Deceptions of the Heart (2 page)

“We need to talk,” he declared through dazzlingly perfect teeth. There was no smile in his request.

The housekeeper burst into the room. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cristobal—”

“It’s all right,” I said and waved her away.

Her eyes glittered with irritation. “Mrs. Cristobal, I don’t think—”

“Close the door behind you, Sudha,” the man ordered.

She turned to me, an angry scowl on her face. Her disapproval showered me with fiery darts of antagonism as she flounced from the room. Mr. Hollywood lifted one eyebrow, examining me with a penetrating gaze.

“After last night, you probably want me to stay away.” A six-pack flexed beneath the tight, fitted fabric of his white broadcloth shirt as he ditched his jacket on the nearest chair and deposited his little black bag on my desk.

“Then why are you here?” I flung my question at him with artificial confidence and tried not to look at his tight backside.

He turned and examined me while pushing his fingers through his wavy, brown hair. I was tempted to do the same—drag my fingers through his hair.

“I’m worried about you.” His attitude bordered on sincere, but his words and the tension in his creased brow didn’t match.

“Why are you worried? Did something happen last night?” My response was sharp as a sewing needle. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over the scar.

Disbelief crept across his features. “I told you the party wasn’t a good idea.” His landing wasn’t solid, as if there was more to his concern than he was willing to admit.

“Oh?”

“Despite what happened last night…” He caught another quick intake of breath. “I’m still your doctor.” A hint of triumph showed on his face.

“I didn’t know doctors still made house calls.” My response came across as flippant as I intended. “And you don’t have to be my doctor,” I added for the fun of it, scorn dripping from every syllable.

If my attitude affected him, he betrayed nothing and ignored my lack of tact. “Have you been taking your meds? You can’t afford another attack like the one you had last year. Your heart can’t handle it.”

“My meds?” The image of the scar between my breasts came to mind.

He stood in front of me, a stethoscope dangling around his neck. “Laying off the meds is stupid. How many times do I have to tell you, Jen? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

His intensity forced me back in my seat. My pulse raced, the frenetic beating of my heart pushing my blood through my veins at a frightening rate. Who was this man to Jen? Just her physician? More than her doctor? What did he know about her that would make him suggest she’d try to kill herself?

Why would Jen lay off her meds? What kind of medication was she taking? Should she take the drugs he prescribed? Was he giving her something for her harm rather than her benefit? Would that explain the drugged feeling? The disorientation? The strange memory loss?

Could Jen be imagining another life to avoid the horror of her own?
Maybe I’m not really Rhonda. Maybe I’m really Jen.

Was she suicidal? Or maybe…was the doctor trying to kill her? Was refusing to take her medication an act of self-preservation? “No, I’m not. Are you?” I stared straight into his eyes. “Trying to kill me, I mean?”

He stepped back. “Maybe you
do
need to find another doctor, but while I’m here at least let me take your blood pressure and listen to your heart.” My arms remained crossed. “Aw, come on, Jennifer. Humor me.”

I recoiled at the thought of this stranger examining me. “I think you should leave.”

His face clouded with rage. In answer to his anger, I stood and stretched Jennifer’s full height. I wished I was as tall as she was. The woman was more than a few inches taller than my five foot three and a half.

“Tell Anson I was here.” His suggestion crackled with resentment.

Anson? Was Anson Jennifer’s husband? Was he the man who stood over me while I pretended to sleep?

Every one of my nerves fired with a fresh burst of adrenaline. “I’ll give him your best.”

The doctor grabbed his jacket and his black bag and stormed from the room, leaving traces of his anger behind him like little shards of broken glass. My heart hurt, not physically, but emotionally. I wasn’t sure what part I’d played in Jen’s drama, but I sensed I played it well.

I reached for the glass of water on the silver breakfast tray. Before the first sip passed my lips, I paused, unsure if it was safe to drink. I wasn’t sure whom I could trust. Maybe the housekeeper was trying to kill Jennifer. Maybe everyone in her life was trying to kill her. Maybe that’s why she stole someone else’s memories. Maybe I didn’t inhabit her body so much as she overtook my soul. Was Jennifer’s life so horrible? It was starting to appear that way from my perspective—stuck inside her body. I had to be on guard and I had to figure out how this happened.

Sudha entered the room moments after the doctor left. Her silent entrance surprised me. “Mrs. Cristobal?”

I placed the glass back on the tray. “Yes?”

“You haven’t taken your medication yet.”

I looked at the med cup on the tray, then picked up one of the pills and scrutinized it. “Why am I taking this?”

“You
must
take it. You do not wish your body to reject your heart, do you?” She scolded as if she was admonishing a recalcitrant three-year-old for not finishing her meal.

I dropped the medication back into the cup. “What is your place in this household?”

“Mrs. Cristobal!” She straightened her shoulders and eyed the rejected pill. An unspoken how-dare-you-question-me vibe rang throughout the room.

“How long have you worked for us?” I asked with forced casualness. When she didn’t answer, I raised my voice. “How long?”

“I’m here as long as necessary,” she murmured, restrained deference in her attitude.

She picked up the med cup, dropped the contents into her palm, then shoved her open hand at me. I accepted the pills, but made no move to ingest them. “I have a lunch appointment with Marnie.”

Her right eyelid twitched. “I would think that after last night…” She cleared her throat. “I do not wish to interfere, Mrs. Cristobal…” Maybe she sensed she had overstepped her place. “Do you wish me to drive you?”

My head pounded from the strain of being someone I wasn’t. “Yes, I think I do. I’m not up to driving.”

“Take your medication, Mrs. Cristobal.”

I placed one of the pills on my tongue and raised the water to my lips. She left, not failing to hide her sneer from me. After she closed the door behind her, I spat the pill into my hand and pocketed it for later disposal down the toilet.

When her footfalls receded, I snatched the phone from the base and dialed my mother’s number. I couldn’t call Alex yet. I wasn’t ready to answer his questions.

Oakland, California, wasn’t a local call. While I redialed, adding a one, I searched for a telephone directory. Before my hand wrapped around the book’s binding, the recorded message informed me I also needed an area code. I hung up and looked at the cover of the phone book.

Norfolk/Portsmouth/Hampton/Virginia Beach/Newport News.

I tried once again to reach my mother, adding the one and the area code. Her number was no longer in service.

My pulse raced. I pressed my hand against my chest and tried to calm myself. Nothing slowed the furious beating of my heart. I stared at the receiver in my hand, and then pushed the hair out of my eyes before I dialed my home phone. A woman answered, her voice drowsy with sleep. I glanced at the clock. Morning had not yet dawned in California. What woman was answering my phone so early? “May I speak to Alex?”

“Who’s calling?” she asked, returning my suspicious tone.

“Who’s asking?”

“You called. You tell me.”

“This is Rhonda. Alex’s wife. Who are you?”

She sucked in a swift breath. “You are sick.”

An uneasy tension settled in my gut and I ground my teeth together before I managed to calm down. “Let me talk to my husband.”

His husky, early-morning voice resonated in the background. A hushed whisper floated across the line. “Who is it?” More whispers. “It’s too early in the morning for prank calls.”

“Who is this?” His voice boomed in my ear.

“Alex, it’s me, Rhonda.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not being funny,” I cried in exhaustion.

“Leave my wife alone.”

“But
I’m
your wife…”

Rage replaced his irritation. “Rhonda has been dead for three years.”

I wanted to scream at him how preposterous that sounded, but before I could say anything, the dial tone hummed in my ear. In a daze, I replaced the phone on the stand. Still grasping the directory, my eyes strayed to the cover. The year was 2011. I remembered putting sheets on my bed, April 24, 2006. Plain old everyday cotton sheets. Walmart’s finest. Not Egyptian cotton. And on my bed. Not the bed upstairs.

What happened to the last five years of my life? It’s 2011. My last memory is from 2006. If I died in 2008…What happened in those two missing years that would make me want to forget who I am and be somebody else? And where had I been the last three years if I hadn’t been inhabiting Jennifer’s body?

The odd fact of my mortality slapped me in the face. I dragged Jennifer’s computer keyboard toward me. Logging onto AOL as Rhonda Prentiss was too easy. Incredible, yet simple. After some time and frustration, I located my obituary and stared at my life, reduced to three stingy paragraphs.

Chapter Three

Sudha idled at the curb in front of a small bistro, her fingers tapped the steering wheel as she waited for my instructions. I had none to give so I turned away from her. She sucked in an irritated breath and shoved the gear into park.

Wrought iron patio sets crowded the narrow sidewalk under a wide green-and-white-striped awning. Large pots of red, pink, and fuchsia geraniums added bold color to the scene. Bottles of glittering red wine enticed would-be drinkers to indulge in a glass while waiting for their meal. The few diners already seated engaged in desultory conversations and picked at a variety of entrées. Sandwiches. Salads. Cold pastas. A few of them juggled their meal and a laptop.

I preferred a cheeseburger and fries, but Jennifer’s body seemed to tell me she hadn’t indulged in that temptation in a very long time.

A blonde tensed as I emerged from the SUV—her posture straightened when our eyes met. Elegant in a Calvin Klein sheath, her style was different from Jennifer’s, but the same high-end quality. Her long blonde hair fell in soft curls from the top of her perfectly shaped head. Not a strand out of place. Neck long and slender. Nose straight and pointed just at the tip. Mouth painted bright red to match her talons. The hot color looked right on her. Her long fingernails tapped the table as her eyebrows drew together across her unblemished forehead. I detected an aura of righteous indignation.

Sudha wasted no time leaving the scene of this crime, announcing her intentions to everyone within earshot that she would return for me in an hour and a half. I grimaced, but didn’t rebut her. As the SUV disappeared from sight, I returned my attention to the woman. My lower lip started trembling. I shook off the jitters and approached her.

“After last night, I didn’t expect you to come,” she said. Ice crackled with every word. I could almost see the air freezing between us.

“Why wouldn’t I?” The silky words glided from my lips. Used to the husky quality of my voice, the smooth tenor of Jennifer’s words coming from my newly acquired mouth stunned me afresh.

She didn’t nudge me toward a seat. Never gave me an invitation to join her. I sat across from her anyway, dropping Jennifer’s Fendi bag on the chair between us. I smoothed the tail of her Ralph Lauren skirt beneath my thighs. The heel of her Prada sling-back pump caught on the uneven pavement and I pulled it free with hidden effort.

Jennifer’s clothes fit me. But then…I had her body. She had remained trim while I had blossomed into matronly womanhood. No amount of dieting or exercise reshaped me. I was a perfect pear on short, stubby legs while Jennifer carried a tall frame worthy of a runway model. She was as light as I was dark. My unruly, naturally curly hair coiled about my heart-shaped face. Her blonde, highlighted bob curved around a classic oval. The only thing we had in common was our gender.

“Jennifer, are you listening to me?” Marnie’s sharp reproach interrupted my mental wanderings. Her pale blue eyes flashed, displaying a streak of cold maliciousness. “You’re acting weird, but…you don’t look ill.”

“I’m not sick,” I returned without blinking, dragging my inner thoughts away from Jennifer’s wardrobe, her shape, and her obvious good looks.

Marnie huffed her disapproval. “You certainly had Daddy going last night.”

My eyes swept over my antagonist.
Marnie must be Anson Cristobal’s daughter. Is she also Jennifer’s? No. There is no mother-daughter vibe.

I inhaled a solid, purifying breath. “I’m sorry if I upset him. Sudha seems to think I faked an…episode.”

“Is that so?” Her words numbed me like frostbite.

Maybe she’s not accustomed to such candor from Jennifer…or maybe she doesn’t believe me.

The waitress interrupted our glacial interchange. Marnie ordered a salad that was barely there. I selected something heartier—a roast beef sandwich au jus with seasoned fries. Marnie turned large, accusing eyes on me. I returned a frosty glare of my own, daring her to question my choice.