million as ‘chump change’?”
“It’s not about the money. It’s about winning.” Josh accepted the fruit smoothie Martin handed him, quirking a brow at Ben to see if he wanted one. The other man shook his head.
“But you want to win over Ransler. Maybe gambling to convince the guy you’re a saint isn’t the best move?”
“Mr. Purefoy called again, Josh,” Martin informed him. “I told him you were in a meeting.”
Josh sighed. He knew what Arnold Purefoy was calling about. It was the same thing he’d been calling about every day for the last week. The studio head wanted to know if he’d gotten Ransler to sign on yet. “Thanks, Martin. I’ll call him back later.”
Martin nodded and disappeared back into the house. Josh turned back to Ben. “Okay, so no poker tournament. You got any ideas?”
“What about that masquerade you attended in Paris last year? You said they raked in donations hand over fist.”
He thought back to the ball. People had enjoyed the anonymity and intrigue. And it had seemed to loosen their checkbooks, all right. The patron, who’d been fundraising for an art gallery, had made almost five million dollars in one night. “Ben, my boy, this is why I keep you around,” Josh said.
Ben grinned. “You keep me around because I’ve known you since you wore braces and Star Wars t-shirts and couldn’t get a date. I keep you humble.”
Josh shook his head. “Speaking of the Holy Hollywood Trinity, I need to call George. He’s talking crazy talk about a remake.”
“I’m going to ignore that, because I know you won’t let it happen.” Ben reached over and plucked Josh’s smoothie from the low table, downing the dregs. “So, charity ball. How do we go about putting that together?”
“We? Since when do you worry about planning my events?”
“Since this one was my idea. And I don’t want you to blow this Ransler deal. I invested too, you know. It may be chump change to you, but it’s most of my savings.” Ben cracked his knuckles, gazing out over the sparkling pool water. Josh studied his face, trying to read his expression. He didn’t think Ben was really worried about his investment. He knew Josh was good for it.
“I don’t know,” Josh admitted. “I’ve been to hundreds of the things, but I’ve never actually put on a ball myself. I’m sure Martin will know where to start. The man’s a genius at event planning.”
“Thank you, sir,” Martin said suddenly, from behind him. Josh jerked in his chair. Ben sputtered laughter.
“Told you to get him a bell.”
“Jesus, Martin!” Josh exclaimed.
The slender man smiled, his long face managing to look slightly melancholy even with the cheery expression. “What am I planning this time?”
Josh glowered at him for a moment before relenting. “A charity ball. A masquerade, specifically. And I’m planning it.” His assistant cocked a surprised brow at that and Josh shrugged. “Well, I’m helping at least. Ideas?”
“First, you need a theme or a color palette. I mean, you could have just a plain old ball, but where’s the fun in that?” Martin tapped his fingers against his lips.
“Red,” Josh answered without thinking.
His assistant frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t know. You say ‘masque’ and I think red.” Josh shrugged.
Ben chuckled. “As in ‘The Masque of the Red Death’? Cheery, buddy.”
“Oh,” Josh scowled, realizing his friend was right. “Maybe not then. Not a great message for a children’s charity.”
But Martin was squinting into the distance, as if already seeing the ball before him. “No, no. It’s good. Not the death part, but red is a great color. It’s very dramatic, and striking, which works well with a masquerade. Plus,” Martin added, grinning, “you can call it your Little Red Ball. Like a child’s toy. It’s perfect!”
“Not bad.” Ben pulled out his cell phone, perusing an incoming text. “I have to go. I’ll let you know if I get any more info on Ransler.”
Josh waved briefly before turning his attention back to Martin. “Okay, great. Theme settled. I’ll need caterers and waitstaff. And we’ll need to make up a guest list.”
“Just call Picture Perfect,” Martin said, rolling his eyes. He did that a lot. Josh didn’t know what he’d do without his efficient, energetic assistant, but he often got the impression the other man thought he was hopeless.
“Picture Perfect?”
“They’re an event planning-slash-promotion company here in the Valley. They handle all the big local events. That’s who I use for all your Napa functions.” Martin handed him the phone, which was already ringing. “Ask for Clarice Davenport.”
Josh took the phone, feeling the familiar thrill of excitement in his chest at the prospect of putting something together. It was what he loved about producing: making something out of nothing. Usually it was a film; this time it was a masquerade ball. He’d show William Ransler just what kind of man he really was. He grinned as the receptionist answered. “Clarice Davenport, please. Tell her it’s Joshua Owens.”