The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(131)

I felt more tears welling up in my eyes as I backed away from the frightened bellhop and he began to close the door. "Merci beau-coup," I said softly.

"Je vous en prie," the man replied, noticeably relieved that I was letting him go. He bowed slightly as he backed out through the closing door.

I pushed the empty bottles off the bed and collapsed into it, letting my tears fall freely down the sides of my face. I reached up and pulled down the comforter. The brilliantly white satin sheets were inviting me in. Come to us, Jen, they were saying. We will give you the same safety we always have.

I climbed under the covers, grabbed the spare pillow, and held it tightly to my body. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to meditate. I thought of happy places. Far-off places. Green meadows and blue skies.

But as I let myself be engulfed in a world of warm, heavenly white, I felt nothing but the cold, merciless darkness.





31

Home is Where the

Broken Heart is


I CAN think of several famous people who, at one time or another, were trying to get to Paris. Charles Lindbergh, Lance Armstrong, Audrey Hepburn, Ernest Hemingway, even Hitler. But I, however, staying true to my Marie Antoinette–reincarnated self, was trying to escape.

"I don't think you understand what I'm telling you!" I practically screamed into the phone as I paced the floor of my hotel room. "I already have a ticket back to L.A., but it doesn't leave until Friday."

I had been on the phone with the Air France customer "service" department for the past hour, trying to get on an earlier flight home. And because it was still one o'clock in the morning in L.A., I knew I would never be able to reach my travel agent.

Unlike the last time I was in Paris, when I chose to sightsee for three weeks following my assignment, this time I wasn't really in the mood to stay any longer than I had to.

I had seen enough sights.

"Yes, but what I have been trying to tell you, Miss Hunter, is that all of our flights are already full." The customer service rep spoke with only the slightest trace of an accent.

"Well, what about standby? Or don't you have that here?"

Her patience was waning almost as fast as mine. "We do have standby, Miss Hunter, and you're welcome to put your name on the list, but I cannot guarantee that we will be able to honor your first-class status."

I sighed. "I don't care if I have to sit in the cargo section with the suitcases and the dogs. I have to get out of here!"

"Very good, Miss Hunter. Please just let me put you on hold and I'll—"

"No, no... please don't put me on hold again!"

But she was already gone. And I was once again stuck listening to the supposedly soothing sounds of classic French songs converted to elevator music.

I sighed and looked around in search of the television remote. I flipped through the channels until I finally found one in English. It was CNN. I tossed the remote down on the bed and attempted to drown myself in other people's problems while I waited for Air France to resolve mine. I was selfishly hoping that the war in Iraq, suicide bombers in Israel, and the complete disregard for international child labor laws in Mexico would make my life look like a dream world.

Unfortunately, CNN was airing some type of special report on American political scandals, which did nothing at all to alleviate my current pain.

"Hello?" A male voice came on the line.

"Yes?"

"How can I help you today?"

"Was I transferred again?"

"I'm afraid so," the man replied. "How can I help you?"

I groaned loudly into the phone and began my story for the tenth time. "I'm trying to get on a flight to Los Angeles today. I am already booked on a flight on Friday, but I need to change my reservation."

I heard typing through the phone. "I'm sorry, but all of our flights into Los Angeles are booked solid today. I can get you on a flight on Wednesday morning."

But I barely heard what he was saying. My eyes were suddenly glued to the screen. "Oh my God!"

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Hunter."

I grappled for the remote and turned up the volume full blast.

"This Republican senator from the California State Senate had just recently announced his candidacy for the U.S. House of Representatives," the reporter was saying.

"Hello? Miss Hunter? Are you still there?"

"Um . . ." I stammered, trying to make sense of the images on my screen while at the same time trying to guarantee myself a way out of this city. "I'll just go standby," I said hastily into the phone and then absently placed it back on the cradle.

I gawked at the TV screen and listened intently as the voice-over commentator continued speaking.

"But shock and astonishment reached the Austin family when it was revealed by his political adversaries that Daniel Austin was, in fact, hiding his homosexuality."

"I don't believe this," I said aloud as the segment then cut to a news conference where none other than Daniel Miller, the lonely man John and I had "bumped into" at the docks only a few weeks back, stood in front of a large podium with an unfamiliar woman in a blue-skirted suit by his side. At least I thought his name was Daniel Miller. That was certainly the name I had been given. But according to this commentator, apparently his name is not Daniel Miller, but rather Daniel Austin, a California State Senator running for a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.