The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(2)

"What do you think it means?" she asked me, nodding toward the small, creased paper in my hand.

I looked down at it again, running my fingertip over the black ink. "It's hard to say," I admitted truthfully. "I've seen a lot of notes like this. Sometimes it turns out to be nothing. But sometimes it turns out to be..." I paused, hoping the time lapse would soften the word. "Something."

She looked away, fearful tears stinging her eyes. Then, finally, she surrendered a heavy sigh. "My friend who referred me to you said that you do some kind of test."



I LOOKED into the eyes of the man standing next to me as we clinked our glasses together and simultaneously took a sip.

"So what brings you to Denver?" I asked, biting my lower lip. The lip-biting technique works brilliantly to suggest that my confidence level is just enough to ask the question but not enough to keep from fidgeting while I do it.

Because, despite appearances, I actually knew more about this man than I was letting on. More than he would ever care for me to know. And certainly more than just any other woman in a hotel bar.

For instance, I knew that this particular man liked confidence but not too much. Because with too much, he has no sense of conquest. It comes too easily. If she is just a little bit shy, it's more of a challenge. He likes when women make the first move, but only to show an initial interest, then he likes to take over.

I see a lot of men like him.

"My company is acquiring a smaller venture that's headquartered here," he explained.

I nodded my head, intrigued, as if nothing in the world could be more interesting. "And what company would that be?"

The man raised up a finger, motioning for me to wait, and then reached into his jacket pocket and removed a business card. He placed it on the bar in front of me as if to say, Why waste precious words when the card already says it all?

I slid the card closer to me and tilted my head to the side as I read aloud with genuine curiosity, as if I were reading the name for the first time: "Kelen Industries."

Then I looked up at him as my expression changed from one of innocent intrigue to one of vague recognition.

"Wait a minute," I said, taking a second look at the card and tapping my finger on it. "I know this company." I paused and pretended to think long and hard, digging way back into my memory.

The man chuckled almost condescendingly. "I highly doubt it. We manufacture—"

"Car engines!" I interrupted with the enthusiasm of a celebrity groupie.

He shot me a look of astonishment. "That's right."

"You guys just released that new 10-cylinder, 5.2-liter engine to compete with the Japanese S8."

He blinked in disbelief and then looked at me with such longing that he could have devoured me right then and there.

"How does a girl like you," he began, giving me another once-over, making sure he didn't accidentally miss a pair of nerdy, taped-up glasses in my breast pocket or a graphing calculator sticking out of my handbag, "know about car engines?"

I blushed, as if he had just found my hidden weak spot. A shameful secret that I kept locked inside, but upon meeting someone of his status could no longer bear to keep concealed. "Just a hobby," I said bashfully.

He smiled and quickly added, "I'm sitting in that booth right over there. Would you like to join me?"

The invite was fast. About as fast as I had calculated. He was an easy code to break; I didn't think I'd have to work at this one. This man was an obvious pro. I definitely wasn't the first woman he'd ever invited to sit down. But luckily, I'm not the jealous type.

It's my job to sit down.

The invite is always necessary, no matter how fast or slow it comes. It's obligatory. I can't invite, I can only accept. It's one of the rules. And since I, myself, invented the rules, it would be silly to break one. For me rules aren't made to be broken. They were made for a reason, and it was usually a pretty good one.

"Well..." I hesitated, looking at my watch.

"Just for a little bit," he said persuasively, with an engaging smile.

I considered for a moment. Just long enough to give him the rush of a possible rejection and, as a result, the subsequent rush of a tiny first victory. Men like him live for that victory rush. It's something they don't get at home anymore. And in all honesty, judging by the size of his bank account, something he doesn't get away from home either. A man this rich is rarely turned down. And he knew that.

But the one thing that differentiated me from all the other girls was that I didn't want anything from him in return. I was just there to observe. And, of course, take good notes.

Subconsciously, he wanted the chase. He also wanted the triumph at the end, but working for it made it so much more fun. That's why tonight I had to be somewhat demure. Unsure if I had the time, or the desire, to share a drink with somebody. I couldn't be the type of girl who just sits down with any stranger she meets in a bar. His offer had to seem somehow . . . more intriguing than most.

But then again, that girl is only a design. A fabrication of his perfect woman.

"I guess that would be all right," I said at last.

He smiled and chivalrously picked up both of our glasses, and we walked the few paces back to his plush, red velvet booth, which looked like it could fit five people, six if they liked one another. He waited for me to slide in and then placed my drink down on the table before taking the seat next to me.