The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(5)

Whether or not it will change them is the real human-interest story.

After three drinks and what seemed like hours of pointless conversation, I turned my wrist and looked at my watch. "Oh," I said, seemingly surprised that someone like me could have lost track of time so easily. "It's almost midnight. I should really get some sleep. I have such an early day tomorrow."

I brought my gimlet glass to my lips and slowly tipped my head back, allowing the very last of my drink to slide down my throat. I was also allowing the reality of my parting words to fully infiltrate his mind.

Ashlyn is leaving. And there's no doubt he wants more of her.

It's a guaranteed method for dealing with any man. Married, single, divorced, gay, straight, bisexual. Always leave them wanting more. Never give them enough.

I grabbed my small black handbag and slung it around my shoulder as I slid to the edge of the booth and slowly stood up. I turned to him and paused before speaking again. This gave his eyes time to find their way from eye level, which was now directly between my legs, to my face.

"It was nice meeting you, Raymond."

He cleared his throat. "Do you really have to go?" His disappointment was purposefully transparent. Trying his luck with the "broken heart" card. Because girls like having a heartbreaking effect on men.

I nodded solemnly as I pretended to feel the effects of the alcohol I had just consumed. "Yes, I probably should. But thank you again for the drinks." I giggled. "All three of them." I extended my hand, letting him shake it, feel it, absorb it, long for it. "Good luck with your meetings," I said sweetly, and started to turn away.

"You, too," he said, confused. I could see his mind scrambling for his next chess move. Knowing full well that he still needed to capture the queen, he was not about to let me leave that easily. And that's exactly why I felt comfortable bluffing my exit.

"You know . . ." he started to say, his hand resting contemplatively on the metaphorical bishop of our imaginary chessboard.

I turned back around curiously, as if I had no idea what was coming next. As if I wasn't already five moves ahead of him, just as any good chess player should be.

"I have this great minibar in my room and I haven't even touched it yet. Do you want to come up for another drink?"

Checkmate.

I hesitated slightly. Considering his offer.

I had to think about it. To jump at the invite would be out of character. And Ashlyn never steps out of character.

I had to be flattered by his invitation, but I also had to bite my lip hesitantly while I thought about it.

So I did.

But the indecision is actually built in for two reasons: (1) the obvious – to allude to the fact that I am unsure about going upstairs with a stranger; and (2) the not-so-obvious – to give him a chance to back out. Yes, it is, in essence, counterproductive to my "mission," but I have to be certain that he really wants it. There's a fine line between testing someone and entrapping them. They are fundamentally two different things, and I don't do the latter. I don't set traps and let men walk right into them. I let them lead the way and observe what they do with a "willing" participant.

Because, in reality, temptation is everywhere.

I'm just a human camera, documenting that reality.

"Yes, I think I would like that," I said, lowering my head half an inch.

He stood up, feeling an extraordinary sense of accomplishment. Letting the rush he longs for every single day to pulse through his veins and fuel his excitement. And together we weaved our way through the bar, around the other tables and into the lobby.

Once in the elevator he pressed the letter P for the penthouse, and the doors closed. His lips immediately moved toward mine. His kiss wasn't tender or gentle. It was purposeful. I had agreed to the invitation, and in that simple concurrence, I had knowingly agreed to so much more. It was an unspoken rule. One that Raymond, apparently, was very familiar with.

When he kissed me my mind filled with the same thing it always does: nothingness. It's taken a while to master the art of thinking about nothing. I'd always thought it was nearly impossible, especially for women. Our minds are constantly racing, always analyzing, always planning. But after several meditation classes, numerous books on the art of Zen, and hours of practice, I had finally become a master of nothing. Empty space in my head.

And trust me, it's the only thing you want to be thinking about at a time like this.

Because God knows there are several other options. His wife, his kids, his beautiful mansion in whatever impressive-sounding town he's chosen to live in, the wedding ring once filled with meaning and virtue, now sitting lifelessly in his shirt pocket.

Looking at a man like Raymond Jacobs can be very deceiving. Because to the untrained eye his family, his life, his accomplishments would probably look just like a TV show. The perfect American Dream paradigm. But to an expert like me, it looks quite a bit different.

It's funny. Never as a child growing up watching Family Ties or The Wonder Years did I picture encountering the husbands and fathers of these shows under these circumstances. But I learned rather quickly that sitcoms never actually reflect real life. They're just an idealistic creation. A utopia in the mind of some producer looking to strike an emotional chord in those of us who live in the real world. A world that, not surprisingly, looks nothing like theirs.