MisTAKEN Identities Paranormal Romance

  Mistaken Identities (Paranormal Romance)

  by

  Sydney Allan

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright ©2012 Sydney Allan

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  From the author of RESCUE ME, a funny, sassy romance about the joys, and challenges, of walking in another woman's Manolos...and falling in love.

  Jenny Brown isn't a millionaire, nor is she model-perfect or a member of MENSA like her coworker Monica Starke. That is, until she makes a wish one Monday night and wakes up the next morning in Monica's French lingerie. Somehow they've traded bodies and lives. All it takes is twenty-four hours of walking in Monica's Manolo Blahniks to learn her life isn't the fairytale-come-true Jenny'd always thought it was.

  Jason Foxx has had it with his ex-girlfriend Monica. She's selfish, whiney and has sold his grandmother's Art Glass to a junk dealer. After she lets the insurance lapse on her leased car, he has it repossessed. But when she pays him a visit, she seems like an entirely different woman from the one he broke up with. He quickly finds himself falling in love with her all over again.

  At least he thinks he has, until he meets Jenny Brown...

  (Previously Published as ABOUT MONDAY)

  “This is a delightful take on the adage about walking a mile in another's shoes. Allan's tone is light and humorous and will keep readers turning the pages.” 4 Stars, Romantic Times

  “It’s one of the rare books where my husband actually turned the telly up ~ to drown out my bursts of laughter! I will never look at Monday’s the same way, ever again!” Euro-Reviews

  “Written with style, verve and a wicked sense of humour, Sydney Laine Allen's story is a gem which you should not dare miss!” ECataRomance Reviews

  Books By Sydney Allan

  Rescue Me

  Pretty Little Killer

  Mistaken Identities

  Deep, Dark and Dangerous

  Raphaela’s Gift

  Chapter One

  Sometimes it stunk being second best. Especially when first best was five-foot eleven-inches of all-American blonde beauty named Monica Starke.

  The years 1990 through 1994 at Ferndale High School, Monica had been the “It” Girl. Cheerleader, captain of the debating team, president of the National Honor Society, the lead in the play and valedictorian. She dated the captain of the football team and was the envy of every girl in school.

  Jenny Brown, barely five-foot tall with mousy hair and unremarkable features, was the salutatorian—something to be proud of for sure—but otherwise relatively invisible. After graduation, Jenny waited tables at a Coney Island to pay her tuition at the local community college. Two years later, after enduring umpteen million pick-up lines from married, middle-aged men on the prowl for their midlife crisis trophy, Jenny graduated with an associate’s degree. She landed a starting position for just above minimum wage at a small advertising company in Southfield.

  In contrast, nothing changed for Monica after she graduated. She still lived a blessed life. Daddy paid her tuition at U of M Ann Arbor and she had a riot playing sorority sister. Monica and the rest of the Gamma Kappa Chis partied morning, noon and night until she finally decided it was time to graduate six years later. At graduation, she proudly displayed her certificate for her bachelor’s degree in graphic design and then enjoyed her small graduation gift from her father—a trip to Europe.

  After landing stateside again, she snagged a job at the same small advertising company—for quite a bit more than minimum wage. She dated a billionaire jewelry broker who bought her a house in Birmingham for Christmas and a Lexus for her birthday. On the weekends, they played golf at Oakland Hills and hung out with his rich friends.

  Gee, what a rough life.

  Jenny heard about their weekend plans every Friday morning at work and although she tried to pretend that it didn’t bother her, it sometimes did. Life was unfair. Some people got things the easy way and some people struggled for everything they had.

  Never the whiner, and normally grateful for everything she had since she’d busted her butt to get it, Jenny didn’t complain, and she didn’t sit around and ruminate the injustice of it all. She liked her studio apartment. It was cozy, cheap to heat and all hers, and her subcompact didn’t have leather seats or a built-in game system, but it started every morning and got her from Point A to Point B.

  But every now and then, when Monica was bemoaning her latest tragedy, Jenny indulged in a guilty pleasure and daydreamed of when she would be best, when she would land the dream account or date a multi-zillionaire. Monica would learn how it felt to be second.

  Naturally, Jenny knew it would take the act of some god for that to happen, but like dreaming of winning the lottery on Friday nights before the numbers were drawn, it was occasionally fun to think about.

  And today was one of those days.

  It was Friday, not Jenny’s favorite day of the week but not her least favorite either. It didn’t start out bad. She woke up feeling rested and ready for the work, her shower was hot—something that didn’t happen too often—and she’d managed to avoid all the major traffic snarls on the way to work. Yet the moment she walked into the office, her Friday took a turn for the worse.

  “Do you have a minute?” Monica asked the second Jenny stepped in the door.

  She knew what those words meant, and frankly she wasn’t interested in ending her week by playing Monica’s therapist. “Wow, you’re here early. I didn’t expect anyone… I have a lot of work—”

  Monica pressed her palms together and held them in front of her chest as if she was praying. “Please? You’re the very best friend I have in the whole world and I need someone to talk to. It’s important.”

  Liar. She says that to everybody. Jenny held back a sigh, walked to her cubicle, dropped her purse and lunch on her desk and sat in her chair. “Okay. But five minutes. That’s it. I’m setting a timer.”

  “You’re the best!” Monica pulled up a chair to Jenny’s desk and plopped in it. “It’s about the Kelly’s Yogurt account. I was supposed to finish up the coupon layout this week and turn it in today by five, but I had a major personal crisis and didn’t get the chance to work on it. Today’s the two-month anniversary of my breakup with Jason and I was so depressed all week long I couldn’t concentrate on anything—”

  Oh boy, Jenny could see where this was heading. “Uh-uh. I can’t. If I do your work then my stuff won’t get done and I’ll look bad. Again.”

  “Pretty please? It would mean everything to me. I’d owe you big.” Her bottom lip started trembling and the whites of her eyes turned a pretty shade of pink that matched her lipstick and coordinating nail polish. “You have no idea what I’ve been going through.”

  Yeah, like no one else on earth has broken up with their boyfriends. “You have my sympathy, really. I’m sorry you’re…suffering…but I can’t afford to be late with this project. It goes to print tomorrow—”

  Monica leaned forward and caught Jenny’s hand, gripping it tightly until all circulation was lost to her fingertips. “Look, I’m desperate. What’ll it cost me? I’ll pay anything.”

  “It’s not about money.” She tugged, trying to free her hand before suffering any serious damage. Her knuckles were grinding together. “Let go. You’re hurting me.”

  “I can get you backstage passes to any concert at Pine Knob.”

  She gave her hand another sharp tug but Monica still didn’t release it. “Not into concerts, sorry.”

  “Box seats at a Red Wings game?”

  “It isn’t hockey season. Besides I hate hockey.” Accepting the fact that Moni
ca wasn’t going to voluntarily release her hand, she started prying Monica’s fingers loose, one at a time.

  “What born and bred Detroiter hates hockey?” Finally releasing Jenny’s hand, Monica dropped her face in her hands and turned on the tears full blast.

  Her shoulders shuddered, her breath came in raspy bursts. It was a pathetic sight. Good grief, I’ve seen better acting on those old Godzilla movies. She’d better not quit her day job.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” Monica moaned, sounding like something between a dying cow and an overwrought teenager. “I just can’t. You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”

  Oh God.

  “I don’t have anybody. I’m all alone. No one to help me.”

  You expect pity? Where’s your zillionaire boyfriend? Where’s Daddy? He’ll take out his checkbook and everything will be rosy. Jenny forced herself to pat Monica’s shoulder in a show of support. “I’m sure everything will be all right. Mr. Kaufmann likes you. You’re his top star. He’ll give you an extension and everyone will be happy.”

  “I can’t ask him for another extension. He threatened to fire me the last time.”

  “Fire you? He’d lose fifty percent of his business if you left and he knows it. He won’t let you go.”

  Monica fished a CD jewel case out of her designer briefcase and set it on Jenny’s desk. “I’m telling the truth. Please? I’m begging. I need this done by today. It’s half finished. It’ll only take an hour or two.”

  “Then what’s the problem? You have all day.”

  “I have something else to do. Something vitally important. Please. I won’t ask you again. I’ll give you all the credit if you want. You’re probably due for a raise, aren’t you?”

  Past due by, oh…about two years. “Well…”

  “See? It’ll be good for both of us. I saved the file on this CD.” She slid the plastic case across the desk, closer to Jenny. “Come on. You’ll get a raise and I’ll get a break. No one loses.”

  She would probably regret this, but what the heck? Only an hour or two wouldn’t kill her. She’d still have plenty of time to finish the layout for the car wash newspaper ad she promised this afternoon. “Okay. But just this once. Don’t ask me again.”

  “Oh, I promise I won’t. Thank you! You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I owe you big!” Monica leapt to her feet, swept up her briefcase and as Jenny watched, charged out of the office, waving over her shoulder just before going out the door. “See ya Monday,” she half said, half sang. “Wish me luck.”

  Where the heck was she going?

  Dread gnawed a hole in the pit of Jenny’s gut. She had a feeling an hour or two was a gross understatement.

  * * * * *

  Late. She was late. Then again, why should that surprise him?

  Jason Foxx lobbed his head from side to side, cracking his neck as he waited impatiently in his car for Monica to return home. I don’t have all day for this. Damn it, why does she have to be fashionably late for everything, including an argument?

  If he didn’t need the stuff he’d left in her house when he’d hastily moved out a couple of months ago, he wouldn’t have bothered. Especially knowing she’d think his return was some kind of half-hearted attempt on his part to reconcile.

  No way that was going to happen. He’d had enough of self-centered, high-maintenance Monica Starke to last a lifetime. The next woman he dated would be different, the complete opposite, right down to the color of her hair.

  He glanced at the clock on his dashboard again. Damn it! He was going to be late for his appointment. He looked up the phone number of the gentleman he was scheduled to meet and punched it in his cell phone, apologizing profusely and rescheduling for later that afternoon. Just as he hit the end button, Monica pulled in the drive, grinned and waved, and shut off the engine.

  “Sorry. I had to take care of a few things first. You look great, by the way.”

  Not in the mood to listen to her compliments or excuses, especially since they’d rescheduled this simple task at least a dozen times because she’d had a scheduling conflict, he grumbled, “I had an important appointment this morning. You said you’d be here an hour ago.”

  Hands on hips, she stood defiant, her chin lifted just enough to get on his nerves. “Would you let it go? I said I’m sorry. What more do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing. Please, do me a favor and say nothing. Just let me get my things and we won’t have to talk about anything anymore.”

  “Fine.” She teetered to the front door on her high heels and unlocked it, pushing it open and motioning for him to go in first.

  He shook his head and waited for her to enter then followed her. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Don’t you dare take any of the artwork. It stays with the house.”

  “I promise I won’t touch a single knick-knack.” He shook his head. The woman was selfish right to the bitter end. “I just need a few personal things. I forgot about some stuff I left in the spare bedroom closet.”

  “Fine.” She followed him through the foyer and up the stairs. “But I cleaned that closet. There wasn’t anything in there but old junk.”

  He spun around to face her, panic and rage threatening to burst more than a few vital blood vessels. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the closet’s empty.”

  Desperately hoping she was lying, he rushed into the room and pushed open the doors. “Damn it! Those were my family’s heirlooms! How could you?”

  To her credit, she looked a little surprised and remorseful. “I thought they were just trash. Some old, crusty-looking coins and ugly dishes and pottery. I sold the whole shebang to a dealer for a few bucks. Why would you leave it here if it was important? Why wasn’t it in storage somewhere?”

  “You know I don’t trust those storage lockers. They aren’t secure. Wait a minute, you said a few dollars? How few?”

  Her face paled. “Please tell me those old pots weren’t worth anything.”

  “How few?” he repeated, wondering if there was a legal defense for strangling an ignorant person who’d basically given away a priceless collection of art deco art glass.

  “Is it insured?”

  “Yes, against damage or theft, not against them being sold for pennies on the dollar by some—” He didn’t say the rest. Insulting her wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. “You should have called me before you did anything. You knew those things weren’t yours.”

  “You’re right, I should have. I just assumed you didn’t care since you left them.”

  He bit back a cliché about the hazards of making assumptions, figuring it would fall on deaf ears anyway. He’d never met a more irresponsible human being in his life. “Who’d you sell them to and how long ago?”

  “About two weeks ago. I don’t remember the man’s name. I found him in the paper.” She hurried toward the stairs. “Maybe his ad’s in yesterday’s News. I have it down in the kitchen.”

  His anger receding slightly, replaced by hollow grief, which hardly suited him any better, he followed her. “By any chance, he didn’t give you a receipt…or a card…or anything?”

  “No. Should he have? He paid me cash.”

  And made off like a bandit before she figured out what she’d done. Goddamn thief.

  She hurried into the kitchen and rifled through the newspaper sections. “The ad was in last week’s classifieds. Here! This is the section.” She ran her brightly polished fingertip down the columns.

  He wondered if the proceeds from the sale of his precious heirlooms had paid for her manicure.

  “I’m looking. Give me just a minute.”

  His energy spent, the hope of finding his grandmother’s possessions nearly dashed, Jason slumped against the counter. “Okay.”

  “It isn’t here.” She looked up, genuine regret in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. If I’d known they were valuable I wouldn’t have done that. Honest. You know I’m not that vindictive, don’t you?”

>   Mute, he just nodded and walked toward the front door.

  “Please forgive me. I know you think I’m a cold bitch, but I didn’t mean to give away something precious. I swear. I’m very sorry. Can I make it up to you somehow? Do you want the money?”

  “No. What’s done is done. Goodbye, Monica. I hope you have a very happy life.”

  She looked tired as she watched him exit. “Goodbye, Jason.”

  * * * * *

  Monday, thanks to Monica’s supposedly almost finished project—which naturally hadn’t been remotely close to complete—Jenny got a tongue-lashing from Mr. Kaufmann for missing the deadline for the car wash ad.

  Monica got a raise for the fantastic job she did on the yogurt coupon then disappeared for the rest of the day.

  It plain didn’t pay to be nice.

  Giving herself a mental ass-kicking for believing Monica would keep her word and give her credit, Jenny left work that day angry and frustrated. She deserved that raise! The yogurt coupon that her boss raved about was her work. But there was no way to tell Mr. Kaufmann that. He knew only one thing—she was late with the car wash layout and the ad would have to run in next week’s Sunday edition of the newspaper. The owner of the car wash, a long-term client, was furious and about ready to find another agency for their future advertising. With so much at stake, a petty argument between employees was meaningless to him, the last thing he wanted to hear about.

  So, Jenny told herself, she’d learned her lesson the hard way. She wouldn’t be stupid next time—and she was sure there would be a next time. Monica’s tears could fill the whole office, the whole building for that matter. She wouldn’t budge. Monica could take care of her own problems.

  Jenny had enough of her own, thank you.

  That night, she sat in her pajamas—an ancient pair of sweats and oversized T-shirt—on her tiny balcony with a pint of her favorite Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and watched what few stars she could see, the ones too brilliant to be faded out by the bright city lights.