The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(121)

"See, if you push this button, the seat swivels, and you can turn it around toward this little desk area and, you know, do important desk things."

I laughed at him. "Like what?"

"You know, save the world, start a war, pay off the national debt, whatever you want!"

"Can I borrow your checkbook, then?"

He smiled. "And then, if you push this button and hold it down, the entire seat reclines into a bed."

I watched him demonstrate and again nodded my approval. "Yes, Mr. Richards, I have been in a first-class seat before."

He frowned for a moment, as the thrill of being able to take my first-class virginity suddenly vanished into thin air. "Ah, yes, the elusive investment bank treats you well, I would imagine."

I nodded as I remembered what really was happening on those international first-class trips.

"Would you like something to drink?" the flight attendant asked.

Did I ever?

I nodded sweetly. "Yes, please. A vodka tonic would be great. Thanks."

The flight attendant smiled and headed back toward the galley.

As Jamie rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, I quietly reached down to my Dior handbag and lifted it into my lap. I opened the main compartment and slipped my finger into the small, zippered pocket that was sewn against the inside of the bag.

My fingertips softly brushed against the cool, glossy surface of the black business card that lay inside. The one that represented the end of Jamie Richards's marriage. And the thought of that immediately brought mixed emotions.

I could feel the raised surface of the ornate letter A that decorated the front. It seemed like such a stretch to even start to compare Jamie with all the shameful adulterers of my past.

I looked over at him, his eyes still closed. A sudden wave of guilt washed over me like a tidal wave. He was different. He had to be. He was no Raymond Jacobs or Parker Colman, or even Andrew Thompson.

I used to think they were all the same. Just "cheaters" in my mind, and nothing more. But the man sitting next to me wasn't the same.

He was Jamie Richards, the first man to ever break through the iron gate around my heart, the one I'd barely even known was there until it came crashing down. And then I knew for sure that it had been there all along, keeping me safe. Keeping me sane. Keeping me alone.

And I desperately feared that Jamie wasn't only the first man to break through it... but would also be the last.

Because once your fortress is destroyed only a fool would rebuild it exactly the same way. The next time, you use concrete. You use steel. You use the most impenetrable substances known to man.

To make sure that the chink in your armor is long gone.



"ON BEHALF of Air France, we would like to be the first to welcome you to Paris," the flight attendant announced in a thick French accent after we landed at Charles de Gaulle International Airport.

Jamie turned to me with tired eyes and smiled. "Welcome to Paris."

I looked up at him from over the top of my magazine. "I'm sorry, I've already been welcomed. You're too late."

He snapped his fingers. "Damn, and only by a few seconds, too."

"You have to work on your timing."

We made it through customs and immigration to find a tall French man, dressed all in black, waiting for us outside the inspection point.

"Monsieur Richards," he announced as we approached.

"Yes, that's me," Jamie replied.

"What? No dorky sign with your name on it?" I asked as the driver began to wheel Jamie's suitcase outside.

He shook his head. "They all know me here."

"Impressive."

The man came back inside the doors and bent down to grab the handle of my suitcase. "And you must be Mademoiselle Jennifer H.," he stated in all seriousness.

I let out a loud laugh, causing a few people around me to turn and stare. The man looked at me as if I were crazy.

Jamie waved his hand in the air. "Sorry. Stupid American joke."

"Ah, oui." The driver nodded understandingly, as if this one simple explanation could clear up any and all misunderstandings in the history and foreseeable future of French/American relations.

"And apparently they know you here, too," Jamie pointed out as we followed the man out the sliding doors to an awaiting car.

"Yes, they know my first name and last initial. I feel so special," I said sarcastically.

Jamie shrugged. "Well, until not so long ago, that's all I knew about you, too. You are quite the mysterious woman, Miss H."

"More than you know," I replied smugly.



WE DROVE for at least thirty minutes through miles of Parisian suburbs, and then slowly, in the distance, I could make out the impeccable white dome of the Sacre Coeur peeking out above a blanket of dark clouds. I immediately got a small twinge of excitement in my stomach. I couldn't believe I was actually in Paris again. It was truly one of my favorite cities in the world. And even after all I'd seen in the past two years, the sight of this city stretched out before me was still enough to make me feel giddy.

The genuine excitement I felt certainly helped me keep up my innocence act. Just plain old Jennifer Hunter, happy to be in Paris with her boyfriend...or whatever Jamie was to me. I still hadn't mastered all the appropriate terminology. If I was his mistress, what did that make him? Besides a lying bastard?