Twisted Arrangement 4 (17 page)

There was another soft sigh behind him, and then he heard her walking away. The door creaked open again, paused. “Josh? Call if you need me. For anything.”

She didn’t wait for a response. As the door squealed slowly shut, Josh was glad she didn’t pause, because he didn’t have one.

***

Emma glanced from Martin’s pinched face to the glossy tabloid on the table in front of her. Her mouth hung open, the mug of mocha trembling in her hand. Some of the rich, hot liquid slopped over the rim and splashed on her hand. She sucked in a breath at the sting and set the cup down, mopping at the spill haphazardly.

“I-is this the only one?” She didn’t meet Martin’s dark gaze, but she could feel it boring into the top of her skull. Emma knew he’d understand what she meant. Was this the only magazine running the story?

“As far as I can tell. But they’ve got it online too. Already over 100,000 hits.” Even without looking up, she knew Martin’s wide mouth would be pressed into a thin, disapproving line. Disapproving of the gossip rag? Or of her?

She swallowed around the thick lump in her throat, the late breakfast she’d consumed sitting like a brick in her belly.

The picture of her and Josh on the cover of The Sun Star was from their wedding, but it wasn’t one of the slew they had officially released to the press. It was slightly grainier, for one thing. She recognized the look of a picture taken with a telephoto lens. Who knows how far away the photographer had actually been?

In the picture, she and Josh sat side by side at the table, he in his tux, she in her wedding dress. Her eyes were wide, a little shocked, while the twist of her lips spoke of chagrin. Beside her, Josh was scowling, his blond brows low over his blue-green eyes. He didn’t look at all pleased.

Emma couldn’t say for sure, without a wider shot for context, but she’d be willing to bet this photo had been taken at one of two moments during their reception. Either during her brother Todd’s toast, when they’d both thought he was about to reveal their charade, or in the next moment, when Lolly Tate had made her grand entrance.

She had to admit, in this picture, neither one of them looked pleased. Which is, of course, what The Sun Star was going for. A picture to match the headline.

Above their heads, in red, accusatory letters, were the words
JOSHUA OWENS’ DECOY BRIDE?

It was clever, in a tabloid way.
The Decoy Bride
was a little-known movie Josh had produced a few years back, starring Emma’s favorite Doctor and involving a wonky plot line about a man who tries to trick the media with a fake wife. Of course, the decoy in the movie was someone the groom didn’t really know who was standing in for his actual fiancée, and they’d ended up falling in love at the end (it was a romantic comedy, after all). But objectively, Emma could appreciate the play on words.

Only fleetingly though. Panic gripped her chest in an iron fist, squeezing the air from her lungs. Spots of whirling color danced in front of her eyes as she flipped to the article inside. The piece was brief, accompanied by a few more out of context photos of her and Josh looking distant or irritated. There was one of Emma on set, head thrown back in a laugh as one of the crew, a grip she thought was named Chris, looped an arm around her shoulders. It had been a harmless, friendly moment at the time. The reporter, if you could call him that, insinuated that there was something going on between her and the goofy young man.

The next picture was another grainy, telephoto lens shot from the set. Emma recognized this one instantly. It was Josh and Emilie, the pretty French-Canadian actress, in the craft services tent. This photo had clearly been taken the other day, when Emma had met the girl for the first time. Josh and Emilie’s backs were to the photographer and Josh’s hand rested very clearly, and very familiarly, low on Emilie’s back.

Josh’s head was slightly inclined. Emilie’s face was tilted toward him, eyes wide, full lips parted. It looked very intimate, like they were maybe about to kiss. Of course, Emma had been there. They’d neatly cropped her and Ben out of the picture, leaving only Josh and Emilie.

The article quoted a ‘reliable source close to the faux couple’ as saying that she and Josh slept in separate beds and had barely spoken to each other since their initial meeting only a few short months ago. The reporter speculated on various far-fetched reasons why they might be faking their marriage – to research a role (the insinuation was that Josh was making a change from behind to in front of the camera), or, most ridiculously, to hide her from the Mob.

None of them were even remotely close to the truth, thank god. They offered no proof for the allegations beyond pointing out how short a time they’d known each other and insinuating each of them were carrying on affairs (Josh with Emilie, and Emma with Chris, or possibly Ben!)

And then, at the very bottom of the article, next to a small picture where it appeared Josh was shirking away from Emma’s hand on his shoulder, his back slightly turned to her (though she might have been getting his attention, it was hard to tell) Josh was actually quoted in bold italics.
‘You’re not really my wife!’ says handsome Hollywood producer to his make-believe Missus!

Emma wasn’t sure where they had been or what they’d really been doing when the photo had been taken, but she sure as hell remembered when he’d said those words to her. She could still feel the vicious gut punch of the words in the pit of her belly. They’d been alone in the chapel. Had the reporter from The Sun Star, Albert Jenks, according to his byline, just made those words up and gotten lucky? Or had someone overheard their argument?

The sinking feeling that had begun last night when Josh sent her away from the hospital grew stronger. Her brain hummed as if she’d had too much caffeine. The bacon, eggs, and toast she’d eaten just a short half hour ago curdled in her stomach, rolling and pitching.

“Emma?” Martin’s voice was both questioning and condemning at the same time. Obviously, he could see the turmoil on her face. She knew it hadn’t been the reaction he was expecting when he brought her the paper. She should have laughed it off. And maybe she could have, if it hadn’t been for the cold mantle of dread that had been hanging over her shoulders since yesterday evening.

“I... uh...” She pushed away from the table with shaking hands, unable to look away from the italic quote.
You’re not really my wife!

Acid burbled in her throat. Emma dashed for the nearest bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before her breakfast returned in a stinging, hot rush. Tears squirted from the corners of her eyes, trickling down her cheeks as she heaved, muscles aching from the force of her violent regurgitation.

When nothing more came up, she subsided, shaking, and pressed her forehead against the cool porcelain. Tears still dripped down her face and soft sobs shook her already trembling frame. Emma hated throwing up, hated the helpless straining of it, but that’s not why she was crying.

Oh no. If only it was that simple.

It had started yesterday, seeing Josh in his father’s room looking so wan and worried. The second she’d given in to the need to comfort him, the second she’d smoothed his silky hair behind his ears and wrapped her arms around him, the slow erosion of her fantasy world had begun.

Her carefully constructed walls had slipped a little further, there in the cafeteria, under the wide-eyed innocence of that pretty cashier. The girl, Jenny, had asked her what it had felt like to be swept off her feet by Josh. Emma had answered without thinking. Josh’s violent reaction, fleeing from her touch, had knocked another chunk loose.

And then he’d sent her away. That had really been it, Emma knew. The beginning of the end of her self-deception. Because when he’d said those words, ‘
You’re not really my wife
’, it had crushed her. Fear like she hadn’t experienced since she was an orphaned child had knifed through her.

When Martin had shown her that article, it had become crystal clear that their jig was up. Their charade was exposed. Even without proof, she thought William Ransler would see this as confirmation of all his suspicions.

She should be relieved that she didn’t have to pretend anymore. She could go back to her life. Back to her job. Back to being plain old Emma Ness, party planner.

Except for one thing. The small, glimmering, diamond-pure truth that had been revealed to her the moment she’d realized her and Josh’s marriage was over.

Emma was hopelessly, irrevocably and truly in love with Joshua Owens.

He’d never been so tired in his entire life. Even back in college, when he’d pulled all-nighters with Ben and Crissy, editing the weekend LARP footage into goofy short films, cruising on coffee and Red Bull.

Josh scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed to shave. His stubble was a sharp rasp against his palm. His eyes ached. Martin had included a razor in the bag of toiletries he’d had delivered to the Mandarin, but Josh had barely spent enough time in the room to shower before heading to the set.

Part of him knew he didn’t have to worry. Emma was capable and efficient. Even when he’d thought she’d lied to him about pretty much everything, he’d never doubted her competency. He’d left the cast and crew in proficient hands.

Still, he’d needed to get out of the heavy silence of his father’s hospital room. Dealing with the shifted shoot schedule was the perfect excuse. Now, if only he wasn’t dragging after a sleepless night.

Emma had pushed the call time to nearly noon to give William time to recover. But the crew was already about, setting up and preparing for the day’s filming. Several people were standing by the carriage, testing the repaired step by bouncing up and down, rocking the entire contraption. He heard a thumping bass line reverberating from Cleo’s make-up trailer.

Morse was probably still in his hotel room reviewing footage from the day before. William would most likely be in his trailer. Josh turned in that direction, sighing. He should probably check on the actor, make sure he had everything he needed.

He’d barely taken two steps in the direction of the trailers when the door to William’s burst open, smacking against the sleek black paint. The man himself, purpling bruise in the center of his forehead, stalked out, his cheeks red, blue eyes snapping. Josh frowned at the colorful picture the actor painted. It took another moment to realize that the expression on William Ransler’s face – his lips twisted, his jaw set – was anger.

He extended a hand toward Josh, fingers clenched around a crumbled sheaf of paper. “I told you I didn’t like being played, Owens,” Ransler snarled, shaking his fist, the glossy pages rattling.

“What are you talking about?” Tired as he was, Josh thought the actor must be referring to the change in call times. “Emma said she okayed everything yesterday. What’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem?” Ransler chucked the wadded-up paper, a magazine, Josh could see now, at Josh’s feet. “I knew you had no respect for women. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you had no respect for me. But I would have thought you’d at least have a little for
yourself
. And Emma! I can’t believe she’d...” He trailed off, slicing one broad hand angrily through the air. “Did you actually file the paperwork, or was the whole ceremony just an act?”

Cold water slid through Josh’s veins at William’s words. He stared down at the slowly unfolding ball of paper at his feet, until the accordion creases revealed the cover of The Sun Star. He recognized Emma’s slightly shocked, pensive face, surrounded by the pale cream of the lace veil. He couldn’t read the whole headline, but the screaming red words over her head proclaimed her his
DECOY BRIDE?

He looked from the tabloid, to Ransler, back to the rumpled paper. He felt the odd desire to laugh bubble up in his stomach. Of course this would happen now. First William’s accident, then his dad, and now his marriage – fake marriage – imploding on the front cover a gossip rag. It was almost too ridiculous to believe. The corners of his lips actually twitched. “William –”

Ransler’s nostrils flared. Several of the crew members had stopped what they were doing and turned to watch the actor rail at Josh.

“Are you going to look me in the eye and lie to me again?”