MisTAKEN Identities Paranormal Romance

by Allan, Sydney

  As she filled her mouth with creamy, calorie-laden sin, she again wondered what it would be like to walk in Monica’s three-inch stiletto heels. How would it feel to have men practically falling at her feet? Doors opening, people crawling over themselves to do her every bidding, money wired from Daddy whenever she wanted? Monica Starke was as close to a big New York socialite as Metro Detroit had.

  She was something Jenny would never be, wasn’t even sure she’d ever want to be—although a few of the perks would be nice, like Daddy’s bottomless bank account.

  As Jenny dug into the bottom of the container for the last bite of ice cream, she caught a bright flash in the night sky from the corner of her eye. She looked up. Maybe an airplane landing at the little airport down the street, or a traffic helicopter? Did radio stations have traffic helicopters patrolling after nine on a Monday night?

  It soared in a broad arc from left to right. And then several more followed.

  A meteor shower. Cool.

  She hadn’t heard anything about a meteor shower on the news but that had to be it. Enthralled, the ice cream all but forgotten, she watched more brilliant flashes blaze across the sky. It was a regular heavenly fireworks bonanza. Gorgeous.

  And as she watched, that kid’s rhyme about stars and wishes echoed through her mind. She’d never wished on a falling star before. Who knew, maybe they were magic.

  Okay, so that sounded pretty dumb, but today had been a rough day. She deserved a little silly fantasizing. It couldn’t hurt anything.

  “Star light, star bright. First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might…have the wish I wish tonight.” She focused on one particularly bright star then closed her eyes and thought—assuming of course it would never come true—I wish I was Monica. Before she opened her eyes, she added, for a little while. Not forever.

  Content with her wish, she nodded and opened her eyes.

  The meteor shower seemed to have stopped, in fact it looked like there had never been any unusual activity at all. The sky was its usual semi-dark blue with a band of orange hanging low to the west. A handful of faded stars peeked from behind a thin cover of wispy clouds.

  Sleepy, she went inside, tossed the ice cream container into the trash and settled into bed. Tomorrow would be another day. Barring any unforeseen disasters, it was bound to be better than today.

  Chapter Two

  Even semi-asleep, Jenny sensed something was different. The bed felt unfamiliar, softer, and it smelled like perfume. The scent burned her nose.

  As she drifted closer to complete wakefulness, she realized there was no traffic noise rumbling through the open window. No trucks roaring down the freeway or angry motorists on the verge of morning rush hour road rage blaring their horns. It was peaceful. Serene.

  What the heck? Was the freeway shut down?

  She blinked and opened her eyes and immediately realized why she didn’t hear the traffic and why the bed felt different.

  This wasn’t her bed or her bedroom. Where the hell was she?

  Her heart immediately shifting into triple-pace as panic wound its way around her insides and clamped down tight, she sat up and looked around the room. It was a fancy place. All the furniture matched. The bed, a massive dark wood piece of furniture with a gorgeous brocade canopy gathered at four ceiling-height posts, sat positioned in the middle of one wall. The window, dressed in curtains to match the canopy, was directly opposite.

  She ran across the room, not completely unaware of how soft the carpet felt under her bare feet, and pulled the curtain aside. She stared into a lush green lawn full of mature trees.

  No clues there.

  Turning slowly, she scanned the room again for a sign of where she was. Why would anyone kidnap her and bring her to a place like this? It made absolutely no sense.

  She ran to the door and gripped the knob, fully expecting it to be locked. It turned without a problem.

  Why would someone kidnap her and put her in an unlocked room? Had to be the dumbest kidnappers in history. She opened the door just enough to poke her head out and took a peek. There wasn’t an armed guard standing in the hallway.

  Weird. Gotta do some more investigating but I need to take care of one minor problem first.

  Feeling like her bladder was about ready to burst, she spun around, pushing the door closed as she turned. But as she took a step forward, something caught, yanking her backward.

  Her nightgown was trapped in the door. She opened it, pulled the filmy material free, closed it again and…nightgown?…and freaked out!

  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 fifteen 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, Jenny 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 a
fter 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 Jenny 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 Jenny 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, Jenny 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 Jenny 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, Jenny 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. Jenny 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! A
nd 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 Jenny’s favorite hangout, Jenny set to work on the first project—a full page spread for a pet store.

  * * * * *

  Twelve hours later, stiff, sore and starving, Jenny 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.”