Destiny's Chance (5 page)

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 instead 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.

“What are you making?” he asked.

She jumped. “Chance!” She turned around. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

“It’s okay. I’m making a quickie coq au vin.”

“Coke uh vahn? What’s that?”

She smiled. “French for chicken with wine. Basically chicken stew.”

“I’m sure it will be wonderful. Everything you’ve made this week has been.”

“Thank you. I enjoy cooking.”

He folded his arms. “Since when?”

She shrugged.

“No, really. How long have you cooked?”

She wet her lips and directed her gaze at his face, but it fell short of his eyes. “I’ve cooked for you before.”

“No.” He shook his head. Zoe couldn’t make toast without burning it—not that she’d touch a carb. Except for this week. One night they’d had mashed potatoes and gravy, another time lasagna.

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry for that.” Her smile quivered, and she turned her back and sliced mushrooms.

He watched her work for a moment. “Can I help?”

She passed over a cutting board, a knife, and several sprigs of parsley. “You can chop this. And open the wine.” She gestured to a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. “Thank you.” She paused. “Destiny’s memorial service is Saturday. Did you want to attend with me?”

“Yes, I’d planned on it.” A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed. “I’m going to miss her.” More than he ever would have thought. “She was a good friend.” He blinked back wetness as he washed his hands at the sink.

“Yes, everybody’s
friend
.” Her tone hinted at bitterness.

He switched off the water and turned to stare at her. “Why do you say it like that?” He dug in the drawer for the corkscrew and nodded toward the wine. “Is this for the chicken?”

“Yes, and to have with dinner, if you want.” She slapped two bacon strips into a Dutch oven and turned on the heat. “I think Destiny wanted more.” She poked at the bacon with a fork. “Crap, I should have cut that up before I put it in the pan.”

They worked in silence for several minutes as the bacon sizzled. He chopped parsley and then sliced a carrot she handed him.

“More what?” he had to ask.

“What more what?” She glanced at him.

“You said Destiny wanted more.”

She shrugged. “More
who
than
what
actually.”

“Who’s on first?” he joked because the conversation sounded like an Abbott and Costello routine.

But Zoe didn’t crack a smile. Her chest lifted and fell with her breath. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Fine with me, because I’ve lost track of the question now.”

She extracted the bacon with a fork and added the chicken to the grease. She chopped up the bacon strips, and after the chicken browned, she tossed in the crumbles with a plethora of other ingredients, including a cup of the wine he’d opened.

Chance eyed her still-bruised face, the capable way she worked. He wanted to inquire about her plans for moving out, but obviously she couldn’t work yet. With her face splotchy yellow, no one would hire her to model anything. She had no family to fall back on and only recently had gotten out of the hospital. His conscience wouldn’t permit him to abandon her now.

And the changes in her intrigued him. What would he find if he deciphered the puzzle she’d become?

She reached for a wooden spoon and brushed against him. Her scent wafted to his nose, vanilla and honey, sweetness and warmth. He surreptitiously inhaled. Her scent had changed like everything else into something different yet familiar. Perhaps more disturbing, it triggered a flutter of desire he’d thought had languished. How long had it been since they’d had sex, played together? A while, he acknowledged, and only at her instigation. He’d found his heart and his body hadn’t been into it. He’d moved on.

But since the accident, she’d begun to arouse old feelings mixed with new excitement. A recipe for a complicated mess if there ever was one. At night he’d lie beside her, his body hard, listening to her breathe, murmur in her sleep, and he’d clench his fists to keep from touching her.

Don’t start something you have no inclination to finish
. Or did he? Why had desire arisen now?

He wished she’d pack up before he did something he regretted. And then felt guilty because she had no one else but him, and she’d been in a serious accident, for crying out loud. They’d existed in a state of platonic amity until recently. They could continue like that for a few weeks longer or months, if need be.

But only if he kept his distance. No sex. No playtime.

“If you don’t need anything else, I have stuff to do,” he said.

“No, I don’t need anything else,” she said evenly. So why did her permission feel like criticism? He glanced at her face; it registered no censure, yet he felt it rolling off her.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled and fled for the garage.

IF HE HADN’T left when he did, she would have burst into tears. Destiny swallowed now to hold them at bay. She couldn’t live like this, stay with him, eat with him, sleep next to him. The closeness that wasn’t tore her up inside.

Because she had fallen in love. Sharing his house had forced her to admit it to herself. Where infatuation and lust had focused on his tall, muscled body and handsome good looks, love saw gentleness, vulnerability that called out to her, evoked an answering yearning. But he believed she was Zoe. And to capitalize on their relationship would make her a poacher of the lowest order.

Live through your heart.

The thought, in Zoe’s voice, encouraged her to act on her feelings.

She couldn’t do it. The face she saw in the mirror would always remind her of her selfishness, how she’d thought only of herself after her friend’s death.

She needed to leave. But her purse, her keys, her identification were either at the bottom of the canyon or had been given to her parents. She couldn’t access her bank accounts because she had no way to prove her identity. Zoe, she’d discovered, had lived on the edge and had little in the way of assets, not that she would have taken them.

Until she could establish a life for herself, she was stuck.

* * * *

Destiny called Chance in for dinner, and they ate with a minimum of conversation, and what little chitchat existed seemed strained. He expressed his appreciation for the meal and helped her clean up, another mostly silent activity.

“I’m going over to Roman’s,” he announced afterward. “Don’t wait up.”

His departure came as a relief. Almost. Despite the awkwardness, she coveted every last moment of his company, because once she walked out the door, it would be the end. She would never see him again. Ever. That certainty settled like lead in her heart.

She changed into night clothes and flopped on the sofa to watch TV but couldn’t concentrate on the program. She switched it off, deciding the best way to quiet her ruminations would be to keep busy by organizing the bedroom closet.

She began by grouping clothing into like groups, putting long-sleeved tops together, then short-sleeved shirts, then tanks. Within the categories she arranged them by color, from light to dark. A silk kimono slithered off a hanger to land on a chest on the floor of the closet. She hung up the robe and eyed the trunk. Made of aged, saddlelike leather, it had thick rawhide handles and brass hardware.

While the masculine design indicated it might be Chance’s, it did sit on Zoe’s side of the closet. She dropped to her haunches. “Probably locked anyway.”

She pressed the button. The latch popped. She wavered, then surrendered to curiosity and lifted the lid.

“Oh my God!” She clapped a hand over her mouth and fell on her ass. “That’s his kink.” She stared at the treasure trove of spanking implements. Paying attention to how she removed them so she could replace them exactly as she’d found them, she examined the items. Several paddles of different shapes and sizes in both leather and wood. A pom-pom-like flogger with supple soft leather strands and a stiff wooden handle. Some common items: a hairbrush, a wooden spoon, a ruler. And a strop resembling a belt split into two parts. A tawse! She’d heard of them but never had seen one until now.

She smacked her palm with it. Biting. How would it feel against a bare bottom? She pictured herself laid out like an offering over Chance’s lap as he spanked her bottom until it was supersensitive and then stung her cheeks with the tawse.

Her pussy cheered with a twitch.

She fantasized often about being spanked but had no idea if she’d like it if she experienced it. However, she loved leather—appreciated its hard and soft textures, its masculine scent, the
snap
it made. Such a versatile material. Sensual. Sexy. She stroked the soft strands of the flogger, then whacked her palm with the tawse again.

Now you know
. Zoe’s voice again.

Chance and Zoe had met through a shared interest in spanking. She’d bet on it. Perhaps they’d connected on some Internet fetish site, discovered their mutual interest, and followed up with a meeting in person. For coffee.

She sat cross-legged on the floor like a little girl playing with grown-up toys. All she required for some really wicked games was a playmate named Chance. The fantasy of spanking excited her, aroused her, mingled with whispered urgings in her head to chip at her willpower to keep her distance.

What if he
wanted
to spank her? What would she do? On some level, spanking seemed more intimate than having sex. And more tempting. Her resolve trembled under the force of her secret desires. Stay strong, she ordered herself.

Say yes
. That voice. Destiny shook her head and rubbed her temple.

She licked her lips and eyed the tawse, the flogger, and the paddles. Chance would not use them on her because she couldn’t allow it, but she could try them out on herself. She scrambled to her feet and locked the bedroom door.

She tugged off her sleep shorts. Watching in the mirrored closet door, she tried a wooden paddle first and gave herself five smacks to her left butt cheek. Sharp pain spread over her skin already blushing a delicate pink. The sensation was interesting, the color fascinating.