Never the whiner, and normally grateful for everything she had since she’d busted her butt to get it, Jane 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, Jane 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, Jane 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 Jane’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 Jane 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. Jane 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 Jane’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, Jane 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 Jane’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 Monica 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 Jane’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. Jane 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 Jane’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?”
Don’t I wish. “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 Jane. “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 Jane 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 Jane’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 no
thing. 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—Jane 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, Jane 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, Jane 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.
Jane 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.
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 Jane 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 Jane 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,
Jane 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!
Tangled: A New Adult Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle of Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Royalty) Page 55