Someone had changed her clothes? Where were her sweats and T-shirt?
Exactly how far down had they undressed her? Surely they hadn’t stripped her nude, had they?
How embarrassing. I wasn’t wearing my good underwear last night. She untied the lace at her throat and peered straight down. Yikes! She had no underwear or bra on.
Sheesh, with boobs like that I don’t need a bra...
Wait a minute! Oh God!
“There is a boob fairy!” she said to the air before looking down to admire her new breasts again. “I was expecting you about ten years ago, but I suppose it’s better late than never.” Those had to be at least thirty-four Cs or maybe Ds. She’d never seen anything that large up close and personal. Up until now she’d been blessed with barely-there thirty-two As.
Someone kidnapped her, gave her plastic surgery and then brought her to this fancy place to recover? Funny, she didn’t feel a twinge of pain. Her friend Janice got a boob job and moaned about the pain for months. Wimp.
Yippee! What rich fairy godmother did she have to thank for this? Or was it one of those reality shows? Was there a hidden camera in the room somewhere? She nervously glanced around, eyeing artwork on the wall with suspicion. Maybe it was hidden behind that busy floral print over there... It’s too ugly to be there for any other reason. She walked over to get a better look.
Didn’t seem to be any peepholes for tiny camera lenses. No, the reality show idea was losing credibility quickly.
The fairy godmother theory was too—at least a real human fairy godmother—since it couldn’t be legal to perform plastic surgery on someone without their knowledge or consent.
That left her with no logical explanations. This was getting stranger by the second.
Now, hardly able to catch her breath, thanks to equal doses of confusion and panic, as well as a spasming bladder, Jane ran across the room and tried a door that looked like it might lead to a bathroom.
As she found herself in the middle of a well-stocked, walk-in closet, she realized her bladder wasn’t the only part of her in an uproar. Her empty stomach was clenching and unclenching and she was about to retch.
Luckily, the second door she tried led to a bathroom. She dashed inside, grabbed an empty trash can to catch anything coming up, yanked up her nightgown and sat on the toilet to catch anything going down. And settled in for the long haul.
When she finally had herself collected, she stood up and looked into the mirror to see if anything else had been surgically altered...
...and nearly fell over.
Her hands gripping the smooth polished stone countertop, she screamed, “Oh my God!” One hand rose to her face, her fingertips searching the lines and curves of familiar features, but ones that definitely didn’t belong to her.
“I’m...Monica? But how?” Even her voice sounded different. Could a surgeon change a person’s voice?
Immediately she recalled last night’s wish but dismissed it. That was a silly, childish rhyme, not magic. Real magic didn’t exist outside of fairy tales and movies, everyone knew that. Those fancy magicians who made DC-10 airplanes disappear used illusion.
This had to be some kind of illusion too.
She pulled her hair back and gathered it into one fist, then felt along her hairline for some kind of seam, figuring someone had put some of that special makeup on her, like the rubber mask Robin Williams wore in that old movie, Mrs. Doubtfire. But after searching thoroughly, she concluded either there was no makeup or it was applied so well it couldn’t be detected.
Maybe a shower would wash some of it away.
She turned on the water—no easy task, considering the number of gadgets and gizmos in the glass enclosed cubicle—and stepped inside, scrubbing from top to toe with soap. When she stepped out and scrutinized her face in the mirror, she still found no signs of makeup, no seams or smears.
Okay. Running out of steam fast, she sat on a cushy bench in front of the mirror and stared at herself. There had to be a logical explanation. Didn’t there?
Whoever was responsible for this crazy event evidently wanted her to play Monica for a day or two for some reason. Why, she couldn’t begin to guess. But she figured she had two options—either she could hide out until someone showed up to explain it to her, or she could make the best of it and do what she’d secretly dreamed of doing—see how it felt walking in three-inch Manolo Blahniks and driving a Lexus.
Wrapping her—correction, Monica’s—body in a luxurious bathrobe, she padded into the bedroom, rummaged through drawers until she found the necessities she was looking for, then went to the wall-to-wall closet to find an outfit that suited her.
So many choices! Good God, the woman owned enough garments to clothe a small nation. Heck, some of them still sported their price tags. She pulled out a black skirt, tag still attached and read the price. Three hundred bucks? For a little black scrap of material? It had better do something special for that price, like clean itself.
Stepping into it, she immediately recognized how terrific it fit. It seemed to have been made for her—correction, Monica. There wasn’t a bit of extra room anywhere, nor did it fit too tight, even around the hips. “I guess for three hundred dollars you should get something that fits perfect.” She ran her hands down her upper thighs, smoothing the fabric. It felt nice.
Next, she found a white button-down shirt with subtle gray stripes. It, too, fit her like a second skin. And a silky cashmere sweater finished off the outfit. Cashmere felt like heaven. Now Jane could appreciate why it cost so much.
After slipping her feet into a pair of high-heeled pumps, which were extremely comfortable—unlike the cheap plastic pairs Jane regularly bought at the discount shoe outlet in the mall—she walked down the hall to the kitchen to find a bite to eat. Unfortunately, the fridge was empty. The woman kept no food in her house?
So that was her secret! Made sense. You can’t get fat if you don’t have any food to eat.
Heading for the front door, and hoping to run across a purse and some keys, Jane vowed to do the same at her place when she returned. She could stand to lose at least ten pounds. The Monica Starvation Diet would do the trick.
Yes, she was learning some valuable stuff already—how to lose a few pounds and the value of a good cashmere sweater—and she hadn’t even left the house yet.
She found a purse, briefcase and a set of keys lying on the console next to the answering machine with the blinking red message light, then went back through the kitchen, hoping the door leading to the garage would be somewhere in there. They usually were, weren’t they?
After taking a tour of the butler’s pantry and a half bath, she found the door in question, exited but didn’t arm the house’s alarm system, and pushed the button to kick-start the automatic garage door. Then she got in the car.
Like the clothes, the car’s leather seat fit like a glove. The padding wrapped around her derriere and gently cradled it like a loving mother. The motor sung a soft lullaby. And, as she first backed out of the garage then drove down the street, she realized it glided smoothly, almost floating above the street’s surface.
It took her a while to find her way out of Monica’s twisty-turny subdivision, and Jane had the forethought to not only write down the address but also keep track of how she got out so she could find her way back in if she needed to. Who knew how long she’d be stuck living this farce, so she figured she’d best be prepared.
When she finally arrived at work, almost two hours late, she headed straight to her cubicle to see who or what was there. Maybe Monica had taken her place.
It was empty. No sign of anyone. Darn! That meant she’d have to finish both her own projects and Monica’s! Grumbling, she plopped into her chair and turned on her monitor, figuring she’d get her stuff done first before trying to figure out what Monica had on her plate.
“Ms. Starke, what are you doing here?”
Startled and feeling like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t be
, Jane spun around to face her boss. She tried to look nonchalant as she shrugged and said, “Working.”
“I can see that. But why are you at Ms. Brown’s desk?” He motioned toward the picture of herself she’d tacked on the bulletin board behind her monitor.
“Oh! I’m...finishing up the Muffin House project.”
He didn’t look satisfied with her answer. “The Muffin House is Ms. Brown’s account. Why are you working on that?”
Good question. “Um...because...she asked me to take a look at it for her?” she rambled, adding, “As a favor. I owe her.”
“Really? That’s very interesting.” He tipped his head, looking as intrigued as his words suggested. “Can I ask why you owe her a favor?”
You can but I don’t know if I can answer. Wait a minute. Duh! I couldn’t have planned this better if I’d tried. At her feet was the perfect opportunity to tell him about the yogurt account. Maybe that’s why she was changed into Monica. Some kind of supernatural opportunity to correct an injustice. That was the first logical explanation she had found.
“Well,” she began. “Last Friday I got into a bind and I didn’t have time to finish up the yogurt ad. Jane was kind enough to finish it up for me, even setting aside her own projects and putting her job on the line for me. I promised to give her credit for the fantastic job she did but it kind of slipped my mind until now.” She tried to look remorseful, hoping that would make her speech somewhat believable. Just about everything she’d said sounded so unlike the real Monica that she wondered how he’d ever buy it—outside of the obvious, what he saw.
Mr. Kaufmann’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead and he crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head in disbelief. Nope, he wasn’t buying it. Not at all. “Ms. Brown designed the yogurt ad?”
“I know it’s hard to believe—a girl with an associates from a community college for God’s sake,“ she added hoping that sounded more like Monica. “But it’s true. She did the entire thing. I started it, but frankly my original design was worse than garbage. I’ve seen better stuff in an elementary school’s hallway. She threw it away and started from scratch.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Ms. Brown?”
“Uh. Last night. Why?”
“Because this morning she came in early, finished everything she had for the week and took the rest of the week off, paid.”
“Paid? She used my—er, her—vacation days? Four whole days? You saw her?”
He nodded. “I did.”
“She turned in everything?”
“I have it all, including the Muffin House project. And it’s perfectly acceptable. So I suggest you get to your own work.”
“Okay.” She punched the power button on her monitor, swept up her purse and briefcase, and walked back to Monica’s office. As she settled in Monica’s comfy leather chair, she sighed. Oh yes, the perks were nice. She glanced around the room. Perks like four walls that reached the ceiling and a real door that could close. Monica’s office afforded her space to move around as she brainstormed. She spun around in the chair, facing the door, and ran her hand over her U-shaped desk’s smooth work surface. “Oh yeah, I could definitely get used to this.” Then she glanced up and caught Mr. Kaufmann watching her through the open doorway. She answered his puzzled expression with a silly grin then turned toward the computer to see what Monica had to work on.
Good God, the girl had a load and a half! And everything was due by next Monday. Despite the obvious advantages, this part of walking in Monica’s shoes—designer or not—wasn’t looking so great. Resigned to late nights and early mornings for the next several days, and possibly no time during the weekend to try out Monica’s hot looks at Jane’s favorite hangout, Jane set to work on the first project—a full page spread for a pet store.
*
Twelve hours later, stiff, sore and starving, Jane shut off Monica’s computer, threw her purse over her shoulder, fisted her keys and locked up the office. Weary and wobbling on her high heels, she trudged out to the parking lot.
As soon as her liquefied gray matter registered what she saw, she was wide awake.
Someone was towing her—or, Monica’s—car! Kicking off her shoes, she ran toward the man operating the winch that was slowly dragging the flashy gold car up on a flatbed truck. “Stop! What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t a no-parking zone, for God’s sake. It’s a parking lot.”
The grizzly-looking character who resembled a bouncer at some local biker bar gave her a quick once-over then grinned. “I know that. But I have orders to repossess this car. I have a court order, signed by a judge. It’s all legal.” He pulled out a bundle of papers from the truck’s cab and waved them at her.
“Orders from whom? There must be some mistake.”
“Orders from the gentleman who owns this car, miss, and the judge who signed this.” He gave her another up and down assessment then unfolded the documents and scanned them. “I’m guessing Mr. Foxx’s not so pleased with you anymore.” He folded them and tucked them under his meaty arm and returned to operating the winch.
“What? I...” Oh, she was so steamed she couldn’t speak. “I own this car. It was given to me by my boyfriend.”
The man waved the papers again. “The papers I have say it don’t belong to a woman. It’s owned by a fella and he wants it back.”
“Let me see that.” She lunged forward but he quickly pulled it out of her reach. “Uh-uh. You can’t look at this. It’s confidential.”
“But it’s my car!”
“The State of Michigan says otherwise.” He gently pushed her away as he walked toward the rear of the truck. “Now, be a good girl and move aside so I can finish up here.” As he secured the car, he set the papers on the truck bed. “I don’t want no trouble. I’m just doin’ my job, miss.”
She saw the opportunity and ran with it, quickly swiping the papers before the thug could stop her, and made a mad dash back toward the building. She read the name and address as she ran, trying hard to ingrain it in her foggy, overwrought brain until she had a chance to write it down. Fortunately, the address wasn’t difficult to memorize. And neither was the name, Jason Foxx, 388 Harding Lane, Franklin.
Maybe it was time to pay Monica’s ex-boyfriend, Mr. Nasty—what kind of man would repossess a car given as a gift?—a little visit and talk some sense into the man. Fearing being tackled, she dropped the papers on the ground and went inside to call a taxi, hoping Monica kept a decent amount of cash in her purse. Otherwise, it would be a long, long walk to Franklin.
Chapter Three
After stopping at a third gas station and having every credit card in Monica’s wallet declined again, Jane knew things were looking bleak. The first time, she’d assumed it had been a computer error. The second time, she grew worried but still held some hope. But now...no, there could be no mistake. Every card Monica possessed was maxed out.
No car. No money. As Jane, she’d never been in such a fix, no matter how tough she’d thought things were. Right now she couldn’t even afford to buy a twin pack of Twinkies.
Cold—she hadn’t thought to put on a jacket this morning, she’d been driving a car with heated seats for God’s sake and wearing a snuggly sweater—starving and exhausted, she sat on the curb outside the gas station and fought to keep it together. She wouldn’t cry like a baby! No way. Nor would she panic. Home, warm but with an empty refrigerator, was miles away. And Jason’s house was miles away, in the opposite direction.
Would a man who was cruel enough to repossess a car from his ex-girlfriend be willing to feed said ex-girlfriend if she asked nice? Or would he simply laugh in her face?
Did she have any other options?
She inhaled sharply as a patron exited the gas station, savoring the scent of coffee as it wafted out the open door. Her stomach grumbled.
That was it. Desperate times and all that. She’d take her chances and pay Jason Foxx a visit, beg for a scrap of bread if that was what it took. Now was not the t
ime to be prideful.
As she sat and rubbed her numb toes to try to return circulation to the blood-starved appendages before setting off—evidently there was a time limit on comfort even for designer shoes that cost a small fortune—an elderly woman stopped and smiled at her.
“Do you need some help, dear?”
Jane shook her head. “Oh no, thanks.”
The woman lowered her walker over the curb and shakily stepped down. “A ride, perhaps?”
Undecided, but tempted to take the woman up on her offer, despite the gruesome stories she’d been told as a kid about the dangers of accepting rides from strangers, she eyed the frail-looking woman. What kind of danger could a woman who could barely keep herself erect possibly pose? Guns were the great equalizers, but would someone like this kind-looking elderly woman carry one?
“I don’t have any money or valuables, outside of what I’m wearing. Unless you like Gucci bags.” She motioned toward Monica’s purse. “The plastic inside it is worthless.”
“I’m not looking to rob you, dear. You won’t rob me, now, will you? Since you’re broke.”
“Oh, heavens no! I wouldn’t know how to be a crook.” Laughing, and grateful for this unexpected lucky break, Jane slipped on her shoes and followed the woman to her car. “Thank you,” she said as she helped the woman fold up her walker and put it in the backseat, and then settle herself behind the steering wheel. “It would have been a long walk, and frankly I don’t think my feet are up to it.”
“I’m glad to help. I’ve been where you are once, you know. Did he throw you out for some young hussy?”
“He? Who?” Jane took her seat.
“Your husband.” Not waiting for Jane to close the passenger side door, the old woman started the car and hit the gas, racing toward the road and showing no signs of stopping for traffic.
Jane quickly slammed the door and braced herself against the dashboard. Petrified, she closed her eyes, fully expecting the car to slam into some poor unsuspecting soul driving down the road. But before they hit anyone, the woman slammed on the brakes. Jane flew forward, her chest landing square on the dashboard, the force knocking the wind out of her. She opened her eyes, checked to see where they were—sitting at the end of the driveway—then glanced at the old woman.
Tangled: A New Adult Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle of Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Royalty) Page 56
