Destiny's Chance Page 3

  “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.

  Had she been dragging her feet, he wondered? He only had her word that she’d become unemployed. He felt guilty doubting her, but even after living together, much remained a mystery. They’d dated for only a few months when she’d moved in with him—at her suggestion. He couldn’t think of a reason why not, so he had agreed.

  Though outgoing in personality, she’d revealed little of her personal life and background. At first he’d assumed her nondisclosure resulted from caution. A model so much in the public eye would be wise to keep her personal life private. But one day he’d awakened with the epiphany he was sleeping with and playing games with a virtual stranger. And she’d stymied his efforts to get to know her.

  At thirty-six years old, he had only a string of broken relationships to show for his time on earth. He yearned for a true intimacy that came from loving someone with his heart and body and being loved that way in return. He and Zoe didn’t have that.

  So they’d agreed to go separate ways. Except she’d never left. Because he only had one bedroom, they’d continued to share a bed. Platonically. Most of the time.

  “What attracted you to me when we first met?” he asked.

  Zoe froze midchew, her eyes round like saucers. She glanced at her wrapper and resumed eating. The bite of burrito seemed to take a long time to masticate. Finally she swallowed, then took a sip of her coffee. She peered at him over the rim of the cup. “What do you mean?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “Other than our shared kink, what did you like about me?”

  “Kink?” she squeaked.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Beyond that. There had to be something more.”

  “Do you believe in reincarnation?” she asked.

  “No.” He blinked. What did that have to do with his question?

  “Not at all?”

  “No. Why?”

  She rubbed her neck and swallowed. “Because…because maybe sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”

  “And you think, what, they’re reincarnated?” He shrugged. “Even if they were, it wouldn’t make a difference to the people who know them now.”

  “What if the change happened midlife?”

  “You mean like somebody age forty or fifty dies and is reborn as a baby.”

  “Or like somebody dies and assumes the body of an adult.” She locked her gaze on his.

  “Only in the movies,” he said. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

  “Yes.”

  “See, that’s something I didn’t know about you.” He’d never known Zoe to express an interest, let alone a belief, in the supernatural, but when had they ever truly talked? Their relationship had only skimmed the surface of their lives.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she mumbled so low he almost didn’t catch it.

  Whose fault is that? The words darted to the tip of his tongue, but he yanked them back. Though the question expressed his feelings, it sounded argumentative, and wasn’t it moot anyway? They’d both moved on. He had no wish to resurrect the relationship. It had ended. However, continuing to share a home prevented them from seeking happiness with someone else. They needed to free themselves of all entanglements, make a clean break. If not sweetly, then neatly.

  It would be crass to raise the issue now, but as soon as she recovered, he would insist she hasten her efforts to find a place.

  So why did he feel a disconcerting flutter because she sat there looking like a lost little girl? Appetite gone, he tossed the remains of his extraspicy chorizo burrito onto the grease-stained wrapper.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a shower.” She peered at him as if asking permission.

  “Fine.” She’d never told him what had attracted her to him, but that was typical. She’d always been intensely private but a good conversationalist, so he hadn’t noticed at first how little information she offered.

  She shoved away from the table, shuffled to the kitchen, and then pivoted.

  “What are you doing?” He eyed her.

  “Where’s the trash?”

  He pointed. “Where it’s always been. Under the sink.” How could she not know that? He remembered her odd questions at the hospital. Not a serious head injury, her doctor had told him. Just a gash.

  “Oh. Yeah.” She flashed a wobbly smile, then deposited the wrappers and bag in the canister behind the lower cabinet. “Okay!” She dusted her hands. “Shower.”

  He half expected her to head the wrong the way, but she disappeared down the hall leading to the bathroom.

  Chapter Five

  Out of sight of the dining room, Destiny released a heavy breath of tension. She felt like such a charlatan. She’d tried to tell Chance the truth, only she’d lost her nerve. Imposter. Coward. She chastised herself. Snoop. She eyed the three doors branching off from the hall, then tiptoed to the first one. A home gym. Next to it she found the bathroom. She sneaked past it to peek behind the third door. The bedroom. The only one. Zoe and Chance still shared a bed, unless one of them slept on the sofa. Signs of domesticity indicated the former: a woman’s robe draped across a chair, his-and-her slippers lined up beside the bed, a romance novel on one nightstand, an action-adventure thriller on the other. From the looks of it, they’d reconciled.

  She shut the door and backtracked to the bathroom, entered, and locked the door behind her. So far the only thing she’d done right was find the toilet. She lowered the raised seat and sat on the lid, rested her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands.

  The harder she tried to untangle the mess of her life, the more snarled it became. If only Chance had been more open-minded, but he’d discounted any possibility of reincarnation or body switching. Confessing her real identity would only convince him she required psychiatric intervention. She looked and sounded like Zoe, even though she didn’t behave like her. Obviously. She’d intercepted his confused frowns when she’d missed her cues.<
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  More complications loomed. He thought he was her boyfriend with all the rights and privileges that afforded him. She didn’t expect he’d put the moves on her right away since she’d just gotten out of the hospital, but eventually he would.

  And what would she do then?

  A selfish part of her urged her to grab the opportunity—him—with both hands.

  Sleeping with Chance would not be abhorrent. Far from it. At Zoe’s urging, they’d gotten to know each other at various parties and social functions. “I need to talk to Allison (or Joe or Sinclair); why don’t you keep Chance company?” She and Chance would exchange an amused look, and when they would glance back at her, she’d be gone already. Poof! Almost like she’d disappeared into thin air. At times it had seemed like Zoe had deliberately pushed her and Chance together, like she wanted them to start something.

  As she’d gotten to know him, Destiny’s heart had begun hoping for more than friendship. But she did not poach other women’s men.

  He still was hands-off. She would be the worst kind of opportunist if she manipulated his feelings for his dead girlfriend to fulfill her secret lust. Any affair that formed would be like cotton candy, sweet but without substance, because it wouldn’t be Destiny he cared for but Zoe. Many couples went through tumultuous on-again, off-again relationships. It didn’t make them free just because they were in the off stage.

  Some loves were never meant to be.

  She’d almost choked on her breakfast when he mentioned he and Zoe shared a kink. How kinky had they gotten? Did he tie her up? Did she tie him up? Were they swingers? Did they indulge in ménages? BDSM?

  Destiny knew next to nothing about their relationship. She’d asked Zoe once how she’d met Chance. “We had coffee,” she’d said and moved on to another subject. Only later when Destiny had recalled the conversation did she realize the answer didn’t address the question. Had they run into each other at an espresso bar, or had they already met and coffee counted as their first date?

  That was how Zoe was. An introverted extrovert if there was such a thing. Zoe had known far more about her than Destiny had ever learned about her friend. Had she had an inkling she would die young and thus eschewed intimacy to avoid hurting those who might come to care for her? Laura had theorized that some people were travelers, passing through life on the way to someplace else. She’d speculated whether the individuals existed as flesh and bone at all. But it was just a theory. Laura at her most fanciful.

  In retrospect, Destiny realized they had become friends because Zoe had chosen her. They’d met on a photo shoot. Destiny had been one of two photographers; Zoe had hired on as one of five models. She’d held herself apart from the other girls and the other photographer, Destiny recalled now, but purposefully had sought her out, chatted her up, befriended her.

  Her last act had been one of friendship. They’d gone to lunch, and afterward, when Destiny’s car wouldn’t start, Zoe had offered her a lift to her photo studio. If not for her, Zoe wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time—driving over a slick mountain road, visibility shrouded by rainfall. If her car had started, Destiny would have driven her own car to the studio, might have slid on the wet highway, and crashed in the canyon alone.

  So many ifs.

  “Oh, Zoe, I’m so sorry,” Destiny whispered. “I can’t believe this happened. Why now? Why like this?”

  Those answers would never come. The only thing she could do was move forward. Take first things first. Baby steps. Perform one act of normalcy. Like shower. She tucked her grief inside and stood up.

  Under Chance’s hawk eyes, she hadn’t been able to explore his living space, but she gave rein to her curiosity in the bath. It had his-and-her sinks, a separate bathtub, plus a spacious shower. Brown towels, one dry, one damp, hung more or less neatly over a rack. She pressed the wet one to her face and inhaled Chance’s clean, masculine scent.

  You’re pathetic! With a snort of self-disgust, she replaced the towel and arranged it the way she’d found it.

  The shower contained two kinds of shampoo, soap, and a pink, triple-blade razor. Chance’s black one rested on the tiled sink vanity along with shaving cream. Two electric toothbrushes, his comb, and a paddle brush.

  Destiny ducked her head and took a gulp of water from the faucet, then swiped her hand over her mouth and stared into the mirror. Would her reflection ever not shock her? The bruises purpling her cheek would fade with time, but her face would be forever.

  Tilting her head, she examined the stitches. The nurse had advised keeping the wound dry for a few days, but the rusty traces of blood matting her hair and the grunginess pervading her pores insisted she clean up. At the hospital, she’d been too freaked by the big picture to study the details, but after stripping, she subjected herself to a once-over. Under the camera’s lens and professional lighting, Zoe had appeared fragile and delicate, angelic. The bathroom’s harsh glare revealed a bonier, though still attractive, body.

  She palmed breasts that barely filled an A cup. Her former double Ds would have overpowered this skinnier body, but still. Why did she have to lose her boobs? Did Chance go for breasts? Did he wish they were bigger? How would it feel if he sucked on her nipples? The mere consideration caused the tips to harden. What her breasts now lacked in voluptuousness, they’d gained in responsiveness.

  She rubbed her uninjured temple. Get over it. He’s not yours.

  She continued her examination, twisting to peer over her shoulder. In a better frame of mind, she might have considered her new ass cute, perky, but she could only focus on the small tat decorating the dimple at the base of her spine. The infinity symbol. Eternity. How tragically ironic that Zoe’s life had been cut short, while she continued to follow that lazy eight.

  She faced the mirror again and smoothed her hands down her sides, noting every bruise on her hips, her thighs. She eyed her mons, nude except for a small landing strip. No doubt the bareness facilitated modeling skimpy outfits, but nakedness would take getting used to. She gulped as she imagined Chance burying his face in her pussy, probing her folds, his hair-roughened jaw rasping against delicate flesh. A trickle moistened the region. Did he enjoy giving oral sex? Receiving? Did he kiss afterward, or was he one of those men unwilling to risk tasting his own cum?

  “Other than our shared kink, what did you like about me?”

  Did that mean how it sounded? Like kink had brought them together? And what exactly was it?

  She had her kinky fantasies, but she’d never indulged. Never had the chance. And her fantasy consisted of only one act—performed in a multitude of scenarios and ways. She was versatile in her singularity.

  Spanking. She didn’t know why it turned her on so, but it did. Hand spankings, belt spankings, being flogged and paddled. Hot. Hot. Hot. And her spanker?

  Chance Everett.

  You’re pathetic, a terrible friend. Disgusted at her train of thoughts, she stomped to the shower.

  She permitted the water to heat, then stepped in.

  Bliss. She groaned with pleasure as the spray massaged aching muscles and chased away the goose bumps she’d acquired from standing naked so long. Closing her eyes, she stood in the cascading water. A melody popped into her head, and she hummed. Funny how many tunes the brain remembered, music easier to grasp than lyrics, like the song creeping through her head now. She hummed louder. When the words came to her, the song died in her throat.

  Immortality. The Celine Dion song hit too close to home, but Zoe’s memory would be kept not inside, but outside, revealed to all. How could she live her life as another person? She didn’t want to be Zoe; she wanted to be who she was: Destiny Grable, age twenty-nine. Family photographer. With any hope, a future wife and mother. Sister to Laura, daughter to Arnett and Carole Grable.

  Once she had sprained her wrist, and it had swelled until her arm didn’t fit with her body. The same disconnect skittered through her now. Where mentally she expected softness, fullness, roundness, she found in
stead jutting hips, flat breasts.

  She grabbed a shampoo and recognized Zoe’s flowery scent. She would resemble her, but she didn’t need to smell like her. “Zoe, I’m sorry, but I can’t be you,” she whispered.

  “Be yourself. That’s what he wants.” As if Zoe had stood beside Destiny and spoken, her throaty voice had resonated loud and clear.

  Destiny dropped the shampoo bottle and stifled a shriek. Feeling foolish, she poked her head out of the shower curtain. She was alone. Of course.

  “You’re losing it.” She flattened her hand against her thumping heart.

  She plunked Zoe’s shampoo on the tiled shelf and grabbed the other one. Woodsy. Chance’s. She poured a measure into her palm and washed her hair without scrubbing, avoiding the wound area. She rinsed, sending reddened suds swirling down the drain. She conditioned next, but with no alternative, used Zoe’s product.

  With her head soaked, she ended her shower. Gingerly she toweled her hair, eased out the tangles with a comb, then blew it dry.

  She donned a terry robe hooked on the wall, opened the bathroom door, and crept down the hall to get fresh clothes from the bedroom.

  Chapter Six

  The way she wielded the chef’s knife like a pro to slice an onion while humming under her breath caused the hair on the back of Chance’s neck to stand up. It wasn’t the first time an unsettling prescience had taunted him since he’d brought Zoe home from the hospital last week. There’d been many instances since then in which her actions had seemed different yet familiar. The humming. He’d never known Zoe to sing to herself, yet he’d caught her doing it often. The way she crinkled her nose when she giggled. The fact that she giggled at all. The Zoe he knew laughed, but titter girlishly? Not her style. Even her style. She wore her clothing with a different flair, he’d noticed. And then the cooking.

  Zoe didn’t cook. Didn’t know how.

  Yet every night since the accident she’d puttered in the kitchen and produced some of the best meals of his life.