Destiny's Chance (3 page)

Feelings belonged to Destiny too. She loved her sister and her parents, longed for Chance, but resigned herself that her yearning would go unfulfilled, and worried that Mr. Right would never appear. She took pride in the photography business she and Laura owned, and suffered angst over her inability to lose a stubborn twenty pounds.

The mirror, her body, the bracelet, the nurse were wrong. But what the hell had happened?

Sleep eluded her, and she tossed, checking her wristband half a dozen times, hoping against hope for different results. As dawn tinted the drawn window blinds, she dozed, only to be awakened when a visitor in a shirt, tie, and sport coat strode into the room.

“Good morning,” the man said in a suspicious, atonal voice and scraped a chair across the floor to the bed.

She eased to a sitting position and sneaked another peek at the name band. “Good morning.” She parroted his deadpan greeting.

He shook her hand and then sat. “I’m Dr. Hahn. I’m a psychologist.”

Shit
. The nightmare shifted from bad to worse. If she didn’t tread carefully, she would compound her troubles by getting locked up in a mental ward the way her sister had been.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“I’m Zoe Richards,” she stated, her inflection insinuating the question was ridiculous.

If she’d blinked, she would have missed the slight nod, indicating she’d chosen wisely to play along.

“The nurse was concerned, so I thought we could chat for a bit.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know where you are?”

Disneyland
, she almost snapped. How deranged would a person have to be to not recognize a medical facility? “I’m in the hospital. My friend…Destiny Grable was killed in a car accident.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

She’d had an appointment yesterday to shoot first-birthday photographs. “It’s Saturday. The twenty-fourth.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I’m a model.”

“Do you know who the president is?”

She felt like a contestant on the
Jeopardy!
game show, only the loser didn’t go home empty-handed but ended up in lockdown. Would it help her case if she phrased her answers in the form of a question? After passing a brief Q and A on American current events, she convinced the headshrinker of her mental soundness. He wished her a speedy recovery and left.

Whew! Close one
. Destiny expelled her breath in a
whoosh
, her heart thumping as if she’d run a marathon.
She
wasn’t crazy. The world was. During her restless night, she’d pieced together a theory.

She and Zoe had switched bodies.

Chapter Four

>While Destiny choked down a tasteless hospital breakfast of powdered scrambled eggs and cardboard toast, the discharging doctor arrived for a final checkup. He asked many of the same questions the psychologist had, and she delivered the same answers.

A new nurse explained how to care for the stitches in her head and instructed her of signs and symptoms requiring medical attention. She was eying Zoe’s dirty, bloodied clothes when Chance strode into her room, a duffel slung over his shoulder.

He’d dressed in another pair of thigh-hugging faded jeans and a T-shirt, this one tan. A recent shower darkened his short espresso hair, but he hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his square jaw enhanced his rugged appearance. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” she lied.

“How do you feel?” He pecked her on the cheek, and she forced herself to remain still to receive it. Awkward. Zoe had told her a couple of months ago they’d broken up, yet they still lived together as roomies. But twice now he’d kissed Destiny. They hadn’t been sexual kisses, but still. Had they reunited?

“I’m stiff. Sore.” Not to mention anxious, confused, worried.
You have to tell him the truth
. He deserved no less. Plus, if he and Zoe
had
gotten back together, he’d have certain expectations.

Her parents hadn’t recognized her voice. The hospital literally had tagged her as Zoe. How would she convince him? No one else had believed her. Why would he? If she told him the truth right now, he might call the nurse, who would call Dr. Hahn, and they might not allow her to leave. She could end up in the psych ward with no one to vouch for her sanity, confirm her identity.

Better to wait until you’re well clear of the hospital.

He held out the duffel. “I bought you some fresh clothes.”

“Thank you. I’ll hurry and get dressed,” she said.

Eager to leave the hospital, she scurried into the bathroom and nearly shrieked at her reflection. Bruises had darkened from red to violet overnight. One would never guess a beautiful model existed behind the hideous purple face framed by a mat of rusty blonde hair.

She’d promised to be quick, but she had to fix the worst of it. She wet and soaped a cloth and washed her face, discovering that some smudges resulted from dried blood and not contusions. After rinsing it out, she wiped as much of the same from her hair as she could, then examined the bald spot. The nurse had advised her to avoid soaking her head for the next couple of days, but she would wash her hair, stitches or no, as soon as she could.

Chance had provided a toothbrush, comb, and hairbrush, and after cleaning her teeth, she gently attacked the tangles in her hair. Muscles ached from the accident. She averted her face from the mirror, only to compulsively peek and receive a jolt when her image conflicted with the expected picture in her head.

She told herself she wasn’t stalling but was taking care to be mindful of her injuries, but she didn’t fall for her excuse. Uncertainty awaited outside the hospital. She wished she could lock the bathroom door, curl into a ball in the corner, and hide until her life returned to normal. But she feared nothing would be normal again.

Once her hair was fairly smooth and she’d dressed in the comfy sweats Chance had provided, she had no excuse to avoid the inevitable. She shoved her feet into flip-flops, snagged the duffel, and with a deep breath for courage, exited the bathroom.

Chance lounged in a chair near the window.

Her feet rooted to the green speckled linoleum, but her stomach lurched when he padded toward her and wrapped his arms around her in a loose but enveloping hug. He rested his cheek against her head. She and Chance had been friends, but until now their hugs had been quick, cursory ones.

Destiny held herself stiff but closed her eyes and inhaled his scent. Soap, fresh laundry, and a heady male essence settled over her like a warm blanket, soothing and comforting, except for the barbs of guilt woven into the fabric. Chance might mistake her for Zoe, but she knew she wasn’t, and she had no right to steal this moment of intimacy.

But she lacked willpower to push him away. Didn’t she deserve a moment’s solace? Her mind had tumbled all night, tossing out ramifications. She’d lost everything—her family, her friends, her business, her possessions. She didn’t even have her purse or her cell phone. Everything associated with Destiny Grable had disappeared.

Chance pressed his lips to her head. “I knew something had happened yesterday, even before I got the call from the sheriff’s department.”

“You did?” She spoke against his throat. His T-shirt brushed her cheek. She couldn’t help it; she rubbed her face against it and inhaled.
Wrong. This was wrong.

He nodded. “At the shop…I got a feeling of dread. Moments later I got the call. They told me you’d been in an accident. They didn’t give me any information on your condition.”

So he’d had a flash of ESP. Everyone had them. But he would need more than a flash to believe the unbelievable. Even a true psychic would give more credence to the evidence of his or her own eyes than some vague vision. People did not switch bodies. It violated the laws of nature. Of the universe. Of everything known and theorized.

What about reincarnation? People have claimed to have had past lives.

Never been proven.

Aren’t you proof?

“I’m sorry you were worried,” she said, hearing Zoe’s husky voice come out of her mouth. She’d assumed her vocal cords had been strained by screaming, but she now understood why her parents hadn’t recognized her on the phone. And when a person had a different face and body? Would she be able to convince
anyone
who she was?

He hugged her gently, mindful of her injuries. “I’m so sorry about Destiny.”

He meant she’d lost a friend. But she had lost herself too, because her identity had been erased. Her losses added up, and her eyes watered. Then guilt stung her. What right did she have to feel sorry for herself when she was alive but her friend wasn’t?

Chance pulled back and sought her gaze. “I didn’t mean to upset you again,” he said.

“It’s all right. It’s going to be a difficult adjustment for a while. That’s all.”

He released her. “Let’s get you home.”

“Home.” She gulped. Chance’s house.

She snagged Zoe’s purse from the closet, Chance took the duffel, and they left the hospital.

* * * *

Chance wended the vehicle out of the parking structure and entered the bright sunlight of spring. Cotton-ball clouds drifted across an azure sky. Street-side jacaranda trees bloomed in glorious lavender, crepe myrtle in vivid fuchsia. As if Mother Nature had bustled through and tidied up, the previous day’s rain had cleaned the streets and buildings and spritzed the air with a fresh scent. Eyes wide, Zoe pivoted her head, taking in the scenery as if she’d been plopped in the middle of a foreign landscape. She trembled, and Chance suspected she was reliving the car crash, how close she’d come to losing her life. He threaded his fingers through hers. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s over.”

He watched her chest move as she took a breath. Partly to distract her, he asked, “You hungry?”

“Actually yes.”

He squeezed her hand before gripping the steering wheel. “What would you like?”

“A breakfast burrito,” she joked.

He chuckled. “Anything is better than hospital food, right?”

“True.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I do have a hankering for Taco Paco’s.”

“Are you serious?” He snapped his gaze in her direction.

“If you’d like another place, that’s fine. I’ll eat anything.” She shrugged.

He checked the road, then glanced at her and furrowed his brow.

She fidgeted in her seat. “What did I say wrong?”

“You dislike Mexican food in general, and Taco Paco’s in particular.” She watched her weight and almost never ate fast food.

“Oh.” She blushed, the color mingling with her bruises. “Maybe I thought I’d give it another try. Unless you don’t like it.”

What game was she playing? “You know it’s my favorite.” He and Roman often grabbed lunch from Taco Paco’s. He went there without Zoe because she didn’t like it.

“So let’s go there, then.”

He’d give her what she asked for. “Okay.” He shrugged. “Drive through?”

“Please.” She smiled.

* * * *

Chance pushed open his townhome door and gestured for Zoe to proceed. She inched inside but stalled out in the foyer.

He brushed past her. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.” The smell of fast foot had filled the truck cab and caused his stomach to growl. He strode across the tiled floor to the small dining area connecting the kitchen and living room, and plopped the bag on the table.

“Do you want a plate?” he asked. Silly question. Of course she did. A stickler for dining etiquette, Zoe insisted on real dishes. She even emptied her yogurt container into a small bowl.

After grabbing a plate from the kitchen, he found Zoe still under the archway, eying the eating area, the living room, the small patio visible through the large window.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s nice.”

He drew his brows together. “What’s nice?”

“Your—nothing!” She flushed and twisted her hands, then smoothed them down the legs of her sweatpants. “I don’t need a plate.”

She crept into the dining area and pulled out a chair—the one he used—and plunked her cute butt onto it. “I can do this,” he thought he heard her mutter.

He frowned as he studied her face, taking in the gash, her bruises, her look of discomfort.

“Is something wrong?” She nibbled on her upper lip and lifted her chin.

That little tilt reminded him of somebody. Recognition teased his memory but scuttled away before he could grab it. “No.” He sat in her chair.

He watched her delicately inhale an entire sausage, egg, and bean burrito, then wash it down with coffee, to which she’d added two teaspoons of sugar and milk. Strange. Zoe avoided sugar like poison.

Surreptitiously, he assessed her condition. Like a boxer who’d been KO’d, her face had turned purple and red. But her bee-stung lips were plump, her china-doll eyes alert. She’d asked some worrisome questions in the hospital yesterday, and he’d considered ringing for the nurse and requesting an evaluation. She seemed clearheaded today except for the unusual behavior.

Or maybe oddity, like beauty, existed in the eye of the beholder. How well did one know a person anyway? His conversation with Roman had gotten him thinking. After he and Zoe had officially called it quits, she had agreed to move out but almost immediately lost her modeling job with the auto-dealership consortium. She’d picked up a few smaller bookings, but none that would pay the bills on an apartment.