The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(10)

I waited patiently at a stoplight while the car behind me passed to my left, the driver throwing me a dirty look in the process, and then turned onto my street. I pulled into the parking garage of my complex and parked my Range Rover in its reserved spot. I then quickly gathered up my things and hurried inside. I had only about ten minutes at home before I had to be out the door again to meet with my client, Raymond Jacobs's wife.

I dragged my rolling suitcase behind me, then turned my key in the lock and stepped inside to find the place exactly how I'd left it: immaculately clean.

My work afforded me the luxury of employing a housekeeper, Marta, who comes twice a week. She does an excellent job making my house look and smell new every time I walk through the door. And I know how hard it is to keep a house clean that's decorated entirely in white: white carpets, white walls, white sheets, white comforters, white throw pillows, white countertops.

I remember when my friend Zo? first came over to see my new condo after the interior decorator had artfully transformed it from the washed-up bachelor pad it had been into the chic masterpiece it is now.

"It's very... white," she remarked playfully.

"I know. Isn't it great?"

She nodded. "It's amazing. That must have been some raise you got."

Raises and promotions had quickly become my cover of choice as soon as the fidelity inspection business started to take off, and I was suddenly able to afford a lot more than just the basic necessities.

Marta greeted me at the door and took the suitcase from my hand.

"Thank you," I said politely. "I have to change really fast, and then I'm back out." I rushed through the living room toward my bedroom. "Any messages while you were here?"

"No, Miss Hunter," Marta replied cordially in her thick Hispanic accent as she stood and watched me frantically make my way through the house. "I think maybe the phone ring when I vacuum. But I not sure, so I no turn off the vacuum to answer."

I smiled and walked into my bedroom. "That's fine."

"Usual clean?" she asked after me, nodding toward my suitcase in her hand.

I stuck my head out the bedroom door. "Yes, please. Thank you."

Marta nodded and started toward the laundry room as I shut my door to change.

I quickly unbuttoned my jeans and slid my T-shirt over my head. Just as my chin was clear of the neckline, I noticed the blinking message light on my answering machine. I was always curious when people called my home line. Mostly because very few people actually had the number. And most of those people knew to call me on my cell phone. My business cell phone was the third number I had. But that was reserved strictly for clients and new referrals.

I pressed Play on the machine as I hurried into my walk-in closet, throwing my clothes into the hamper and sifting through the hangers in the "business casual" section of my closet.

"You have one new message," the electronic voice announced.

"Hi, Jen. It's...Dad..."

Suddenly, my whole body froze. My hand stopped on a red cashmere sweater, and then dropped numbly to my side, causing the sweater to slip from the hanger and fall to the ground. I stood as still as I could, as if any movement might trigger an emotional minefield, causing the entire room to burst into flames.

I listened intently as my father's voice came through the small speaker. "Look, I know it's been a long time. But I thought maybe we could try talking again." There was a loud muffled sigh and a long pause.

I could feel the anger bubbling up inside my stomach, ready to boil over. I turned my head and looked toward the entrance of my closet, waiting for the next word.

And that's when it came.

"Honey, I'm getting married." He paused again. "She's really great. I want you to meet her. I would really like for you to come to the wedding. It would mean a lot to me. To both of us..."

As if released from a witch's evil spell, instantly my body unfroze and I marched into the bedroom. I violently threw myself at the machine. My hand landed with a loud thud on the nightstand, and I managed to locate the delete button. In a zealous rage, I pounded my finger on it at least a dozen times, and then eventually just held it down for what felt like an eternity.

Feeling confident that the message had been thoroughly erased and all remnants of it had been effectively destroyed by the mere force of my finger, I returned to my closet, determined to pick out the perfect outfit for my meeting with Mrs. Jacobs.

My closet, according to an envious and label-obsessed Sophie, was a "fashionista's paradise." Every label was properly represented: Gucci, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Marc Jacobs, Fendi, and whomever else Vogue or InStyle recommended a girl have in her closet.

Because to be honest, I knew very little about fashion. I'd never had a knack for it. And in my line of work, that was always an obstacle.

Most of my outfits required a lot of research and preparation.

I reemerged from my bedroom five minutes later in a conservative green pantsuit with a cream-colored camisole underneath and a colorful scarf tied around my neck. It was a look that Cosmo had called "suburban chic" in their August issue, and given that I was about to enter the treacherous waters of chic suburbia (aka Orange County), I figured that outfit was the perfect fit. I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and carried my favorite Hermès Birkin in one hand, and with the other hand I pulled a cheap, black carry-on suitcase I had bought at Target this week, containing my "costume" and other "props" for tonight's assignment.