The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(17)

"I actually have plans tonight," I said with regret. "I should really get showered and go."

He nodded, and then covered his less than obscure disappointment with another smile. "Okay. Maybe another time then?"

"Sure," I said politely. "Another time." I smiled at him and then started off toward the locker room. I heard his pace quicken as he strode up next to me.

"But if you don't normally come to this location," he said, stepping in line with me. "I might not see you next time."

I laughed at his persistence and then stopped and turned to face him, crossing my arms in mock defiance. "So what exactly are you suggesting?"

He fidgeted slightly with his feet and looked down at the ground. "I'm just saying that you should probably give me your number. Just in case I don't see you next time."

His approach wasn't exactly smooth, but it was somewhat endearing. I don't normally give out my phone number. Especially to a guy I had just met on a treadmill. But the man standing in front of me wasn't like most of the guys who normally ask me out. He stood apart.

And that was why I said, "Okay, sure. Why not?" And then recited my prestigious Westside 310 number as he eagerly removed his phone from his backpack pocket and punched in the corresponding digits.

He looked up at me and grinned. "I'm Clayton, by the way. So you'll know who it is when I call."

"Nice to meet you."

After a thorough rinse in the locker-room shower, I toweled myself off and checked my phone. I had three new e-mails. I quickly browsed the in-box. One was from my mother, something about an online test to determine your overall botany knowledge. Another from Sophie thanking me for putting up with her drama earlier in the day (a very common e-mail to come to my phone). And the third was the itinerary for my Vegas trip, as promised, from my travel agent.

I quickly threw on a casual change of clothing, slung my gym bag over my shoulder, and made a beeline for the front door.

Enough of these flirtatious trips down elementary-school memory lane. It was time to get serious again. There was work to be done.

I started my car and entered my next destination into the navigation system. Per the GPS lady's suggestion, I turned left out of the parking lot, and in 0.7 miles, merged onto Century Boulevard.

Tonight a man named Andrew Thompson was scheduled to meet his dream girl.

He just didn't know it yet.



ACCORDING TO his wife, Andrew has always had a thing for flight attendants. Flight attendants and football.

"It started out as a joke between us," she had explained to me last week during our initial meeting. "He'd see one on TV or in the terminal and whisper something to me like, 'Honey, we need to get you one of those outfits.' It used to be cute." She somberly shook her head. "A lot of things used to be cute... including me."

So tonight I had invented what I believed to be Andrew Thompson's ideal woman. A football-obsessed flight attendant. Prim and proper in the air but down and dirty when she's drinking beer and watching her favorite team play on ESPN. The truth is, most men who are going to cheat are probably going to cheat regardless of what you're wearing or what kind of sports statistics you manage to casually toss into the conversation. But that's not always the case. Some guys will cheat with anyone, while others are more specific. More particular. I have to be prepared for both. That's why fulfilling a fantasy is always the safest bet.

But in the end it was really all the same to me. Cheating is cheating. It doesn't matter how selective you are when you do it.

A big part of my job is research. Preparation. I like to gather as much information as I can before going out on an assignment, because the more I know going in, the faster I can count on getting out. Creating someone's fantasy girl, however, isn't just about knowing in advance that they have a thing for flight attendants or poker players. Just as being a successful door-to-door vacuum salesman isn't only about being able to recite the sucking power ratio of the latest Hoover model. In the time it takes for that house door to swing open, you have to be able to come up with an instant analysis about the person standing behind it. You have to immediately "know" exactly what he/she wants to hear about vacuum cleaners. Otherwise you'll just end up with a door slammed in your face.

I guess if I were some kind of female superhero, this would be considered my identifying "superpower." Although I'd have to say that it's really just more of a knack. It's taken me a few years to perfect, but now it comes fairly naturally.

You know those mathematical geniuses who can break any high-profile, top-secret code in a matter of seconds?

Well, I can't do that.

But, what I can do is much more difficult. I can decipher any man you put in front of me...in less than thirty seconds.

That's right. Like an open book.

I don't know where it came from. I suppose I was just born with it. My friends call it a "gift from God." I wouldn't exactly go that far. If only they knew what it was really used for.

But, I must admit, being able to decipher men as fast as a cryptologist breaks top-secret codes can definitely come in handy when you're expected to encounter a different man every night as his supposed dream girl.

Andrew Thompson lived in San Francisco with his wife, but tonight he was in Los Angeles for business, staying at the Westin by the airport. I asked the valet at the hotel to escort me quietly to the back entrance of the building, discreetly slipping him a large bill to encourage compliance. He gladly accepted it and walked me around the side to a small, unadorned glass door that he respectfully held open for me. Pulling my black suitcase behind me, I located an empty public restroom on the ground floor and made my way into the handicap stall at the end of the row. I quickly shed my clothes and pulled out my flight attendant's uniform from the suitcase.