The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(40)

"So, lying," I repeated again.

Ethan took a deep breath, seemingly frustrated at my simplification of his big suspenseful moment. "Yes, I suppose you could call it lying. But bluffing is so much more than just telling a little white lie. White lies are easy. They're simple and believable because people have no reason not to believe you. Bluffing in poker is a different skill altogether. It's an art. You have to make someone believe you when they have every reason in the world not to."

I nodded and smiled to myself. "I honestly don't think that will be a problem."

Ethan considered my confidence and then tapped the deck of cards against the table and began to deal. "Okay, hotshot. Let's see what you've got."



FRIDAY EVENING rolled around, and I, of course, was running late...as usual. This time, however, it wasn't to an assignment but to my niece Hannah's birthday dinner in Westlake Village. I quickly slid into Hannah's favorite pair of jeans and a Baby Phat tank top and dabbed my eyelashes with mascara.

I drove to the entrance of the 405 and merged into what can only be described as a "parking lot," given the mobility of the cars around me. Hannah's parents and my mother lived in Thousand Oaks, which is about thirty miles north of here. But in Southern California, nothing is ever measured in miles. It's measured in estimated driving time, which is calculated by taking into account several different variables. The most important being: time of day and day of the week.

For example: If someone asks the question "How far do you live from Thousand Oaks?" I immediately respond with two additional questions: "At what time? And on what day?" Because at eleven o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday, I live approximately one hour from Thousand Oaks. But at five o'clock in the evening on a Friday (like today), I live closer to two and a half hours from Thousand Oaks. And, lastly, at two o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, I live twenty-five minutes from Thousand Oaks (driving at a reckless ninety miles per hour).

In fact, most people in Los Angeles don't even understand the concept of distance measured in miles. If you say, "It's about five miles east of here," to a Los Angeles native, they'll most likely look at you like you're from a foreign country, and then ask, "Well, if I leave at four-thirty, how long will it take?"

Most people think the world is split into two measurement standards: the metric system that nearly everyone in the world uses and the pain-in-the-ass, inconsistent American system that even we can't seem to master. But in actuality, the world is split into three standards: the metric system, the pain-in-the-ass American system, and the SoCal system. Or what I like to call "the space/time incontinuum."

And it appeared that the SoCal system was accurate again. I exited the freeway approximately two hours later and sped down the suburban parkway toward the restaurant. I glanced at my dashboard clock. I was officially late. My half sister, Julia, would certainly have something to say about it. I pushed down farther on the accelerator. Just as I prepared to slow down and turn onto the correct street, I saw flashing lights in my rearview mirror. I looked up and groaned. Just what I needed right now, to have to deal with suburbia police officers who have nothing better to do than write tickets to people driving two miles above the speed limit. Although, I admit, I was doing more like twenty over.

I pulled my car to the side of the road and began to formulate an escape route. Not the kind where you jump from the car, run for the bushes, and wind up on the six o'clock news. The psychological escape route. It's much more effective.

I watched in my side-view mirror and silently thanked God when I saw that the officer was a man. That made my life a hell of a lot easier. I rolled down the window, switched on the overhead dome light, and sat up straighter in my seat.

"Good evening, ma'am," he said, stepping over to my open window.

"Miss," I corrected him in a tone that was not so much annoyed by his wrongful prefix but more like granting him permission to use the right one.

"Miss," he emphasized, with no break in his unforgiving front.

"Bluffing is half about putting forth something that is untrue and half about reading your opponent."

Tonight my opponent was married. His wedding band glimmered in the light of my overhead dome lamp. I handed him my driver's license and proof of insurance and he studied them. The trick now was to figure out what kind of married man he was. The kind that was undyingly faithful to his wife or the kind that I normally deal with. The fact that he was wearing his wedding ring on the job is evidence of the former. But it wasn't enough.

And that's when I noticed the small, white stain on the shirt pocket of his uniform. It was faded and appeared as if someone had tried to wipe it away in a hurry with a wet cloth, but there just hadn't been enough time to remove it all.

"Once you've read the opponent, then you're set. You can design your play."

Officer Kendall, as I read off his name tag, was happily married. Or at least for now. Which meant I would have to put the seductress card back in the deck tonight. He would have none of it.

Most married couples with a young baby – at least one young enough to still spit up on Daddy's uniform right before he leaves for work – are in a state of renewed marital bliss. Their relationship, as well as their existence as human beings, has reached a new level. They've brought life into the world. And combined with the proud sporting of the wedding band, Officer Kendall wasn't going to let some sexy girl in an overpriced SUV stand in the way of that bliss.