The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(139)

But then there were all those other factors.

The secrets I would have to continue to keep from the people I love and everyone I meet on the street. The lies I would have to keep telling them.

"Well, my family doesn't know anything about it," I continued to Anne.

She studied me with distrust. "I would assume as much."

I turned the laptop around so the screen faced her. And then I gave her ample time to take in the entire essence of what was now sitting in front of her before I blankly added, "Your husband put it up. About a week after he failed his assignment. And he refuses to take it down."

I watched as her eyes quietly scanned the page, and then a sly smile appeared across her lips.

In that moment my hope sank. I knew immediately that she was mocking me. Quietly triumphing in my misfortune. And even though I knew she blamed me for all the wrong reasons, I couldn't blame her.

The heart heals in different ways. But I guess the most important thing is that it heals at all.

I nodded knowingly and slowly shut the lid of my laptop, placing it back in my briefcase. "Well, sorry to take up your time. I'll let you get back to your day."

I slid my handbag strap over my shoulder and rose from my seat in a quiet surrender. I should have known it was a long shot.

"Wait." Anne stopped me.

I turned back around. "Yes?"

"You still haven't told me what you want me to do." Her tone revealed nothing. It remained blank, detached, and completely void of compassion.

But my spirits lifted in spite of it. "Well," I began, standing awkwardly in the center of the living room. "I don't have any sort of leverage. I have nothing to bargain with. I know you said that Mr. Jacobs's reputation is very important to him, and so I thought that maybe..." I let my voice trail off, hoping that I had said enough. That the implication was there and I wouldn't ever have to say the very words that I wanted to say: I need some dirt on your husband.

And then, as if our earlier conversation had never even taken place, Anne tossed me a vacant glance and said, "I'm sorry. I'm really not sure what you're referring to."

I uncomfortably shifted my weight, standing in the middle of the living room – halfway to her, and halfway to the door, wondering if I had just received my cue to exit.

I opened my mouth to speak, not quite sure what was supposed to come out – or if anything even would. But before my scattered thoughts could begin to form into a sentence that, for once in the last two days, didn't begin with the word "Um," Anne's lips slowly curled up into a cunning and deliciously wicked smile. The kind you would only see on the faces of witches and evil sorceresses in your favorite childhood movie.

"But I do have something you might find interesting," she said at last.





33

Beware of the Ides of March


"I SEE you've decided to come back and pay me a little visit," Raymond Jacobs said smugly, as I stepped into his large corner office once again and took a seat on the all-too-familiar couch across from his desk.

I nodded, keeping my head low.

"And to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Reconsidered my offer, I hope."

I lifted my head slowly, looking demure, unsure of myself, and completely defeated. "I...um," I began timidly. "I can't take it anymore. The Web site, the e-mail forwards, the letters to my niece..." My voice trailed off, the painful memory of Hannah's questioning face too much for me to handle.

He smiled and rose to his feet. "I agree," he said, nodding his head sympathetically. "It's too much. Maybe I went a little overboard."

My eyebrows raised hopefully as I watched him walk over to the small bar tucked in the corner and pour himself a glass of clear, syrupy liquid. "Drink?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, thank you."

He nodded, and with drink in hand walked around his desk and leaned assuredly against the edge of it. "So what do you propose we do about it, then?" Raymond asked, seemingly delighted to finally be on my side. To finally have us both on the same page.

"You could just take the Web site down and leave me alone?" I suggested softly.

He considered this option as he took a sip of his drink. "Yes, I suppose I could do that," he offered thoughtfully. "But honestly I don't know if that's the best option. I mean, it certainly is an option. But it feels somewhat incomplete to me."

He was enjoying this. That much was clear. He knew he still had the upper hand in this negotiation and that made him happy. After all, it was a hand he had grown accustomed to having. Raymond Jacobs did not become the multimillionaire he was today by settling for low hands.

"Why's that?" I asked quizzically.

He took another sip of his drink, and from behind the rim of the glass, his eyes flashed me a creepy smile. His face gave away the bitter taste of his cocktail as he willfully swallowed it down. Then, with his hand still wrapped around the glass, he stretched out his index finger and pointed at me. "I'm glad you asked that."

He pushed himself off the edge of his desk and began walking toward me. This time his steps weren't menacing or filled with wicked amusement. They were gentle and purposeful, as if he were walking toward a small child who had gotten lost in a large shopping mall and needed an adult to help her find her way.