The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(15)

I stifled a reaction. "So if you're ready to proceed with this, we can discuss my fees and some other important details."

He nodded. "Yes, I'm ready. Let's do it."

I continued to explain to Roger Ireland the basics of a fidelity inspection, including the fees associated with the assignment and the retainer that I required for all expenses. He nodded his agreement, more than willing to pay whatever the price to get exactly what he had called me for.

As with most of my clients, money was not an issue.

And finally, I explained what testing for an "intention to cheat" really meant. To my clients it meant everything but sex. It meant that there was no doubt in my mind that had I not stopped things when I did, the subject would have had sex with me.

But to me the concept was much more defined. Much more controlled. It had to be. For my own comfort level... and sanity. To put it simply, I refused to engage in anything you wouldn't see on network television. (Well, "viewer discretion advised" network television, obviously.) If you wouldn't see it happening on one of NBC's weekly prime-time slots, then you wouldn't see me doing it either. It may sound overly simplistic, but it kept everything safe, legal, and consistent.



AFTER GETTING back into my car, I placed Roger Ireland's check in my wallet and the photograph of Parker he had given me in my portfolio. From my bag I pulled out my Treo smartphone, which multifunctions as my business phone, my day planner, my address book, and my e-mail in-box. It's helpful when I'm traveling all the time, since I'm able to get my e-mails, phone calls, and text messages all in the same device. And I have my entire life schedule programmed into it, as well. In other words, if I ever lost the thing, I'd be f*cked...royally.

I removed the metal stylus and marked out all of next Saturday and half of Sunday for my trip to Vegas. Then I checked the clock on my dashboard. I was right on schedule. Just enough time to make a quick stop at the gym for an abbreviated workout, a rinse in the locker-room shower, and then off to my next assignment.

I stuck my Bluetooth headset into my ear and clicked it on. After a series of quick beeps I clearly pronounced the name of my travel agent into the mouthpiece.

I waited as my phone dialed.

"Hi, Lenore. I need to book a flight to Vegas," I said pleasantly as I turned left out of the parking garage and onto Avenue of the Stars.

"Hi, Miss Hunter. No problem."

I heard typing through my earpiece. "Weren't you just in Vegas?" she asked, making small talk as she searched for an available flight.

I laughed my normal "I'm so busy" laugh and replied, "Yes, lots of clients send me to Vegas. It seems to be a popular place to do business lately."

"That it is," she agreed. "All that investing to be done in those huge hotels!"

"Exactly."

As I was probably one of her bigger clients, Lenore was always good at remembering the details of my job. Well, my fake job, rather. "Okay, what time do you need to arrive?"

After a quick calculation in my head I told her seven, giving myself a generous time cushion to account for delays, traffic, costume malfunctions, etc.

More typing and then: "Okay, I have a first-class seat on a flight that leaves LAX at five forty-five P.M., getting you into Las Vegas at six-fifty. Will that work?"

"Perfect. Let's book it."

"And will you be staying at the Wynn again this time?"

I thought back to my conversation with Mr. Ireland. "No, my client will be staying at the Bellagio. I'd like to stay there as well."

"No problem. I'll take care of it and e-mail you the itinerary by end of day today."

"Thanks, Lenore."

"With all these trips lately, you've probably racked up more frequent-flyer miles than Superman," she remarked, amused.

I laughed into the phone. "You're probably right."

I clicked off my headset and turned onto the entrance of the freeway, preparing to sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic for at least the next forty-five minutes.

In all honesty, sometimes I did feel kind of like a little, mini-Superman. Dressed in my kick-ass, body-accentuating costumes, flying from city to city to fight against the evils of infidelity. I even had my very own secret identity. All I was missing was the ability to see through walls... and, apparently, drive through traffic.

I leaned my head back against the headrest and reached up to massage my forehead with the back side of my hand. I was starting to feel the effects of my long day. In this job, the days were never short. And I was exhausted most of the time. But I refused to complain.

After all, it was entirely by choice.

And I've never heard of Superman whining about his long-ass days.





4

Fantasy Football


AT SIX P.M. the gym was packed. Hordes of people trying to work off their guilty pleasures of the day. Older men attempting to lose inches off their waistline, younger men attempting to add inches to the circumference of their upper arms, and forty-year-old housewives with thousands of dollars of plastic surgery trying desperately to compete with the slim and perky twenty-year-olds who have managed to master the art of working up just enough of a sweat on the elliptical machines to make their bronzed midriffs glisten, but not enough to wash off the layers of natural-looking makeup on their faces.